Hughes stumbled back into the galaxy playroom with the ghost of a blue badge still fading from his palm.

He barely had time to catch his breath before the next door opened.

Across the room, Arcade was already trying to pull Skye behind him.

“No,” Arcade snapped, gripping Skye’s sleeve. “Absolutely not. He stays with me.”

Skye clung to him, eyes wide beneath the hood of his bugfox onesie.

Sweet Fluff’s pink candy-floss pigtails bobbed cheerfully.

Sour Puff sighed, long blue pigtails drooping over her shoulders.

“Clever boys must take their turn…”

“Little foxes wait and learn.”

Candy-floss strings shot from the ceiling.

Arcade grabbed Skye with both arms.

“Don’t you dare—”

The strings wrapped around Skye’s waist and yanked him backward.

Skye cried out.

Arcade lunged after him. “Skye!”

More strings snapped around Arcade’s wrists and dragged him toward the glowing door.

Skye hit the padded floor near Hughes, shaking but unharmed. Hughes caught him carefully before he could scramble after Arcade.

“Let me go!” Skye cried.

Arcade twisted against the strings, furious. “Don’t touch him! You hear me? Don’t touch him!”

Sweet Fluff clapped. “Sparkly boy has quite the bite!”

Sour Puff gave a miserable little nod. “Let us see if sparks can fight.”

The door swallowed Arcade whole.

Above them, Bonbon froze.

She had reached the edge of the rafters above the stage, clutching the big blue-handled scissors in both paws. They were almost as long as her forearm and much too heavy, but she held them tightly anyway.

Below, Celeste, Mezzo, and Ray hung in a neat puppet line, all trapped in strange Victorian clothes.

Celeste’s core glowed faintly beneath her dress.

Bonbon stared at it.

“Celeste,” she whispered.

A Sugar Rusher shifted somewhere behind her.

Bonbon went still.

The little zombie clicked its teeth, head twitching toward her.

Bonbon swallowed.

Then, very softly, she began to sing again.

“Cwsg yn dawel, seren fach,
golau’r lloer uwch dy ben bach…”

The Sugar Rusher slowed.

Its claws loosened from the pipe.

Another candy zombie curled up in the floss nearby, limbs going slack as if the song had filled it with warm milk and heavy blankets.

Bonbon crawled on.

She had scissors.

Now she just needed to work out where to cut.

Meanwhile, Arcade landed hard inside the new room.

Wooden boards slammed under his knees.

He pushed himself up at once and spun back toward the door.

It was still there.

He bolted for it.

Locked.

“No, no, no—”

He grabbed the handle and pulled until his fingers hurt. “Skye! Skye!”

A low chuckle rolled through the air behind him.

Arcade stopped.

His blood turned cold.

“Still runnin’ away, are you?”

The voice was deep.

Rough.

Thick with a Welsh Valleys accent.

Arcade’s hand slipped from the handle.

The bugfox onesie ripped apart in strips of candy floss, peeling away from him like stage curtains being torn down. When the threads snapped back, Arcade stood in Victorian boxing clothes: rolled white shirt, dark suspenders, scuffed boots, and bandages wrapped around his fists.

His goggles were shoved uselessly in one pocket.

No tools.

No C.H.I.P.

No gadgets.

No electric blade.

Just his hands.

Just him.

Arcade turned slowly.

He stood in a circular boxing arena floating in space.

The place looked like an old gentleman’s club smashed into a circus planetarium. Velvet ropes circled polished wooden floors. Brass lamps ticked overhead. Beyond the stands stretched endless starry darkness. The ring waited in the centre, ropes gleaming like gold wire.

Candy-floss spectators filled the seats in top hats and old-fashioned suits.

They chanted softly.

“Fight like a man.
Stand like a man.
Bleed like a man.”

Across the ring stood Arcade’s father.

Tall.

Broad.

Impossibly solid.

Dressed in a perfect waistcoat and dark coat, with his sleeves rolled as if violence were respectable so long as it happened properly. He looked carved from expectation, pride, and every bad opinion Arcade had spent years trying to dig out of his skull.

In the corners of the ring, Arcade’s older brothers leaned against the posts, laughing.

One cracked his knuckles.

Another smirked.

The third called, “Careful, Dad. He might build a wee toy and ask it to fight for him.”

The audience laughed.

Arcade’s throat went dry.

His father stepped forward.

With every step, stars fell from the galaxy overhead.

Little bright pieces of sky dropped and shattered across the boards like glass.

Arcade backed into the locked door.

His father smiled without warmth.

“What you runnin’ for, boy?”

Arcade’s voice came out smaller than he wanted. “You’re not real.”

His father rolled his shoulders. “Real enough, aren’t I?”

A placard dropped from above the ring.

WIN THREE ROUNDS, LITTLE SPARK,
OR LOSE YOUR NAME INSIDE THE DARK.
HANDS AND HEART AND CLEVER HEAD,
PROVE YOU’RE WORTH THE TEARS YOU SHED.

