Page 10 of Run of Ruin

I wasn’t lying when I told her she was beautiful. I meant it. Every word.

Even if I shouldn’t have.

Even if I knew better than to get pulled in.

But something about her tugged at me. Not just her looks, there was a gravity to her, a pull I couldn’t quite name. Viewers would fall for her whether we played her up as the underdog or the symbol of hope.

“Zaffir?” the voice snapped again through the phone.

I blinked, shook off the daze.

“Yeah,” I said, fingers hovering over the trackpad. “I’m done.”

“Send it off. We’re piecing the premiere together now,” she snapped, her voice clipped and cold. Then the line went dead.

No goodbye. No thanks. Just a command and silence.

I stared at the frozen frame of Bex’s face for a few more seconds, my thumb hovering over the trackpad. Then, with a reluctant breath, I closed the image and dragged the file into the transfer folder. Watching the progress bar crawl across the screen felt different this time for some reason.

Once it was gone, I set the computer aside and laid backon the cot, arms folded behind my head as I stared up at the metal ceiling of the train car. A low hum of machinery vibrated through the walls.

Five years. That’s how long I’ve been behind the camera, capturing the rise and fall of Reclamation Challengers like clockwork. I’ve filmed their introductions, their first confessional, their wins, their failures. I’ve cut together highlight reels of their deaths.

They all become stories. Then they become spectacles. Then they become memories.

I used to think I was desensitized to it. That maybe, over time, I’d built up some kind of immunity. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself that this year was just like all the rest, the thought of Brexlyn Hollis dying out there made my stomach churn. Maybe it’s because before this, they’d always signed up for it. They campaigned for it. But not her. She was plucked from the crowd, ripped from her brother and she had no say in the matter.

I knew the odds. Most people didn’t make it. Especially not from the Canyon Collective. Their track record was basically a death sentence.

And yet, God, I didn’t want that to be her story. I didn’t want to cut her eulogy six weeks from now with some overly dramatic piano music and a slow montage of everything we “loved” about her.

She deserved more than that.

If I couldn’t keep her safe myself, I’d do the only thing I could. I’d make her unforgettable. I’d sculpt her image into something no one could bear to lose. I’d make the world fall in love with her, their underdog, their hope, their hero. I’d wrap her story in so much courage and meaning that the audience would demand her survival.

Because if they demanded it, Praxis would have to listen. Ratings trump rules. They always have.

That’s how I’d help her. Not with weapons or strategy or even kindness.

With a story.

It was the only power I had

CHAPTER

FOUR

Bex

I couldn’t sleep.

Nova had told us we’d be arriving in Praxis by morning and that we should get some beauty rest. Her exact words were, “The cameras won’t leave you alone from the moment we stop, so enjoy the quiet while you can.” Easy for her to say, she wasn’t the one about to be paraded like a prized animal for public entertainment.

I shifted on the stiff cot again, the thin blanket tangled around my legs like it was trying to keep me awake too. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that cameraman—Zaffir—with his maddening smirk and accusatory tone.

How could he possibly think I was lying about my brother?

Did people really do that? Exploit their families, fake sob stories, just to win public favor? I thought about the Challengers I’d rooted for over the years, the ones I’d cried for, cheered for, believed in. Were they all just performing?

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