Brittany and Trisha walked in silence for the first thirty seconds.
The mountain path was narrow enough that their shoulders nearly touched, and the cold had sharpened into the kind that bit through armor gaps and settled into joints. Around them, the competition grounds were winding down for the evening. Medics moved between tents. Officers cataloged damage. The distant sound of a helicopter's rotors faded south.
Trisha spoke first, and her voice was barely above a breath.
"She's really dead."
Brittany didn't answer.
"Britt."
"I heard you."
"She's really dead. Stacy is dead."
The words landed like they had the first time, and the second time, and every time since the notification had appeared on their interfaces an hour ago. Competitor death confirmed. Team member removed from active roster. Status: Deceased. The hologram interface had reduced Stacy to a line item while her blood was still wet on the basin floor, and no amount of repeating it made the sentence feel real.
