Lacey's moans filled the hideout like a siren's wail.
For three hours straight, she'd been writhing on the bed—back arching, thighs trembling, fingers working desperately between her legs. Sweat soaked the sheets. Her voice was raw from screaming, begging, sobbing.
But nothing helped. The poison kept burning.
Jenny paced the hallway outside, arms wrapped tight around herself. "We can't just watch her die like this."
Amy clung to the doorframe, tears streaming down her cheeks. "She's suffering so much…"
Yuko leaned against the wall, jaw clenched. "There has to be something we can do."
Nina sat in the corner, still bandaged from her own wounds, staring at nothing. "The note said no cure."
"Then we find another way," Jenny snapped.
Inside the room, Lacey cried out again. "Please—someone—anyone—make it stop—"
Tim stood in the doorway, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. Watching Lacey—strong, fierce Lacey—reduced to this was like watching someone drown in slow motion.
Jenny grabbed his arm. "Tim. You have to help her."
He turned, eyes hollow. "How? There's no cure—"
"Sex." Jenny's voice was flat, direct. "The poison feeds on arousal. Maybe… maybe if she gets release—real release—it might slow it down."
Amy's eyes widened. "You mean…?"
"I mean Tim fucks her until the poison burns itself out or at least weakens enough for her body to recover." Jenny's gaze bored into Tim. "You're the only man here. You're the only one who can do this."
Tim's stomach twisted. "Jenny, if I do that—if I use all my energy on her—"
"Then you'll be exhausted," Yuko cut in. "Weak. Vulnerable. Right before the Marathon."
"Exactly." Tim's jaw locked. "I'm the backbone of this alliance. If I'm too drained to fight tomorrow—"
Another scream from Lacey. This one sounded like it was tearing her apart from the inside.
"Listen to her!" Amy sobbed. "She's dying, Tim! Slowly, horribly—"
"And if I save her but we all die in the Marathon because I'm too weak to lead?" Tim's voice cracked. "What then?"
The silence was suffocating.
Jenny stepped closer, her hand on his chest. "Then we die fighting. But at least Lacey doesn't die like this. Begging. Broken. Alone."
Tim looked at each of them. Amy's tears. Yuko's hard stare. Nina's haunted eyes. Jenny's desperate plea.
Then he looked at Lacey through the doorway. Her body convulsing. Her voice raw. Her eyes glazed with agony.
He couldn't let her suffer like this. Not when there was even a chance.
"Damn it." Tim pushed past them into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
The first hour was desperate.
Lacey launched herself at him the moment he touched her. Her legs wrapped around his waist with the strength of a gymnast, thighs clamping tight. She moved like those viral dance videos—all fluid hips and relentless rhythm—except this wasn't performance. This was survival.
Her nails raked his back, drawing blood. Her chest pressed against him, breasts bouncing with every frantic movement. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Rihanna music video—all sweat-slicked curves and raw, uninhibited energy.
"Yes—yes—don't stop—please—" Lacey's voice was hoarse, broken.
Tim drove into her hard, trying to match her desperate pace. Her hips rolled like a professional dancer's, grinding down with precision that would've been impressive if it wasn't born from agony. Sweat poured off both of them, their bodies sliding together.
Her back arched impossibly, like a contortionist—chest thrust forward, head thrown back, throat exposed. The kind of pose you'd see in those artistic nude photography books, except this was anything but art. This was desperation.
But even when she climaxed—screaming, her whole body convulsing like she'd been hit with electricity—the poison didn't let go. Seconds later, she was burning again, desperate again, begging again.
The second hour was exhausting.
Tim's muscles screamed. His lungs burned. But Lacey's need never stopped. She pulled him down again and again, her body demanding more.
He flipped her over. She immediately pressed back against him, ass raised high, spine curved like those Instagram fitness models doing yoga poses. Her hips swayed in figure-eights, grinding back with the kind of control that came from years of gym training—glutes flexing, core tight.
She looked like a Beyoncé backup dancer caught mid-routine, except the only audience was the poison eating her alive.
"More—I need more—Tim—please—"
Her hands gripped the headboard, knuckles white, biceps flexing. Every muscle in her body was defined, glistening with sweat like she'd just finished a CrossFit competition. She moved with athletic precision even through the haze of poison—hips pumping, thighs trembling, abs clenching with each thrust.
The third hour nearly killed him.
Tim's vision blurred. His body moved on pure instinct now, every thrust taking more energy than he had left. Lacey's movements had become more primal—less controlled rhythm, more desperate thrashing.
She twisted beneath him, legs wrapping around his waist again, then hooking over his shoulders—flexible as a yoga instructor pushing into an advanced pose. Her body bent in ways that shouldn't be possible, seeking any angle that might finally break through the poison's grip.
Her breasts bounced with each impact, nipples hard, stomach muscles clenching and releasing. She looked like she'd been pulled from a Maxim photoshoot—all curves and athletic lines—except her face was twisted in desperate agony.
"Tim—" Her voice broke. "I can't—I can't keep—"
Finally—finally—the poison seemed to ease. Lacey's frantic movements slowed. Her body relaxed slightly, muscles unclenching one by one. The fever flush faded just a fraction.
She collapsed onto the bed like a marionette with cut strings, unconscious but alive. Her chest still heaved, breasts rising and falling rapidly, body still glistening with sweat.
Tim rolled off her, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His whole body trembled with exhaustion. He could barely lift his arms.
Outside, dawn was breaking.
The Marathon started in hours.
And Tim felt like his soul had been drained through a straw.
When he stumbled out of the room, the girls were waiting.
Jenny caught him before he collapsed. "Did it work?"
"She's… stable. For now." Tim's voice was barely a whisper. "But I'm—"
His knees buckled. Yuko grabbed his other arm.
"You're wrecked," she said flatly.
Amy pressed a water flask to his lips. "Drink. You need to recover."
Tim drank, but it felt like pouring water into a cracked vessel. He'd given everything to save Lacey.
And now the Marathon was coming.
Nina spoke quietly from the corner. "Genny planned this. Poison Lacey. Force you to exhaust yourself saving her. Weaken Tidam right before the fight."
Tim's head dropped. "I know."
"Then why did you do it?" Yuko asked.
Tim looked back at the closed door where Lacey lay sleeping. "Because I couldn't watch her die like that. Not when I could do something."
Jenny helped him to a chair. "You're a good leader, Tim. But Genny just played you."
He knew. God, he knew.
The Marathon started in three hours.
Lacey was alive but weak. Tim was alive but drained. And Nomerci would be waiting—fresh, strong, ready to crush them.
Tim closed his eyes, trying to find any reserve of strength left in his body.
There was almost nothing.
But almost nothing would have to be enough.
Because Tidam wasn't withdrawing. Not for Genny. Not for anyone.
Even if it killed them all.