The monopolis and the center of the Spires itself are both already beginning to feel like a dream by the time we return to the Core. Yesterday, we walked beneath towers that seemed to scrape the sky, wandered around the Prism, ate food I had only ever seen advertised on screens, and stood in areas where every surface shone as though nobody had ever touched it. I even find myself wearing clothes I would never choose for myself, all far too extravagant for my taste. Now, all of that is behind us. From pastel colors to vibrant hues, everything around us is now nothing but pearl. The white corridors of the Core stretch ahead and the doors slide open with their familiar hiss. The sound of boots against reinforced flooring then follows us back into the training halls.
Lady Thorne calls it a refresher. But nobody asks what we are refreshing ourselves for. Tomorrow, the hovercrafts will carry us to Blackwake. After that, whatever happens will be beyond the instructors' reach. I have learned not to mistake a reassuring explanation for the truth.
I stay near the edge of the practice field as the first rotation begins, watching the other Hunters instead of rushing to join them. I have spent most of my life learning to notice things people would rather keep hidden. Out here, that habit feels less like caution and more like preparation.
The huge, bald guy is working his way through the combat targets. I can't remember if his name is Derek or Marek. He hits hard enough to dent the reinforced plating beneath the figures, then waits for the system to reset before going at it again. He doesn't seem tired at all. Meanwhile, Kitana is on the other side of the field, throwing one strike after another without giving herself much of a break. I'm not sure when she plans to stop. Even Sly is there with her.
Kenryu looks like he'd rather be doing literally anything else. He gets through the obstacle course without much trouble, steps off the final platform, and heads straight for the shade at the edge of the field. While everyone else talks about their times, he sits with his elbows on his knees, looking like he couldn't care less about the competition. He doesn't even bother looking at the others.
I catch myself looking in his direction.
Yesterday, at the Prism, he'd been just as hard to figure out. A masked man had approached me in the middle of the evening and asked me to dance. I could still remember our conversation, every irritating little remark of his.
"Would you care to dance?" was the one question he asked.
I'd glanced toward my friends. I'd taken the stranger's hand before Weaver could come up with something worse.
He led me onto the dance floor just as the orchestra started another song. He moved like he'd done this a hundred times before, one hand resting on my waist as we danced between the other couples. I tried to keep up with his steps, focusing on the music so I wouldn't end up stepping on his shoes and embarrassing myself.
For a while, neither of us spoke. Then I noticed the narrow slit in his left eyebrow, just visible above the edge of his mask.
I'd seen that eyebrow slit before. A year ago, on the hillside at Brumefall Heights, I'd watched a boy with the same mark bury something in the earth before riding away on his motorcycle. Back then, I hadn't known his name. I hadn't known what he'd buried, either.
Now I knew.
"You're staring," he murmured.
I looked up at him. "You're the last person I expected to see here."
"Should I apologize for disappointing you?" His tone was so flat that I couldn't tell whether he was joking.
"That's not what I meant," I said.
"Then you should work on saying what you mean."
I stared at him. He turned us through another step. There wasn't so much as a hint of embarrassment in his movements. If anything, he looked faintly bored by the conversation.
"Do you always have to be like this?" I asked.
"Like what?" he replied.
"Insufferable," I said.
"Only when I'm being interrogated."
I nearly missed a step. "I'm not interrogating you."
"Could've fooled me."
He guided me through a turn before I could come up with a response. His hand remained steady at my waist, but there was something impersonal about the way he held me, as though the dance were simply a task he'd agreed to finish. He wasn't rude enough to abandon me in the middle of the floor, but he certainly wasn't making an effort to be pleasant, either.
I wondered why he'd asked me to dance in the first place.
"You haven't answered my question," I said.
"Which one? You've asked several."
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Dancing," he muttered nonchalantly.
I gave him a look. "You know that's not what I mean."
"Then perhaps you should stop asking questions in a room full of people."
