Barbara waved her hands as the cries and shouts reached a peak. “Ms Holt" was printed on T-shirts. Sold for a corporate premium.

  Michael seemed to have prepared for this. The dozen of high turnover employees, dishing out company merchandise like candy.

  But interestingly enough, I also saw “Ms Burns” on a few. Little Miss Detective had a newfound cult following of her own, it seemed.

  And rather expectedly, “Mr Grayson” was hardly seen.

  Then again, my face wasn’t exactly marketing material. I did notice an eccentric old woman wearing a shirt with my face on it, and perhaps it was better I didn’t have any fans.

  “Is this what fame feels like?” Barbara said, the woman practically beaming at the attention.

  “Stop waving,” Amy said, “you’re encouraging them.”

  The detective let her eyes land on him, a serious frown forming on her lips.

  “This was not over.” Her expression said.

  That was up for debate; who knows what Michael had planned for them?

  Like a stuffed up pinata, the bright blue doors swung open. Team blue emerged through the mist and glitter, their smiles speaking volumes.

  “Look what fate brought me,” Edward said, “The worst bunch from Marketing.”

  “I have you know, we have Steve too,” Barbara said.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The camera flickered, and her earring chimed.

  Edward scoffed, “Petty tricks won’t save you, Barb.”

  Amy clicked her gun, loaded it, and gave the Production Head a glare.

  “You speak like a criminal.” She said, “lets see if you bleed like one.”

  Edward laughed, loud and deep, his snorts as ugly as his rotten mug.

  Then the urge to just punch him welled inside of me.

  “What’s so funny?” I said, “She isn’t wrong.”

  That made him smile, wide and yellow.

  “Are you ready, folks!” Michael announced, “The round begins in 3... 2... 1...“

  “GO!” Edward shouted.

  And like an army of termites, a swarm of production managers spluttered out of Blue Team’s door. The stage was filling up with insects faster than I could count.

  “I have you outnumbered, GREY!”

  Guns drawn, Amy, Barbara, and I were surrounded.

  All but one gap, one chance, one slippery floor sign.

  I snapped my heel, turned my back on barrels and shouted.

  “Retreat!”

  Barbara was useless; Amy, meanwhile, snatching two guns, blasted the wave as we made our escape.

  I was intrigued. Amy could make a useful ally. If she didn’t hunt me.

  But as I sprinted as fast as my office legs would go, the detective raced forward.

  “Left,” she said.

  And we kept turning corners, with Barbara yelling like a banshee on the run. Pellets whistled past us, some exploding into paint, others ripping through the wooden walls. Metallic balls easily punctured the materials, bouncing after leaving their marks, and I wondered how they would affect skin.

  Amy had to lead now, and I just followed. The detective probably knew her way around a shootout, right? And for a moment, I jogged behind in silence, each turn getting wrapped deeper into the maze.

  We passed Dead ends, pits, drops, windows, and stairs. There was a full suite of opportunities, lure them in, catch Edward off guard. Climb over walls, push them into holes.

  However, as I was planning, Amy came to a stop. Suddenly, still and with a blank, dead end in front of her. Her guns twitched at her hip; the air was oddly silent. The view of the crowd was cut off by the ceiling.

  “Mr Grayson.” She said.

  She did not turn, did not move. But I felt my feet glued to the floor, my heart racing. Barbara’s footsteps trailed behind, step, step, step. Still too far away to hear.

  Shit. Was I just blindly trusting a detective?

  Should I shoot her in the back?

  Then she turned, and my weapon raised.

  I had to kill her afterall.