A group of robots emerges from the kitchen door—slender sentinels of plastic and metal, their rectangular forms standing about fifty centimeters tall. Their metallic edges glint under the fluorescent light as they glide forward, rolling on small wheels. Their mechanical arms unfold like the petals of a metal flower. One robot glides silently to Rebecca’s table, its delicate fingers collecting her untouched dishes. Its efficiency is almost graceful; the robot itself is almost endearing. Yet, the cold functionality of the act sends goosebumps down her spine.

  The speakers cut in once more, their bright, mechanical tone silencing the room in an instant:

  “Contestants, you will now undergo physical and psychological evaluations. Your results will inform your training regimen for the coming days. Individual profiles and personalized strategic recommendations will be displayed.”

  One by one, the contestants’ numbers are called. The earlier tension, momentarily dulled by breakfast, resurfaces. When they hear their number, they stand up—some in a hurry, others hesitantly. Rebecca watches them, the forty-one people in line before her. She's got time, which only makes it worse. Her guts twist with both apprehension and anticipation.

  When her number is finally called, she steps into a perfectly white nurse’s office. The room is clinical and futuristic, illuminated by a harsh, unnatural glow. A large holographic display flickers to life at the center, casting a faint blue light that dances across the sterile walls. Rebecca sits, her posture rigid, her gaze fixed on the display as it flickers and resolves into rotating 3D models.

  Her breath catches as her own image appears—an intimate and unflattering portrayal, a digital replica of her standing in nothing but generic underwear. The harsh light accentuates every flaw, every scar, every line of her slender frame. Heat rises to her cheeks, yet she keeps her face impassive. This is Live, she reminds herself; humiliation is part of the game.

  “Contestant 42,” the examiner begins in a sharp, clinical tone. “Your physical limitations require a tactical approach that prioritizes speed and agility. Your slight build should work to your advantage. We recommend focusing on techniques that exploit an opponent’s momentum against them. Jiu-jitsu—a traditional Japanese martial art emphasizing leverage and throws—is particularly suitable.”

  The hologram shifts, displaying animated demonstrations of jiu-jitsu techniques—fluid, efficient movements that transform an opponent’s strength into their weakness. Rebecca watches intently, her mind grasping the possibilities.

  Then the examiner’s tone sharpens. “Contestant 42, you seem to have overlooked a detail regarding your ankle injury... It was addressed.”

  Rebecca’s brow furrows. “Addressed? How?”

  “This season, Live incorporates a new feature. During your medical check-up, enhancements were made. Your physiological framework, along with those of the other contestants, has been reinforced with microscopic metal fibers—exceptionally strong and flexible. In your case, given your brand-new skeletomuscular flexibility, these fibers prove practically indestructible. Your ankle is healed. Any residual discomfort is likely psychosomatic.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  She pauses. Then her smile brightens, and her tone shifts into something almost rehearsed, polished, and promotional.

  “And, of course, we could not have done it without the groundbreaking innovation of Drugobrand! For the first time ever, their cutting-edge fiber technology debuts right here on Live! As they prepare to launch this revolutionary advancement in human physiology, what better way to test its capabilities than in the ultimate proving ground?”

  Rebecca narrows her eyes, processing the final part: Drugobrand. She used to buy facial creams from them—she even had a loyalty discount.

  She flexes her ankle—tentatively at first, then firmer. No pain; just a strange, startling freedom of movement. So that is why it is healed. And, astonishingly, she doesn't mind. They are experimenting on the contestants—that much is obvious. The so-called enhancements are not really for their sake, not by far. But her ankle is healed.

  She presses her foot harder against the floor, testing it. The fibers woven into her muscles make it effortless, frictionless—almost artificial. She stands and performs a slow plié, her leg extending beyond its previous limits, the movement perfectly smooth and graceful.

  A slow smile spreads across her face—not one of joy, but of grim comprehension. These enhancements are not gifts. She is no longer just Rebecca; she is something more—something shaped and controlled by the game. The possibility of returning to her old self seems as unlikely as the possibility of leaving that place altogether.

  The hologram flickers, shifting to a graph. The examiner continues, her voice detached and impersonal: “Our analysis indicates a predominantly calm and introspective personality, with significant impulsivity triggered by intense emotions such as anger. This pattern aligns with the circumstances surrounding your alleged offense—the destruction of your dance studio. Was this an act of deliberate malice?”

  Rebecca’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t malice,” she replies quietly, her voice steady but charged with emotion. “It was desperation.”

  Memories surge—of her ruined ankle, the betrayal, the laughter, and the crushing despair. The fire was a final act of defiance, a way to obliterate what her bullies had already stolen.

  The examiner notes something on a transparent overlay, her grip firm, her demeanor unbothered. “Anger issues,” she mutters, devoid of judgment, as though Rebecca’s pain is merely another data point in an endless stream of statistics.

  The clinical detachment unnerves her, yet it is oddly grounding. In Live, even anger is just another tool to assess and leverage. Rebecca realizes that her emotions, her strengths, her flaws—all hold value here.

  The examination ends abruptly. The holographic display fades, and the examiner, motionless and silent, dims like a machine powering down. For a moment, Rebecca stares at the lifeless figure, finally recognizing it for what it is—a hyper-realistic machine.

  She steps into the hallway. The contestants, clustered in small groups, interrupt their conversations to look at her for a second, then resume their own business. The murmur of their voices adds to the sense of anxiety and speculation. The whole place reeks of deception—every glance a calculation, every word a strategy.

  Rebecca exhales slowly, her mind racing. The game has taken her body, her privacy, her very identity—and twisted them into something new. Yet, amid the unease, a spark of determination burns.