The Prism was packed, everyone wearing fancy masks and outfits that probably cost more than I'd ever want to spend on clothes. People talked over the orchestra, and the chandeliers were so bright that it felt like someone could notice even the smallest thing you did.
I remembered his warnings about surveillance. The note he'd left me in the library. Whatever Kenryu was doing here, he clearly had no intention of explaining it.
"You're very comfortable telling me what to do," I muttered.
"And you're very comfortable ignoring advice."
"Perhaps your advice isn't particularly clear," I remarked.
"Perhaps you should try shutting up."
I pressed my lips together. He seemed entirely satisfied with himself.
"Do you ever have a normal conversation with anyone?" I asked.
"Occasionally."
"How fortunate for them." That earned me the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile, but something close enough to make me wonder if I'd finally managed to amuse him.
The song ended, and Kenryu released my hand.
"Enjoy the evening, Elowen."
He said it like a dismissal. Before I could respond, he gave me a brief nod and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing on the dance floor with considerably more questions than I'd had when he'd approached me.
Now, watching him sit alone in the shade, I wonder if that short conversation yesterday was the most he'd talked to anyone all evening. But there's something else I remember from the Prism. After our dance, I'd spotted Linus approaching him from behind. They stood close enough to talk without anyone else hearing, and from the way they kept their voices low, it almost looked like they were discussing something they didn't want anyone to know about.
Right now, he doesn't look toward the other Hunters. He doesn't attempt to join their discussions or offer unsolicited advice about their performances. He simply sits there, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the course, as if the rest of us are an inconvenience he's learned to tolerate.
It's difficult to reconcile the boy I remember from Brumefall Heights with the man who asked me to dance yesterday. And it's even more difficult to understand why someone who seems so determined to keep his distance would approach me at all. I mean, Kenryu is an odd contradiction. He appears when I least expect him, says just enough to leave me suspicious, and then retreats before I can get anything useful out of him. He warns me about things he refuses to explain, acts as though my questions are a personal offense, and somehow manages to make me feel as though I'm the one being unreasonable.
Whatever Kenryu is hiding, I doubt he'll volunteer the answers anytime soon. And if yesterday's conversation is any indication, asking him directly will only earn me another irritating remark.
There is little point in trying to understand Kenryu. Every time I think I have found a piece of him that makes sense, he gives me another reason to question it. For now, I have enough to worry about without adding him to the list.
I turn my attention elsewhere before I catch myself looking at him for too long.
Across the field, Clay finishes helping the Lifeline instructors organize their equipment. He wipes his hands on his trousers before wandering over to Blair and Reagan, who are sorting medical supplies at a nearby table.
Blair looks up when he approaches. Her face brightens, and then, almost immediately, she fumbles with the packet in her hands. I have to look away to hide my smile.
Clay says something that makes her laugh. Whatever it is, I can't hear it over the noise of the training equipment, but I can see the way she relaxes as he talks to her. He treats her as he treats everyone else––with an easy patience that never makes anyone feel foolish for needing it.
Blair, apparently, has yet to figure out what to do with that. But I can't blame her. Clay has always had a way of making people feel as though they matter, even when he has no idea how much they need to hear it.
During the next break, Weaver drops onto a bench beside him. Gevan stands nearby, adjusting the straps of his practice gear and checking the fastenings with the concentration of someone preparing to dismantle a suspicious device.
Weaver watches Clay for a moment before leaning forward.
"So, tell me something. Did rich people in the Sinks have to work, too, or was that just a hobby for the rest of us?"
Clay laughs. "We weren't rich."
"That's exactly what a rich person would say."
"My family owns a repair shop. We fix generators and water purifiers for the surrounding districts."
Weaver considers this. "A business. With customers. And money changing hands."
"That's generally how businesses work," Clay says.
"I'm learning so much today," Weaver says.
