Page 8 of Run of Ruin

“Every day, I watch him fade just a little more. I wake up wondering if today’s the day he won’t be able to get out of bed. Or worse, the day he just... stops breathing.”

“Pretty honorable. Wanting to win those trials for your brother.”

I didn’t answer at first, simply trying to find the words to say.

“Fame and glory can’t hurt either, right?” He asked.

I shook my head.

The tears spilled before I could stop them.

“I’m not interested in fame, or glory. The medical trials are the only way I might be able to help him. I have a chance tosave him.” I steadied myself and with a tone so fierce even I felt convinced, “I have to take it.”

Zaffir reached up, brushing a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. His touch was featherlight, careful, but it lingered just a second too long to be purely professional.

I should’ve flinched away. Should’ve pulled back, reminded myself who he was and what he represented. But instead, I froze, caught in the gravity of him. His eyes held mine, like he was seeing something more than a subject. And I looked back.

For a moment, everything else faded. The blinking red light of the camera, the stale scent of recycled air, even the gnawing ache of guilt in my chest. It was just him. Zaffir. Too close. Too warm. Too real.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t trust it. But I felt it all the same.

His fingers hovered near my cheek a beat longer, like he was reluctant to let go. And then, just like that, it was gone. He leaned back, and the cold settled in again, swift and merciless.

“Tears are really going to sell it,” he said suddenly, his voice snapping back into something clinical. Cold. Detached.

I blinked, stunned, the spell of intimacy shattered. He leaned back, his expression unreadable, and reached over to shut off the camera.

“Smart move picking one of the later trials,” he said, now fiddling with buttons and dials like I hadn’t just poured my heart out in front of him. “Keeps the audience rooting for you. They’ll want to see if you make it that far. Stroke of genius, really.” His tone was dry and dismissive.

I stared at him, the weight of what he’d said settling in like a stone in my chest.

“Was any of that true?” he asked, barely looking at me. “About your brother and your friend? Or did you make it up for the camera?”

“What?” I choked, the word cutting through the silence.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said casually, still focused on the camera. “It played real. But this whole thing is just theater, right? Wouldn’t be the first time a Challenger spun a story.”

“I didn’t make anything up,” I snapped, my voice shaking with fury. “Every word was true.”

He didn’t respond.

I stood so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor. Without another word, I turned and walked back toward my seat, blood pounding in my ears. I felt Ezra watching me. His gaze followed every step I took, but he didn’t say anything.

Maybe he couldn’t.

I slid back into my spot, hands clenched tight in my lap, jaw locked against the anger rising in my throat. I had almost trusted Zaffir. Almost let myself believe there was someone in Praxis who might actually see me. But he was no different. Just another piece of the machine.

“Alright, big guy,” Zaffir called out cheerfully, like none of it had happened. “Get over here. Your turn in the spotlight.”

Ezra stood, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer before he made his way over to the set.

And just like that, it was someone else’s story they were ready to exploit.

“Alright,” Zaffir began, his voice clipped and tinged with impatience as Ezra finally claimed the seat in front of the camera setup. “What tactic are you gonna go with?”

Ezra remained still. Not a word. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Zaffir exhaled slowly through his nose, irritation tightening the set of his jaw. “Okay then. Let’s just begin, shall we?” He flicked the camera on with an annoyed little snap of his fingers. “What’s your name and which Collective are you representing?”

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