When the needles slide out of Rebecca's skin, she's left with nothing more than a faint, tickling sensation. She feels tired. So tired, all she wants is to keep her eyelids shut. She can’t. A whine pulses in her ear, distant, dreamlike, yet intrusive. Then it’s gone. A throbbing bass vibrates through her bones. She snaps her eyes open, but white light blinds her. She gasps. The smell of antiseptics creeps into her throat. When her vision adjusts, she finds herself encased in a sleek, transparent cylinder. She’s not alone. Dozens. No, more. Each trapping a similarly disoriented figure.

  Then, out of nowhere, a voice—smooth and chillingly pleasant—drills into her ears.

  "Welcome, Contestants, to Live! Your journey for survival begins now."

  Rebecca clenches her jaw, and a metallic taste floods her mouth. Disgusting. She swallows, but the bitterness clings to her tongue. She feels nauseous and cold. She’s wearing a hospital gown—nothing underneath. When the capsules open, she stumbles as her surroundings blur. Her gaze drops instinctively to her ankle, still healing from the injury, but she quickly shifts it to the other contestants—men, women, some older, some her age, some sickeningly young. Finally, she settles on a silver tray that slides out from the side of the capsule, holding clothes and a cellphone. Her cellphone. She recognizes the crack on the protective film.

  The voice speaks again—this time, louder, closer to her ears. Rebecca flinches. She can’t shake the disorienting feeling, like waking from a nap that was too long and left her worse than before.

  “Contestants, you will find your belongings next to your respective cryogenic capsules. Please proceed to get dressed immediately. A very exciting day awaits you, and the viewers are impatient to get to know you better.”

  They’re already watching? It can’t be. She must’ve misunderstood. For the sake of her sanity, she ignores the soft beep above her head, right where the camera is embedded in the wall.

  Rebecca snatches her phone. Everyone does the same. But it’s off, and when she tries to turn it on, a message pops up on the screen:

  “Access denied.”

  What? She tries again. Nothing changes. She looks around. The other contestants are just as confused as she is—some even look angry.

  “Why can’t I use my phone? It’s my phone. No one’s gonna say anything?”

  Of course, nobody does. The voice simply repeats: “Please, contestants, get ready to start your day. A very exciting journey awaits you, and we don’t want to disappoint the viewers, do we?”

  Rebecca grabs her clothes—white underwear, a white t-shirt, and a gray jumpsuit. The number 42 is embroidered on the chest. Contestant 42. That’s her. The number stares back at her like another brand burned into her already scarred identity. She’d been sentenced to twenty years, maybe less if she behaved. No one said she’d end up here. She should’ve known it was a possibility.

  Not that it makes a difference, really.

  The contestants, herself included, exchange nervous looks as the voice tells them for the third time to get ready. But the door is closed and the room is one big open space. No, please no. Rebecca gasps but air fails to reach her lungs, her knees weaken, the held tears in her eyes sting. She’s expected to get dressed right there. In front of everybody else. Most contestants seem to accept it surprisingly quickly; they just do what they’re told. Resignation is etched on their faces. But when she looks closer—at their vacant eyes, their cheeks drained of color—she realizes they’re not acting out of compliance, but shock. They have no other choice. Neither does she.

  One contestant, the one standing outside the capsule opposite hers, takes off his hospital gown as if he were alone in the room. Rebecca’s eyes widen as she watches him examine his clothes, completely naked—so comfortable exposing every inch of his body that she feels like the intruder for looking. His face is oddly familiar. She’s seen him somewhere before, she’s sure of it. But where?

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Their eyes meet for a split second before Rebecca looks away and focuses on her clothes, her cheeks flushing bright red. She doesn’t take off the gown—not yet. First, she slips on the designated panties. Then, she turns around to put on the bra and shirt, but she doesn’t do either. She freezes. Turning her back to the other contestants gives her no sense of privacy. The one beside her—Contestant 41, she guesses—keeps drifting his eyes toward her, as if he’s waiting for the moment she takes the gown off.