Clay shakes his head, still smiling. "We made enough to get by. We didn't have to worry about missing meals, and if something broke at home, we could usually afford to repair it instead of finding some way to make it last another year."
"Must have been nice," Weaver says, though the teasing has softened.
"It was." Clay pauses. "I didn't realize how fortunate we were when I was younger. Not until I started visiting Elowen's neighborhood."
My attention shifts to him. I don't think Clay notices. His gaze has settled somewhere beyond the practice field, as though he is looking at a place that no longer exists in quite the same way.
"Our house wasn't much," he continues, "but we had some savings. When storms came through, my parents could reinforce the walls or fix whatever got damaged. Elowen's home was smaller, wooden, and her street flooded more often. We could afford to prepare. A lot of families couldn't."
The words bring back a picture I haven't thought about in a while: Clay standing outside our door with a wooden sword tucked beneath his arm, waiting for me to finish my chores. The rain had stopped that morning, but water still pooled along the street, carrying scraps of rubbish past the doorsteps. I had been chasing rabbits while he tried to convince me that we could play later.
I told him I had too much to do. He stayed until I finished anyway. But he was always like that. When we were children, I thought he was simply stubborn. Later, I understood that Clay could recognize when someone needed company even if they had no intention of asking for it.
After my father died, he visited more often. Sometimes he brought food from home. Sometimes he tried to persuade me to leave the house for a while. More often, he sat beside me without saying anything.
I remember how uncomfortable the silence used to make me. People came with condolences and promises, telling me I was strong or that time would make things easier. They wanted to offer something that would make my grief less frightening to look at. Clay never did.
He didn't pretend he could fix what had happened. He didn't ask me to talk when I couldn't. He simply stayed, even when I had nothing to give him in return.
I used to wonder why. Now, watching him talk about those years without making himself the hero of the story, I think I understand a little better. Clay never needed to be the person with the right words. He was content to be the person who showed up.
Maybe that's why people trust him so easily. His kindness doesn't feel like something he has to think about. It comes naturally, without conditions or an audience.
Weaver nudges him with an elbow. "You know, if you keep admitting you had a decent childhood, the rest of us might start resenting you."
Before Clay can answer, Weaver spots Gevan hovering beside the obstacle course and brightens with the expression of someone who has just found a new way to cause trouble.
"Come on, Professor. Your turn."
Gevan doesn't move. "I've already told you that course is probably designed to figure out which Hunters are worth keeping an eye on."
Weaver stares at him. "Right. Of course. Because the Triumvirate would totally build an entire obstacle course just to figure out who's the weakest link."
Gevan gives him a look that suggests he has missed the point entirely. "You're assuming the purpose of the course is what they've told us it is."
"I'm assuming you're going to stand here until I physically drag you over there."
"You wouldn't."
Weaver reaches for his arm.
Gevan steps away. "Don't touch me."
"Then walk."
With an irritated sigh, Gevan follows him toward the course. I watch them go, already anticipating the argument that will follow.
At the base of a cargo wall, Gevan stops to inspect the cables supporting it. He checks one fastening, then another, before returning to the first and tugging it twice.
Weaver folds his arms. "Are you planning to climb that thing, or are you waiting for it to confess?"
"I'm checking the supports."
Gevan ignores Weaver when he mutters something and begins climbing. He has nearly reached the top when an automated target rises from the floor with a sharp mechanical hiss. Gevan startles so violently that his practice weapon slips in his hand. He jerks backward, catches himself against the wall, and scrambles down as soon as he can.
Weaver bursts out laughing.
Gevan lands, straightens, and points his weapon at the target. "That was unnecessary."
"It's an obstacle course," Weaver remarks.
"It appeared at a suspiciously convenient moment."
Weaver laughs harder. "If you win Blackwake, it'll be because paranoia refuses to let you die."
"Paranoia keeps people alive," Gevan defends.
"Does it?"
"Yes. Unlike your sense of humor, which is likely to get you killed," Gevan says.
