Page 9 of Run of Ruin

Silence.

I shifted in my seat, watching the standoff unfold. Zaffir’s fingers drummed against the arm of his chair. “Stoicism is great and all,” he said, his voice sharpening, “but you’re going to have to give me something. You don’t have to pour your heart out, but if you don’t make your first appearance interesting, the audience isn’t going to care about you.”

He was trying to be threatening, but I doubted Ezra gave a damn about making the audience care. In fact, the more Zaffir talked, the more I was convinced that Ezra’s goal was the exact opposite.

“Ezra Wynstone, from the Canyon Collective,” Zaffir finally prompted for him, clearly done waiting. “You’ve been elected to compete in the Reclamation Run. Tell us, what do you hope to do for the people back home who got you here?”

That’s when it happened. Ezra leaned forward slowly, deliberate and dangerous. He stared down the barrel of the lens like it had personally wronged him. And when he spoke, his voice rumbled out low and rough, like it had been dragged across gravel.

“I’m gonna make ‘em pay for it.”

The words hit like a slap across the face. I felt the air in the room shift, charged, tense, electric. My heart stumbled in my chest, not sure whether it was fear or awe. Ezra’s voice carried a weight that felt like it could break through walls. This wasn’t for the sake of the show. This wasn't a strategy. This was a promise.

Zaffir let out a low whistle, clearly startled. “Bold move,” he said, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “But it might just work.”

Ezra pushed back from the chair and stood, no furthercommentary offered. He returned to his seat beside me like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into the room. I met his gaze as he sat down. His dark eyes locked with mine, and he gave me a curt nod, simple, matter-of-fact.

It wasn’t warmth, not even friendliness. But it was… acknowledgment. A silent pact, maybe. He wasn’t going to be my best friend, but at that moment, I couldn’t help but feel like I might’ve just earned something rarer.

An ally.

And in this place, that could mean everything.

CHAPTER

THREE

Zaffir

“Do you have the cut ready?”Joree asked on the other end of the line, sharp and impatient, the same tone I’d come to expect from every producer, Architect, and executive up the chain at the Show Center. They never asked nicely. Never waited long enough to listen.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a breath through clenched teeth. “Just about,” I replied, keeping my voice even.

I didn’t hate the job. In fact, I liked a lot of it. Manipulating light and shadow, finding the right angles, pacing shots with rhythm and tension. It was an art form, and when I was behind the lens, when it was just me and the footage, I felt like an artist. But the editing booth was where the art bled out, where the work got warped into something false. That’s what I hated. That’s where they turned real people into characters and pain into spectacle. I especially hated that I was getting good at that part too.

I sat cross-legged on the thin cot bolted to the floor of the train car, computer perched in front of me. The footage flickered across the screen, paused on Ezra’s face. Cutting his segment was hard, there wasn’t much to work with, but I found a few shots of him on stage, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something dark. He looked like a powder keg moments from going off.

That was good.

Praxis didn’t love when Challengers showed open hostility toward the system, but this wasn’t hostility. This was potential. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, viewers craved a villain as much as they craved a hero.

Now I was scrubbing through Bex’s footage. The moment her name was called, the camera caught everything. She didn’t hear it at first. Then I watched as her smile froze, her body stiffened, then she turned toward the crowd like she couldn’t breathe.

The fear was palpable, but then there was resolve, focus, acceptance. She hid her fear from her brother’s eyes. Trying not to scare him anymore than he already was.

The lens had almost missed her goodbye to her brother, the exchange was half hidden in the crowd. But when Bex knelt to say goodbye, the world disappeared around them. I watched her lips tremble with unspoken words, the desperate way she tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, the quiet grief that pressed into her features.

And him…God, the closer I looked, the more obvious it was. The boy was sick. Pale, thin, fingers twitching slightly as he clutched her arm. I could see it now, the degeneration she spoke of.

I cursed under my breath. “Shit…”

I couldn’t believe I accused her of faking it. Of using him.The guilt gnawed at me now. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t selling grief. That was real.

I dropped her confessional into the sequence, overlaying it against the goodbye, her voice soft but steady, the way she spoke of Jax with such reverence. “He’s my best friend… my person…” she had said. I ended the segment on a close-up of her face, eyes bright with tears and fierce with resolve.

Those eyes. God, those eyes.

I froze the frame. Blue as a sparkling pool. Her face was soft, tanned, framed by windswept dusty blonde curls. She didn’t need dramatic lighting or fake angles, the camera adored her all on its own.

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