  On top of that, the red light of the camera follows her every move.

  With trembling, sweaty hands, she manages to slide on her bra without removing the gown, just pulling her arms through the sleeves. She does the same with the jumpsuit, inching it up cautiously.

  “Come on, Contestant 18, what are you waiting for? You're making the viewers impatient,” the voice drawls through the speakers. “Careful now, Contestant 42, no one likes a cheater.”

  Rebecca’s stomach turns. She wants to cry. But she doesn’t. No one is crying. Why should she?

  Once everyone is dressed in their standard uniforms, the voice continues, outlining the brutal terms of survival: permanent live streaming, nightly battles, and endless social media engagement. There’s nothing cheerful about the information it delivers, except for its ridiculous tone. Millions of viewers hold power over their lives, their popularity scores determining who stays and who vanishes.

  Rebecca wraps her arms around her waist. Other contestants find similar ways to reassure themselves—rubbing their arms, their heads, their faces. One bites his nails as if his mission is to rid himself of a finger, bit by bit.

  The man opposite her—Contestant 13—doesn’t do anything like that. He looks unmoved, completely unbothered, almost… amused? No, impossible. He hasn’t zipped his jumpsuit completely, leaving part of his chest exposed, showing off his already muscular body beneath the white tank top. Charisma radiates from him; his presence feels almost magnetic. He stands like a predator, firm in his territory, his gaze sweeping the room as though cataloging his prey. Where does she know him from? Music? It has something to do with music. That’s it. It’s him—Reese. Famous for his music, loved for his climb from nothing to pop star. The idea of competing against him in this popularity contest is so ridiculous, it’s almost funny.

  Rebecca sighs. Once, she was great, too. The best. Perfect. Until they broke her. Took everything from her. Left her with nothing. The doctor had told her the news as if they were discussing a hobby. Ballet was her life, not a hobby. The fire followed. The fire that swallowed her studio whole. She had acted without thinking, without caring. Just anger, despair, and something darker, something she didn't know she was capable of. The same jealous vipers who tore her down called it revenge. Accused her of attempted murder. But she didn't know they were there. And they were the ones who betrayed her first. Arson was the charge.

  Now, she’s here—in a high-tech prison masquerading as entertainment, where her sentence is decided not by a jury, but by faceless masses. Now, she is nothing—a disgraced dancer clinging to scraps of her former self—while Reese, the self-made pop star, strides into the game with his fame intact. Rebecca has never met him before, but she already resents him—her resentment born from the undeniable power imbalance between them and pure, shameful envy.

  The voice concludes its briefing by announcing the first activities of the day: a tour around the house, followed by a medical and psychological examination to assess physical and mental prowess—or so it claims.

  As they are told to line up in two rows in front of the exit, Rebecca shifts her weight and flinches instinctively. To her astonishment, the familiar stab of pain that shoots from her ankle to her knee every time she puts weight on her left foot—the one that had plagued her for weeks—is absent. She flexes her foot slowly, then again, with growing confidence. It’s unbelievable. Impossible. A trick of her imagination.

  It doesn’t make sense, but each small motion proves it’s real. Her ankle is completely healed. The pangs, the ache, both are gone. She rotates her foot fluidly, marveling at its strength, unable to believe it yet letting the thrill consume her.

  She’s ruined, trapped, used for entertainment—and yet, she can’t help but smile.

  A fragile spark of hope ignites within her. She glances at her unscarred, steady ankle. The whole situation defies logic. Could the show, with all its twisted ways, have healed her? Were they really offering her a second chance? The thought takes root, tentative but insistent. For the first time in months—perhaps longer—she envisions herself dancing again. She imagines the rhythm coursing through her, her body moving without restraint, unburdened by pain or regret.

  Maybe, just maybe, Live is not her end. Perhaps it is her beginning.