"That's a shame. I was hoping to die laughing."
Gevan gestures toward the cameras lining the ceiling. "You can joke all you want. Someone is watching us right now, recording every reaction, every mistake. We don't know what they intend to do with that information."
Weaver glances up.
"Someone probably is," he says. "We did sign up for a televised government spectacle."
Gevan opens his mouth, then pauses. A reluctant snort escapes him before he can stop it.
Weaver points at him triumphantly. "There. Proof that you do have a sense of humor."
"Don't make me regret it."
"Too late."
They return to the course, still arguing, and I find myself smiling.
It is strange how easily they fall into their usual rhythm. Weaver pokes at every suspicion Gevan raises, and Gevan responds as though the fate of the world depends on correcting him. They disagree about nearly everything, yet neither seems comfortable leaving the other alone for long.
I've seen Weaver laugh at Gevan's expense more times than I can count. I've also watched him slow down whenever Gevan struggles to keep up, pretending to be distracted by something else so the gesture won't look like concern. Gevan notices more than he admits. Whenever Weaver gets carried away and wanders too close to trouble, Gevan is the first to warn him. He complains about Weaver's recklessness, his jokes, and his apparent inability to take anything seriously, but he never stops paying attention to where Weaver is.
They irritate each other endlessly. Still, when the next drill begins, they take their positions side by side.
***
The Core doesn't quiet down all at once. Even after the last rotation ends, machinery continues to hum behind the walls, and the occasional clang echoes through the corridors. By the time we're dismissed for the night, my legs ache, my shoulders are stiff, and all I want is a bed.
A shower helps, at least. I change into the nightgown provided in our quarters, a plain, pale thing that feels too soft against my skin after a day of metal platforms and rough training equipment. I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my waist.
Then I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty. I turn onto my side, close my eyes, and try again. My thoughts keep returning to the same place, no matter how many times I try to push them away. I remember the smell of antiseptic, the thin curtains separating one bed from another, and my aunt Evelyn lying beneath white sheets.
I should have spent more time with her. The thought comes so easily that it feels like a familiar bruise. I press my face into the pillow, annoyed with myself for letting it hurt all over again. There is nothing I can do about the past from here. Nothing I can do for Evelyn tonight. And yet I can't stop thinking about home.
Eventually, I give up on sleeping and leave my room. The corridor outside is dimly lit, with narrow strips of light running along the floor. I walk until I reach one of the quieter sections overlooking the central training hall, where the machinery has finally fallen silent.
I sit on a bench near the wall and draw my knees together beneath my nightgown. I don't hear anyone approach.
"Can't sleep?"
I look up so quickly that I nearly knock my knee against the bench.
Linus stands a few feet away, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. I hadn't even noticed him coming down the corridor.
"Apparently not," I reply.
He studies me for a moment. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm okay." The answer comes automatically. It's the same answer I've given everyone all day, and judging by the look on his face, Linus knows it.
He doesn't press me. Instead, his eyes drift upward, then sideways, toward the corner of the ceiling. I follow his gaze.
A small black lens is fitted into the wall above the corridor entrance. Of course. For a moment, neither of us says anything. I wonder how much of our conversation will be recorded, who will review it, and whether the people watching have already grown bored of seeing Hunters wander around after curfew.
Linus looks away first. "Elowen, I need you to promise me something."
I turn back to him. "What?"
"Whatever happens in there, do everything you can to win."
The request catches me off guard. He isn't smiling. There is none of the easy humor I've come to associate with him, none of the casual reassurance people offer when they don't know what else to say.
"I have faith in you," he continues. "Your intelligence, especially. You notice things other people miss. You think before you act. That's going to matter more than you realize."
I look down at my hands. I want to ask him why. Out of everyone in our quadrangle, why am I the one he has chosen to ask? Why not Clay, who is our de facto leader? Or Weaver, who seems capable of finding his way out of almost anything? Why not Gevan, who spends half his time examining every detail the rest of us overlook? Why me?
