A Quiet Life Denied

The air was heavy with dust and adrenaline. The echo of footsteps against the cracked concrete rang sharp through the obstacle course. Orion darted through the wreckage, lungs burning, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at him to keep moving.

One of the Red Team members lunged out from behind a tilted metal drum, but Orion was faster. He pivoted, ducking low, and with a burst of speed brushed the man's shoulder.

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

The Red Team player cursed under his breath and trudged toward the elimination zone, but Orion didn't look back. He kept moving.

That was when he saw him.

Damian Holt.

The tall boy stood in the middle of the broken arena with a face like carved stone, eyes cold but mouth carrying the faintest curl of satisfaction.

He hadn't moved an inch. Arms loose at his sides, back straight, eyes calm—too calm. His lips curved faintly, like the whole game was unfolding exactly as he wanted.

"You're good," he said, voice deep and unhurried. "Better than average."

It wasn't praise.

It was a verdict.

The weight of it pressed down on Orion's chest, heavier than the stifling heat of the arena. A flicker of memory stabbed at him—of the track, of running until his lungs were knives, and still seeing that same unshakable figure ahead of him. Untouchable. Always ahead. Always out of reach.

His legs felt like lead.

The eliminated teammate, still passing by, grinned weakly at Orion. "Hey man, run—he's a freak, don't—".

The tall boy's head tilted slightly, his eyes flashing with disgust. "Shut the fuck up. Get out of my sight."

The eliminated player paled and scrambled away without another word.

The boy's gaze shifted back to Orion, colder than before. "Five minutes left," he said, eyes flicking briefly to the clock. Then, with grim certainty: "Everyone's been moving, except one. Which means… he's the flag bearer."

Orion's stomach dropped.

Zane.

The thought burned like fire, and his body lurched forward before his brain even finished forming it. He had to warn him.

But the boy moved too.

He was fast. Terrifyingly fast. Every stride was smooth, mechanical, inevitable. No gasping, no wasted motion, no sound except the steady slap of his shoes against the cracked concrete. He wasn't chasing. He was closing.

Orion pushed harder, lungs tearing, legs screaming. But it didn't matter. The gap wasn't shrinking. If anything—it was growing.

Zane's POV

From my corner, I saw Orion.

He wasn't running like before, not fast and sharp and sure. He was stumbling, desperate, sweat flying from his hair in thick beads. Behind him, Damian followed like a shadow, like death itself in a black tracksuit.

And then Orion's lips shaped the words.

Run, Zane. Run.

I didn't think. My legs launched me forward before my brain even caught up. My sneakers pounded against the cracked concrete, the sound sharp and uneven in my ears. My lungs seized with the first deep breath—I'd been sitting too long, waiting for the "easy win." Now it was survival.

But Damian…

He was there. Always there.

I could feel him at my back, so close the air seemed to ripple with his presence. Each time I risked a glance, his figure was sharper, nearer, his eyes like drills boring into me. I was running flat out, faster than I'd ever pushed before—yet he was catching up as if I were standing still.

I cut sharp between two concrete pillars, boots skidding on the dust. A bent chain-link fence loomed—I slipped through the gap, scraping my arm on jagged wire. Behind me, Damian didn't slow. He vaulted the barrier in one clean motion, landing like a machine. No wasted breath. No wasted motion.

Desperate, I turned into a side corridor, only to hear a sudden shuffle of boots—

Iris.

She emerged from a blind corner, eyes narrowed, waiting for her moment. The second Damian passed, her arm lashed out, aiming for his shoulder.

For a split second, hope sparked.

But Damian tilted his head—just a fraction. The tag missed air. His hand shot out, brushing her wrist aside with the ease of swatting a fly. He never even slowed.

Iris stumbled back, her lips pressed in frustration.

My chest heaved. No help. No saviors. Just me.

Ahead, Celeste and Lena were still chasing Alistair, their shouts echoing through the arena. He danced just out of their reach, vaulting, twisting, laughing as though the whole game was designed for him alone.

And then it hit me.

Two left on Red.

Damian was on me. So the other—

This guy.

He had to be the flag bearer.

The realization cracked like lightning in my skull.

Which meant—he couldn't tag me.

Relief surged, almost giddy. My chest still burned, my legs still screamed, but I had a plan now. A way out. If I could just get to Lena and Celeste, we'd corner him together. That would end it. Hopeless to victory in an instant.

That's how it always worked out for me.

Luck. Timing. Instinct. I always pulled through in the end. Always.

"I can do this," I rasped, forcing my legs harder, the fire in my chest nearly unbearable. The girls were turning now, seeing me, their eyes widening. My heart surged.

Just a little further.

I was almost there.

This is what always happens. Against all odds, I win

Then—

"Alistair," Damian's cold voice rang out, sharp and cutting through the noise. "Tag him."

For a heartbeat, confusion rippled through me.

Tag me? But—

A light tap on my shoulder.

I froze.

Alistair stood behind me, his hand still raised, his smirk faint but mocking.

"Done."

The arena fell into silence for a breath. Then—

"Red Team wins!" the announcer's voice boomed.

The scoreboard blazed red, the letters screaming across the field.

Alistair tilted his head, studying me with mild amusement. "You're weird, you know that? Why were you running toward me?"

My breath collapsed into a harsh wheeze. My legs buckled, and the ground swallowed me whole.

In that moment, I knew my luck had abandoned me.