Ugly tossed my ID onto the small lip of the counter. I moved to pick it up and he grabbed my forearm, jerking me forward to fasten what looked like a smartwatch around my wrist. As innocuous as it appeared, I knew that the watch would provide vital information to the Architects—the sick fuckers who managed the games—like my heart rate and where I was in the arena. It would also trigger cameras as I got close, letting the viewers stay up close and personal and providing me with a live feed of their comments and critical updates about the game itself. “If you take that off, you’re disqualified,”
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