Arcade stared at it.

Then at his wrapped fists.

Then at his father.

“Oh,” he whispered. “I hate this.”

The bell rang.

Round One began.

His father moved first.

Not wild.

Not theatrical.

Clinically.

A jab to the ribs.

Arcade gasped.

A hook to the jaw.

His head snapped sideways.

A shove into the ropes.

The audience roared.

His father spoke with each blow.

“Too soft.”

Another hit.

“Too small.”

Another.

“Too clever for your own good.”

Arcade tried to block. His father smashed through it.

“Books don’t make a man.”

Arcade swung back.

His father caught the punch easily.

“Machines don’t make a man.”

He twisted Arcade’s wrist and drove him down to one knee.

“Your brothers never needed excuses.”

Arcade’s teeth clenched.

One of his brothers laughed from the corner.

“There he goes thinking again.”

Another called, “Careful, Dad, he might cite a textbook at you.”

The third grinned. “Maybe he’ll make a little robot to cry for him.”

Arcade’s face burned.

He forced himself to look past them.

Past the shouting.

Past his father’s hands.

The brass lamps overhead ticked.

One.

Two.

Punch.

One.

Two.

Punch.

The floorboards shifted under his father’s leading foot every third step.

Arcade’s breathing steadied by a fraction.

Pattern.

His father came in again.

Arcade did not punch.

He dodged.

His father’s fist smashed into the corner post hard enough to crack the wood.

The crowd booed.

Arcade stumbled back, panting.

The bell rang.

Round One ended.

His father pulled his hand from the broken post and glared.

“Coward,” he spat. “Can’t even fight honestly.”

Arcade’s brief flicker of victory died.

The ring changed.

The ropes became chains.

The audience became shadowed family members.

The brothers climbed onto the ring apron, faces bright with cruel amusement.

Round Two.

Family Business.

His father circled him.

“You destroyed this family.”

Arcade wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. “No.”

“You called strangers into our home.”

“You dragged our name through court.”

“You shamed your aunt.”

Arcade’s fists shook. “She hurt him.”

A framed family portrait landed at his feet.

Then another.

Letters.

Report cards.

Trophies.

Newspaper clippings.

Everything that had once been used to prove the family was respectable.

Everything Arcade had apparently ruined by telling the truth.

His father’s eyes hardened. “Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut and let family handle family business?”

Arcade’s stomach twisted.

Because he knew what that meant.

Family handling family business meant closed doors.

Quiet voices.

Excuses.

It meant Skye crying and adults pretending they could not hear.

Arcade stepped forward. “I had proof.”

His father struck him across the face.

“You had betrayal.”

Arcade reeled.

“Skye was hurt.”

“You embarrassed us.”

“Someone had to stop her!”

“You should have known your place.”

Arcade tried to answer.

Tried to explain.

Tried to build the argument properly, brick by brick, as if logic could make them love him.

“It wasn’t about me. It was about him. He was scared. She was—”

His father hit him again.

The world flashed white.

Arcade dropped to the boards.

The crowd cheered.

His father grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright.

“Look at you,” he said. “Weak. Pathetic. All that intelligence, and you still couldn’t do the one thing we asked.”

Arcade’s voice cracked. “I was trying to help him.”

“You were trying to make yourself important.”

“No.”

“You always thought you knew better.”

“No, I didn’t—Dad, please, stop.”

The ring went quiet.

Arcade froze.

He hated himself the second the word left him.

Please.

His father’s expression did not soften.

“Crying now?”

Arcade’s eyes filled.

He tried to swallow it back.

Failed.

“I loved you,” he said.

The words hit the floor harder than any punch.

His brothers stopped laughing.

Arcade wiped angrily at his face with one wrapped hand, but the tears kept coming.

“I tried,” he said, voice shaking. “I tried so hard. I read what you told me to read. I watched the matches. I learned the rules. I tried to like the things you liked.”

His breath hitched.

“I tried to be normal enough for you.”

His father said nothing.

Arcade’s shoulders shook.

“But Skye was hurting. He was hurting and none of you did anything.”

The words broke worse.

“Why did it have to be me?”

The question hung there.

Not because Arcade doubted whether he had been right.

He knew he had been right.

That was never the wound.

The wound was that every adult had failed so badly a child had needed to become brave instead.

The bell rang.

Round Three.

The ring darkened.

His father grew larger in the shadows. His brothers became hulking silhouettes. The candy-floss audience leaned close and began to chant.

“Real man. Real man. Real man.”

His father’s voice thundered through the ring.

“A real man protects his family.”

Arcade staggered upright, blood on his lip, tears on his cheeks.

“Skye is family.”

The chant faltered.

His father’s eyes flashed. “A real man obeys his father.”

Arcade looked up.

“A real father protects his children.”

The ring cracked.

His father actually stepped back.

For the first time, Arcade saw it.

The trial was not running on strength.

It was running on shame.