The questions gather behind my teeth, but I keep them there.
Instead, I ask, "Do you believe in Lucien's philosophy?"
Linus tilts his head. "Hmm?"
"All of it, I suppose. The Red Hunt. The wall between the Spires and the Sinks. The idea that everyone has to prove they're worthy of where they belong."
I glance toward the distant windows, though there's little to see beyond the darkness. "Everyone in the Sinks has to prove they deserve a place in the Spires. Everyone in the Spires has to prove they deserve to stay there. But the Triumvirate doesn't have to prove anything. Neither does the government. They decide who is worthy, and they get to live above the wall, safe from ever being sent down themselves."
Linus listens without interrupting.
"Why are we the ones who have to keep proving ourselves?" I ask. "And why are only four out of a hundred of us allowed to win? Every person in this place has their own battles. Their own reasons for being here. We're expected to fight for a future that only a handful of us will get to have."
I pause, thinking of two faces that don't quite belong in the picture I've been given of the Red Hunt. "And what about Kenryu and Pandora? They're from the Spires. Why are they here?"
For the first time since he approached me, Linus looks genuinely uncomfortable. He glances toward the camera again, then back at me. He doesn't answer.
"Linus?"
"Pandora and Kenryu are in this game because they're bound to be," he says.
I frown. "What does that mean?"
"Elowen." He says my name quietly, but there's a warning in it.
I lean back against the wall, frustrated. "You ask me to trust my intelligence, and then you tell me something like that without explaining what it means."
"Some things aren't mine to explain," Linus says.
For a while, we sit in silence. The lights hum overhead. Somewhere behind the walls, a ventilation system kicks into a higher gear.
I think about the wall again. How massive it looks from the Sinks, rising between people who have spent their lives looking up at it and people who have spent their lives looking down.
"My father died in the flood," I say.
The words come out before I can reconsider them. Linus then turns toward me.
"I was young when it happened, Sir. The water swept through the Sinks, and he was caught in it after making sure I made it safely. They told us there was nothing anyone could have done." I pick at a loose thread on the edge of my sleeve. "I used to wonder if that was true. If there really wasn't anything anyone could have done, or if we were just the kind of people nobody bothered to save."
I don't tell him about all the years I spent trying not to ask that question. About how quickly people learned to accept a tragedy when it happened to someone from the Sinks. How easily a name disappeared from a record when there was no one powerful enough to insist it mattered.
Linus's expression softens. "I'm sorry, Elowen."
I nod, keeping my eyes on my hands.
"I know it doesn't change anything," he says. "But you shouldn't have had to lose him that way."
For a moment, I can't think of anything to say. I hadn't expected sympathy from him, and now that it's there, I don't quite know what to do with it.
He looks toward the camera one more time.
"Do you know what the problem with this system is?" he asks.
I give a small, humorless laugh. "Where do I start?"
"The fact that everyone believes the power belongs to the people at the top," he says.
I look at him.
"The Triumvirate needs the Sinks," he continues. "It needs the workers, the people who keep the cities running, the people who grow the food, repair the infrastructure, and do all the work nobody in the Spires wants to think about. It needs the citizens in the Spires, too. Their support, their money, their belief that the system is worth preserving."
He folds his arms. "Take all of that away, and what do they have? A title? A few buildings behind a wall? The Triumvirate only has power because everyone else keeps the world running for them."
"People have families to feed. Homes to keep. Lives they're trying to protect. I understand that. But if everyone accepts the system simply because it's the one they were born into, then nothing changes. The next generation inherits the same rules, the same wall, the same promises that things will be better if they just work hard enough." He pauses. "And then the generation after that does the same."
He's right though. People who worked until their hands were raw and still worried about what would happen if they missed a day. People who had never seen the Spires up close but could tell you exactly what it was like to live there because they'd been told all their lives.
