Page 48 of Lethal in Pink

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes haven’t left her screen. Her thumbs move with the same unhurried precision, but there’s something different about it now—a stillness, a focus that makes the air between us feel charged.

I get the fourth kill. The fifth. The squad numbers flip. My kills sit above hers for the first time all night, and the satisfaction of it spreads through my ribs like warm liquor.

“Nice try, hotshot,” I say, and the nickname lands differently now—less teasing, more claim. “Maybe next time.”

She says nothing. Her jaw is set. Her breathing hasn’t changed.

The match ends. APEX CHAMPIONS flashes across both displays again. My name sits at the top of our squad summary. Fourteen kills to her nine. The numbers glow on the screen like a verdict I’ve been waiting to hear.

I set my controller down and reach for the garlic popcorn. The smell hits my nostrils, sharp and aggressive, and I pop a handful into my mouth without breaking eye contact with her screen.

“Good second match,” I say, and I can hear the smugness in my own voice. It’s not attractive. I don’t care.

Amiyah picks up her controller. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a word.

The third match loads.

I should have seen it coming.

The drop happens. The map materializes. I land, loot, push. Everything feels right. My thumbs are warm. My reflexes are dialed in. The first engagement goes my way—a clean two-shot with a Wingman that drops an enemy before they can even turn.

And then Amiyah moves.

It’s not faster. That’s the thing. It’s not about speed. It’s about economy. She slides into a position I didn’t think was possible, uses a gravity lift I didn’t see her place, and from that impossible, punishing angle, she drops an entire squad in the span of eight seconds. The kill feed lights up with her username three times in a row.

I push toward the next engagement. Find a squad. Take one down. Get flanked by the second. My shields crack. Health bar drains. I slide into cover, pop a shield battery, turn to re-engage—

She’s already there. Horizon’s tactical lifts her over the building. The Sentinel cracks once.

She finishes the match with twenty-three kills. I finish with four.

The victory screen paints her character in gold, and the silence that follows has weight.

She sets her controller down on the cushion beside her with deliberate care. Then she turns, slowly, and looks at me.

Her expression is patient. Satisfied. The particular calm of someone who has just proven a point they never needed to verbalize.

“Do you need a moment?” she asks.

I do not answer.

The summary screen sits on the display, glowing blue in the dim apartment. My teeth are clenched tightly, the muscle along the side of my face working. I reach for the chip bowl, select a salt and vinegar chip, and put it in my mouth without looking away.

The chip tastes like air at this point.

“Again,” I demand.

The fourth match loads.

And somewhere during the drop, something shifts.

I can’t pinpoint when it happens. One moment we’re playing with the focused intensity of people trying to establish dominance, and the next—

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Amiyah says, in an accent that sounds like a British sports commentator who has suffered a mild head injury, “we are witnessing a historic collapse of form from the challenger, who appears to have forgotten which buttons make the gun go bang.”

I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it.

“And the defending champion,” I counter, dropping my voice an octave into a booming American sports announcer voice, “continues her ruthless campaign despite the clear disadvantage of those ridiculous cat slippers compromising her pedal mobility.”