Every insult he accepted made his father bigger.

Every silence fed the crowd.

Every time he tried to prove he was strong, the ring tightened.

But every truth weakened it.

Arcade took a breath.

Then another.

His father came for him again.

Arcade did not argue like he was begging to be believed.

He named it.

“You were angry because I exposed her.”

The floor cracked.

“You cared more about the family name than Skye.”

The ropes snapped tighter, then frayed.

“You called me weak because it was easier than admitting you were cowardly.”

His brothers flickered.

“You wanted silence.”

The brass lamps sparked.

Arcade’s fists curled.

“I chose him.”

The ring split down the centre.

His father roared and charged.

Arcade saw the lamp tick.

One.

Two.

Now.

His father swung.

Arcade did not dodge backward.

He caught his father’s wrist.

Not because he was stronger.

Because the trial had lost its grip.

His father snarled in his face.

“You are no son of mine.”

For one second, Arcade nearly broke.

That was the line.

The old nightmare.

The thing he had heard in silence even before anyone said it aloud.

Then Arcade lifted his chin.

Still crying.

Still shaking.

But standing.

“Then that is your failure.”

The arena went silent.

Arcade stepped closer.

“I was a child. Skye was a child. You were supposed to be the adult.”

His father’s jaw tightened.

“You can call me weak. You can call me a traitor. You can tell every person in every room that I ruined this family.”

A spark flickered across Arcade’s knuckles.

“But I was the only one who protected him.”

The spark grew brighter.

“And I would do it again.”

His father lunged.

Arcade used the ring itself.

He hooked one foot beneath the broken rope, yanked at the exact second the brass lamp ticked, and redirected the charge.

His father crashed into the centre post.

The ring shattered into starlight.

The crowd went silent.

His brothers vanished.

The chant died.

The candy-floss shape of his father crumbled, collapsing inward in blue and white threads.

Before it disappeared, it whispered one last word.

“Weak.”

Arcade stood there, exhausted, bruised, and crying.

Then he wiped his face and answered, quietly,

“No. Just hurt.”

The exit opened.

Arcade looked down.

The cracked boxing wraps were still around his hands.

Across the knuckles, tiny glowing letters appeared.

PROTECTOR.

Not genius.

Not man.

Not son.

Protector.

Arcade curled his fingers around the word and stepped through.

He hit the playroom floor hard.

Arcade tried to push himself up.

The strings dropped first.

They wrapped around his wrists, elbows, shoulders, knees, throat.

“No—”

They yanked him upright.

His arms snapped outward.

His chin lifted.

His body dragged toward the stage with Celeste, Mezzo, Ray, and Hughes.

Arcade fought them with everything he had.

But his arms were pinned.

His hands would not obey.

Above, Bonbon had been waiting.

She crawled along the rafters with the scissors clutched in both paws, eyes fixed on Arcade as he was dragged into place. She reached the beam above him, took a shaking breath, and held the scissors out.

“Arcade,” she whispered.

Arcade looked up.

His eyes widened.

Bonbon tossed the scissors down.

They spun end over end through the soft galaxy light.

Arcade strained toward them.

But the strings jerked his arms back.

The scissors clattered onto the stage floor just out of reach.

Arcade’s face twisted.

“No. No, come on—”

Sweet Fluff’s head tilted.

Sour Puff’s eyes narrowed.

Bonbon’s whole body went rigid.

For one terrifying second, no one moved.

Then Bonbon bolted back into the rafters.

Tiny paws scrambling.

Breathing fast.

Still unseen.

Looking for another way.

Below, Arcade was pulled into place beside the others, his Victorian boxing outfit torn and dusted with starlight, cracked wraps still glowing faintly with the word PROTECTOR.

Sweet Fluff giggled.

“Spark has boxed and spark has cried…”

Sour Puff sighed.

“Still the strings know where to tie.”

Another door opened across the playroom.

A card suit carved into the frame.

Pitch’s door.

Pitch stared at it.

His face had gone strangely still.

For once, there was no lazy grin. No casual slouch. No drawled little comment ready to soften the horror.

Then something moved inside the doorway.

A silhouette.

Tall.

Bent-backed.

Wolf-eared.

Its shoulders hunched beneath a ragged outline, claws hanging low at its sides. Its eyes gleamed faintly through the dark.

Pitch stopped breathing.

The silhouette lifted its head.

A low growl rolled out of the trial room.

Pitch’s cards slipped from his fingers.

“No,” he whispered.

The strings shot toward him.

Pitch staggered back hard, shaking his head.

“No, no, no—let go!”

They wrapped around his wrists and dragged him toward the door.

Pitch fought like a wild thing, boots scraping against the playroom floor.

“Let go of me! I’m not going in there!”

The werewolf silhouette waited.

Pitch screamed.

Not sarcastic.

Real.

“Let go!”

The strings yanked him through the doorway anyway.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Carys’s prayer broke on a sob.

“Motherlight…”

And the next game began.