The forest wants us dead.
That's the only explanation for how the trees move—trunks shifting when you're not looking directly at them, branches reaching like fingers, roots erupting from soil to snare ankles and drag players into shadow.
The second tournament match is a hunting game: teams alternate between predator and prey, stalking each other through this nightmare landscape where even the ground betrays you.
We're prey first. Twenty minutes to survive while another team hunts us through the dark.
"Stay close." Simon's voice is barely a whisper, his hand tight around mine. "Don't let go of me, no matter what happens."
"I won't." I squeeze back, Kira's fingers interlacing with his. "I'm right here."
The forest groans around us—wood creaking, leaves rustling without wind. Somewhere behind us, our hunters move through the undergrowth. I can hear them calling to each other, voices eager, confident.
They think we're easy targets. They don't know that Gordon Hayes has spent three years watching, calculating, finding patterns in chaos.
"Left." I pull Simon toward a denser thicket. "There's a ravine ahead. If we can reach it before—"
The attack comes from above.
I don't see the blade. I only feel it—white-hot agony tearing through Kira's side, so sharp and sudden that my real body convulses beneath the headset.
The neural feedback holds nothing back. Pain explodes through my nervous system, real pain, the kind that steals breath and thought and everything except the primal scream ripping from my throat.
I'm falling. The forest floor rushes up to meet me, and all I can think is this is it, this is how I die, trapped in a game wearing someone else's face…
"KIRA!"
Simon's voice tears through the pain. I hear him before I see him—a roar of fury that doesn't sound human, followed by the wet crack of impact. Through blurred vision, I watch him become something I've never witnessed before.
Not the easygoing gym buddy, not the golden retriever who laughs too loud and touches too casually—this Simon is savage, primal, moving with a violence that seems to come from somewhere deeper than training.
He tears through our attackers like they're made of paper. The first one goes down before they can raise their weapon.
The second tries to run; Simon catches them by the throat, slams them against a tree trunk, finishes them with a brutality that should terrify me but instead makes something dark and desperate unfurl in my chest.
He killed for me. He's killing for me right now, hands covered in digital blood, face twisted with a rage born purely from watching me fall.
The phase timer sounds. Predator becomes prey. Our attackers' avatars shatter into pixels—eliminated, ejected, hopefully still alive somewhere in the real world. The forest goes quiet except for Simon's ragged breathing and my own choked gasps of pain.
Then he's beside me, dropping to his knees in the undergrowth, hands hovering over the wound like he's afraid to touch it. "Kira. Kira, look at me. Stay with me, okay? You're going to be fine, you're going to be…"
"It hurts." The words come out thin, pathetic. "Simon, it really hurts."
"I know. I know, baby, I'm sorry."
His hands are shaking as he presses them against my side, trying to stem the bleeding. The endearment slips out like he doesn't notice, natural as breathing.
"Just hold on, the round's almost over. The game will heal you, just hold on."
The world blurs. Darkens. I feel Simon gather me into his arms, feel him carry me through the nightmare forest while I drift in and out of consciousness. His heartbeat pounds against my ear.
His voice keeps saying my name—Kira, Kira, stay with me, don't you dare leave me—and I want to tell him I'm not going anywhere, I could never leave him, but the pain swallows everything.
When the healing comes, it's like drowning in reverse. The agony releases in waves, wounds knitting themselves closed, damaged tissue regenerating cell by cell.
I come back to myself in our room, lying on the bed, Simon's face hovering above me with an expression carved from terror.
"There you are." His voice cracks. "God, Kira. I thought…"
"I'm okay." I reach for him. "Simon, I'm right here."
He doesn't answer with words. His mouth crashes into mine—desperate, starving, like he needs to taste that I'm alive. His hands frame my face, then slide down my neck, my shoulders, my arms—checking, mapping, confirming.
"Need to feel you." The words come out broken against my lips. "Need to know you're real."
