A Quiet Life Denied

Zane's POV – Present

I was on my knees.

Hands dug into the rough, paint-chipped concrete, the surface biting into my palms like it wanted to leave its mark. My head hung forward, my neck trembling under its own weight. Every breath was a battle—lungs searing as though I'd inhaled molten lead. Sweat beaded along my jawline and broke free in uneven drops, splattering onto the dusty ground. Each drop left a dark spot that faded too fast, like even the earth wanted to erase me.

The arena around me was a smear of colors and motion. Sound came muffled, as if someone had wrapped the world in a heavy blanket. Shouts, footsteps, the crack of bodies hitting obstacles—they were all warped and distant, underwater echoes that refused to take shape. Shapes moved in my peripheral vision, but they were only outlines, sliding past in a haze.

A hand landed on my shoulder—firm, steady, warm."Zane—hey—look at me—" Celeste's voice was close, urgent, threaded with something dangerously close to panic.

The words brushed my ears, but they didn't stick. They slid right through me.

I forced my head up, blinking through the blur. My eyes locked on Damian Holt first.

He stood across the arena like the eye of a storm—utterly still, breathing slow, chest rising and falling as if he'd just woken from a nap. No sweat, no tension, not even the smallest twitch. He didn't just look like he was in control. He looked inevitable. Like he had known this outcome long before the game even began.

Then my gaze slid to Alistair Reed. He leaned casually against a half-collapsed barricade, one elbow propped, the wood groaning under his weight. Flecks of old paint clung to his jacket. He was laughing with his teammates, his tone light, his smile—God, that smile—completely devoid of strain. Not mocking. Worse. Dismissive.

Above it all, the scoreboard blazed against the bruised evening sky.

WINNER: TEAM RED

The letters burned into my retinas. My throat tightened, my pulse a heavy thud in my ears.

What…? How the hell did that happen?

....

A Few Minutes Earlier

The buzzer screamed—a sharp, electric note that cut the air like a blade—and the game erupted into motion.

Blue Team: me, Orion, Celeste, Iris, Lena, and Emphera. Offense.

Orion moved first.

Fast—faster than anyone expected. His shoes slapped softly against the cracked arena floor, weaving between jagged slabs of fallen concrete and rusted-out barrels. He darted into the shadow of an overturned scaffolding, its steel legs bent and tangled like a spider's. Before the first Red Team defender could even react, Orion slipped past him, brushing a hand across his shoulder.

"Blue Team—One Red Team member eliminated!" the announcer's voice thundered, reverberating off the steel walls and high, broken windows.

The Blue Team's section roared.

On the far side, Iris was silent, dangerous—sliding along the shadow of a leaning tower of corrugated metal, every step calculated. She vanished behind it, drawing her target in. The poor guy followed, unaware he'd stepped into a choke point barely wide enough for one person. Iris reappeared just long enough to pivot, plant a hand between his shoulder blades—

"Blue Team—Second Red Team member eliminated!"

The noise swelled again.

Then came the crash.

It sounded like someone had punted a loose barrel halfway across the arena. Heads turned just in time to see Emphera drop from the top of a crumbling stack of wooden crates, her arms flailing like she was trying to swat invisible bees.

"Surprise aerial assault!" she yelled mid-fall.

Her target barely had time to blink before she landed beside him, smacked his shoulder, and stumbled forward three awkward steps to keep from eating dirt.

"Blue Team—Third Red Team member eliminated!" the announcer boomed.

Emphera straightened up, brushing dust off her sleeves with a smug smile. "See? Style and survival."

The Red Team player trudged toward the elimination zone, muttering something about lunatics.

...

Near the center of the field, Lena spotted him.

Alistair Reed.

He was perched atop a low barricade, sunlight from the broken roof spilling across his shoulder. His smirk was faint, almost lazy, as his eyes locked on hers. "Hello, pretty girl," he called, stepping back with a measured grace. "We meet again."

Lena sprinted forward, boots pounding against the dusty floor. "Stay right there!"

But Alistair moved like liquid. Each step was light, efficient—no wasted energy. In a blur, he scaled a tilted wall of splintered plywood stacked against concrete. His hand gripped a jagged edge for balance; flakes of paint fluttered down like dead leaves. In one clean motion, he vaulted over and vanished from sight.

"Oh, I didn't know you were so eager," his voice carried over the obstacles. "But I'm not that type of guy. Keep your hands off me."

Lena's jaw clenched hard enough to ache. "You—"

Her strides lengthened, but the gap stayed stubborn.

Then Celeste emerged ahead of him—stepping out from behind a cracked plexiglass barrier, its edges glittering with dangerous shards.

"Catch him!" Lena barked. "He's boxed in!"

Celeste's gaze narrowed. She charged.

Alistair didn't slow. He didn't even break stride. He jumped—clearing her entirely, his palms grazing the top of her head as though to remind her she'd been an afterthought. "What's up, shorty?"

Celeste froze, just for a heartbeat. Lena too.

Then the heat flared in their expressions.

"Oh, he's dead," Celeste muttered.

They converged without speaking. Lena's boots hit the ground in heavy, determined beats. Celeste wove between a bent chain-link fence and a concrete pillar spiderwebbed with cracks. They circled in from different angles, a silent agreement forming between them.

Alistair flowed through the environment like it belonged to him. His foot caught the edge of a broken crate, vaulting him upward; mid-air, he twisted away from Lena's grasp. He landed with a muted thud, pivoted, and ducked under Celeste's outstretched arm.

"Almost got me," he teased, slipping into a forward roll that carried him under a low-hanging tarp, vanishing into the gloom. His voice floated out from the other side, calm as ever. "Almost."

Somewhere in the chaos—

"Blue Team—Third Red Team member eliminated!"

Orion had taken another one down. That left only Damian and Alistair.

...

Secluded part of the arena

From my perch in a shadowed corner, I watched the scoreboard flicker. Numbers shifted. My pulse slowed, confidence swelling.

"Easy win this round," I murmured. "We've got numbers. We've got control—"

Movement snagged my attention.

Two figures burst from the far end of the arena.

The first—Orion. His face was pale, lips parted around ragged gasps. Sweat soaked his shirt, plastering it to his back, darkening it in irregular patches. His legs moved in jerks, as if every step cost him something. He wasn't just running—he was fleeing.

The second—Damian Holt.

His run was nothing like Orion's. Each stride was precise, unstoppable. His boots hit the ground with a rhythm that felt too deliberate to be human. No heavy breathing. No wasted energy. His gaze was locked forward, cold and calculating, slicing through the distance like a blade.

Even from across the arena, I saw Orion's mouth form the words.

Run, Zane. Run.

It was silent—but I felt it. Felt it in my bones, in the way my hands suddenly went cold and my chest forgot how to breathe.