"So why make the Red Hunt in the first place?" I ask. "If the system is so carefully designed to keep people where they belong, why create a competition that lets anyone cross the wall?"
Linus is quiet for a moment.
"Because the Red Hunt wasn't created for the reason they tell everyone."
I straighten. "What do you mean?"
"It was established years after the first general of the Order of the Spires disappeared."
I stare at him. "The first general?"
He nods. "The official story changed over time. There were speeches, announcements, explanations about order and unity. The Red Hunt was presented as a way to give people something to aspire to. A chance to rise above their circumstances. A way to remind everyone that the system rewarded those who proved themselves worthy."
"That sounds like propaganda," I say.
"It was." The certainty in his voice sends a chill through me.
I look toward the dark windows again, trying to connect what he's saying with everything I've been taught. The Red Hunt has always been described as a privilege, a chance at a life beyond the Sinks. Even the people who hate it speak about winning as though it's the only sensible thing to want. But if Linus is right, then the competition was built around a lie that began long before any of us were born.
"Why did you join?"
I look up at Linus.
He hasn't moved from the bench. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands loosely clasped between them. There's something different about his expression now, something more direct than the sympathy he'd shown me a few minutes ago.
"If you have so many questions about the Red Hunt, the Triumvirate, and the way this place works, why enter the competition in the first place?"
I don't answer immediately. It's a fair question, I suppose. I've spent the better part of the evening questioning everything about the system, as if I have any right to act surprised by how it operates. I knew what the Red Hunt was before I signed up. I knew what it promised, and I knew what it demanded in return.
I also knew I couldn't afford to walk away.
"Because I don't have a choice," I say.
I look down at my hands, rubbing my thumb against the side of my finger. For a moment, I'm back in the hospital, sitting beside my aunt's bed and listening to the steady beeping of the machines. I remember the way she tried to smile whenever I visited, even on the days when she barely had the strength to speak.
"She's dying, Sir," I say. The words feel different when spoken aloud. Heavier, somehow.
Linus's expression changes. "Your aunt?"
I nod. "She's the only family I have left." I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. "And I can't afford the treatment she needs. I can't earn enough credas to save her, no matter how many hours I work or how much I try to stretch what little I have."
I let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, though there's nothing funny about it. "So when the Red Hunt offered me a chance to win enough credas to change that, what exactly was I supposed to do? Turn it down because I disagree with the people running it?"
Linus doesn't interrupt.
"I know what the competition is. I know that the Hunters who lose the hunt will go back to nothing. I'm not stupid enough to think the Triumvirate suddenly cares about people like me just because they've given us a chance to compete." I glance at him. "But my aunt doesn't have the luxury of waiting for me to figure out how to fix the world."
The words come out sharper than I intended. I look away, embarrassed by how close I am to losing my composure.
"I can question the system all I want. I can hate the Red Hunt, hate the people who designed it, hate the fact that the people in the Spires get to decide who's worthy of a better life. None of that changes what's happening to her."
For a moment, all I hear is the low hum of the ventilation system.
"So I'm here," I continue. "I'm going to train, and I'm going to learn whatever they expect me to learn. I'll give them my time, my effort, everything I've got. If I have to push myself until I can barely stand, I'll do it. If I get hurt, I'll deal with it."
"She's all I have left, Sir. I'm not going to sit in that hospital and watch her die knowing I had a chance to do something and didn't take it."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he leans back, his expression no longer questioning, and I almost wish he'd argued with me instead. It would have been easier to defend myself against another lecture about the system than to sit here with someone who seems to understand exactly what I'm saying.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
I don't know what to say to that.
Linus looks toward the ceiling, toward the cameras we both know are there.
I stare at the floor, wishing there were a way to explain how exhausting it is to care about something bigger than yourself when your own life is already falling apart. How easy it is to talk about changing the world when you're not the one counting the days someone you love has left.