His palms find the hem of my shirt. I arch into him, and he takes it as permission—pulls the fabric up and over my head, tosses it somewhere I don't care about. His eyes drop to my ribs, to the smooth skin where the wound used to be.
"It's healed." His fingers trace the place, reverent, shaking. "You're healed."
"I'm here." I pull at his shirt. "Simon, I need…"
He strips it off. His body covers mine, all that warm skin pressing down, and I gasp at the contact.
The neural feedback translates everything—the weight of him, the heat, the way his chest hair drags across my nipples when he moves.
This is real. This is happening.
His mouth finds my throat. Teeth graze my pulse point, and I moan—loud, unguarded, the sound of someone who's forgotten how to perform.
Simon groans in response, hips rolling against mine, and I feel how hard he is through the thin barrier of our remaining clothes.
"Tell me if it's too much." His hand slides down my stomach, fingers hooking into my waistband. "Tell me to stop if you’re still not feeling well."
"Don't stop." I lift my hips, help him drag the fabric down. "Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. His mouth follows his hands—kissing down my sternum, my ribs, the hollow of my hip. When his breath ghosts across my center, my back arches off the bed.
Three years. Three years of wanting this.
"So beautiful." His lips brush my inner thigh. "You're so fucking beautiful, Kira."
Then his mouth is on me, and I stop thinking entirely.
The pleasure builds in spiraling waves—his tongue working me with devastating precision, his hands pinning my hips when I try to buck against him. I'm making sounds I've never made before, desperate whimpers and broken gasps of his name.
When the first orgasm hits, it tears through me like lightning, and Simon doesn't stop, doesn't let up, just works me through it until I'm shaking and oversensitive and begging for more.
"Please." I'm pulling at his shoulders, trying to drag him up. "Simon, please, I need you inside me."
He rises over me, and I watch him strip away the last of his clothes. His cock juts thick and flushed against his stomach, and my mouth waters at the sight.
Mine. He's mine, even if only here, even if only like this.
"Are you sure?" His forehead presses against mine. "After everything today, if you need to just rest…"
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him down.
The first thrust steals my breath. He fills me completely, stretches me in ways the neural feedback renders with agonizing accuracy. Simon groans—low, wrecked—and holds himself still, letting me adjust.
"Okay?" His voice shakes.
"Move." I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Simon, move."
He moves. The rhythm starts slow, deep strokes that let me feel every inch of him. His hands grip my thighs, angle my hips up, and the next thrust hits something that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
This is what it feels like. Being wanted. Being chosen.
"You feel incredible." His pace quickens, hips snapping harder. "So tight, so perfect, I can't… Kira—"
"I know." I'm meeting every thrust now, our bodies slamming together with obscene sounds. "I know, I feel it too."
His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, and I cry out. The dual sensation is too much—him inside me, filling me, while his fingers work me toward another peak.
"Come for me." His voice is raw command. "Want to feel you. Need to feel you."
The orgasm crashes through me. I clench around him, body arching, and Simon follows seconds later—burying himself deep, pulsing inside me, my name tearing from his throat like a prayer.
I love him. God help me, I love him.
He collapses against me, breathing hard. For a moment, there's only the sound of our hearts pounding, our lungs fighting for air.
Then Simon lifts his head. His eyes are wet.
"I love you." The words spill out, raw and terrified. "I love you, Kira. I know it's crazy, I know we're trapped in this nightmare, but I love you. I almost lost you today, and I need you to know."
He's saying it. He's actually saying it.
"I love you too." The words come through Kira's mouth, and I mean them. "I've loved you for so long…"
The tears come without warning. They spill down my cheeks, and I can't stop them. Simon's expression crumples. He kisses the salt from my face—my eyelids, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth.
"It's okay." He gathers me against his chest. "You're safe now. I've got you."
He doesn't know. He can never know.
I cry into his shoulder while he holds me, and I don't tell him that these tears aren't about the game.
They're about knowing this stolen love is the only version I'll ever have.
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