Eghosa lay on her back, one arm draped over her eyes, the faint glow of the I.D. Net hovering just above her palm.
The feed wouldn't stop moving.
Clips. Messages. Lists. Names she didn't recognize and some she did.
Short videos from Zone 3. Blurry recordings from spectators who were far too excited for something that had already gone wrong.
18 confirmed dead.
She exhaled slowly.
Someone had pinned a breakdown of zones. Another had uploaded a shaky explanation of group limits — 2 to 6 recommended. A comment thread argued whether the academy should have warned them more clearly. Another dismissed it entirely.
They signed up for this.
Eghosa scrolled past it.
A familiar name flashed by — injured, not dead. She paused, read it twice, then once more before continuing.
There was no silence in the villa. Just distant movement. Voices. Life continuing like nothing had happened.
She closed the feed for a moment.
Then opened it again.
Someone had posted a map guess for Zone 3. Someone else corrected it. A third laughed at both. The mystery was already thinning — not because it was solved, but because people needed it to be.
Eghosa let the projection fade.
"Figures," she muttered.
People always talked after. Always explained things once it was safe enough to speak.
She rolled onto her side, staring at the wall.
Training tomorrow. Zones after that. Or maybe not.
For now, it was just information.
And information, she knew, didn't keep anyone alive by itself.