"I don't want to be here," I confess. "Not really. I don't want to compete with ninety-six other people for a chance to live somewhere better. I don't want to spend every day wondering whether I'm good enough to survive. I just want to go home and have my aunt there when I wake up."
My voice falters, and I stop before it can get any worse. For once, Linus doesn't try to fill the silence.
After a while, he says, "Then hold on to that."
I look at him.
"Not the anger. Not the things you want to prove to the Triumvirate. Hold on to the reason you came here in the first place."
"And if it isn't enough?"
"Then you find something else worth holding on to."
I give him a tired look. "You make it sound simple."
"It's not." He pauses. "But you don't have to figure everything out tonight."
I wish I could believe him. Because somewhere beyond these walls, my aunt is still in that hospital bed, and I have no idea how much time I have left to save her.
Neither of us speaks for a while. Linus looks away, and I find myself staring at the floor, turning his words over in my head. There are still too many things I don't understand, and the longer I sit with them, the harder it becomes to ignore the feeling that something about this place doesn't add up.
"Do you think the missing general is the Scapegoat?" I ask after a few seconds of silence.
Linus's face gives nothing away. "I don't know."
I study him, searching for some sign that he's holding something back. I find plenty of reasons to suspect that he is, but nothing that tells me what the truth might be.
"Then who is the Scapegoat?"
"I don't know that, either."
I let out a breath and rub my forehead.
"You're very good at telling me things without actually telling me anything."
A faint smile touches his mouth. "I've been told that before."
"By people who were also frustrated with you, I assume," I say.
"Usually."
I almost smile, but the feeling doesn't last. Linus looks at me again, and the seriousness returns to his expression.
"I want to question the system as much as you do, Elowen. Maybe more than you realize. But wanting something to change and being able to change it are two very different things."
"Then why tell me any of this?"
"Because I'm tired of pretending that everything is fine." He glances at the camera.
"And because I can't fight it alone."
What does he mean by that?
I still don't understand why he's placed so much faith in me, but I begin to suspect that his reasons have very little to do with the competition itself.
"Win, Elowen," he says again. This time, it doesn't sound like a simple request for me to survive. It sounds like he's asking me to do something he cannot.
He rises from the bench and rests a hand on my shoulder. His grip is brief but firm.
"Whatever you discover in there, don't stop thinking for yourself." Before I can ask him what he's expecting me to discover, he steps away.
"Good night, Elowen."
"G-Good night, Linus."
I watch him disappear down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the low hum of the Core.
For a while, I stay where I am, trying to make sense of everything he's told me. None of it fits neatly together, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that it isn't supposed to.
I finally stand, intending to return to my room, when something catches my attention at the entrance.
He's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression as unreadable as ever. The dim lighting catches the black of his earrings, but otherwise, he looks like he's been standing there long enough to grow bored.
I stop. How much did he hear?
His gaze meets mine. He doesn't look particularly surprised to find me awake, nor does he seem interested in explaining why he's standing there in the first place.
"Enjoying the conversation?" I ask.
"Not particularly." Of course.
I glance down the corridor where Linus disappeared, then back at him. "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough," he says.
"That's not an answer," I tell him.
"Wasn't trying to give you one."
I stare at him, wondering how someone can manage to be irritating without even raising his voice.
"Do you make a habit of listening to other people's conversations?"
"Do you make a habit of having them in front of cameras?"
My mouth closes. He pushes himself away from the wall, uncrossing his arms.
"Get some sleep, Elowen. You'll need it."
"Is that supposed to be advice?"
"Take it however you want." He walks past me before I can respond, leaving me standing in the corridor with yet another question I won't get an answer to.
I watch him disappear around the corner. Between Linus's secrets and Kenryu's complete inability to speak to me like a normal person, I'm beginning to think a full night's sleep might be the most impossible challenge the Core has given me yet.