The common room falls silent. Contestant 20, tonight's victor, dances triumphantly for the cheering audience. Through the speakers, the hosts begin:

  “Yup. Looks like this is it.”

  “She’s gone. She’s definitely gone.”

  Meanwhile, Contestant 44 lies on the floor, her body covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. She coughs out her final breaths, her gaze vacant and lifeless.

  The spider drones escort the victor back to the common room, and the smell of sweat and blood wafts in as soon as the steel door opens, revealing his figure behind it. He continues his triumphant dance inside, but the other contestants regard him with scorn. Contestant 24, who has won twice already, shouts at him, "What are you celebrating? You won against the weakest contestant of us all."

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Before she can say anything, Reese gently takes Rebecca's hand and leads her back to his room. He walks in a hurry; not a word is said. He must be very curious if he didn’t even take the time to properly congratulate Contestant 20.

  He lets Rebecca in and closes the door behind him. Still silent, he shortens the distance between them and presses her against the wall. Then, he kisses her neck softly. The warmth of his breath on her skin tickles, but she remains unmoved.

  "So," he purrs, his eyes sparkling with playful mischief, "any regrets about that little confession you had planned for me?"

  He speaks in a low, seductive voice, tracing the curves of her body inch by inch with his hands.

  However, Rebecca's mind is elsewhere. The haunting image of Contestant 20, dancing and celebrating the death of another person, keeps her from fully engaging with Reese's advances. She places her hands on his chest as a gentle barrier to maintain some distance. "I read something today," she says, searching for his gaze as it drifts to her lips. "About this show. About past seasons and the producers’ role in everything. Some things are very weird, Reese. Very worrying."

  Reese takes a step back and nods, brows furrowed. His eyes focus on hers now. His posture stiffens as he crosses his arms over his chest.

  Now that she has his attention, she doesn’t know where to start. Should she mention she read those things in fan forums? Should she skip that part and explain her theory, leaving the evidence for later?

  She clears her throat.

  "You know how there are viewers out there who binge-watch and pick apart every little detail, and end up noticing things no one else does?"

  Reese nods again.

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  "Well, there are lots of them talking about Live. They point out, very convincingly, after giving it a lot of thought, that the show must be scripted—that it’s the producers, not the audience, who decide who wins and who dies."

  Reese opens his mouth and narrows his eyes. Then he closes his mouth again and rubs his chin. “I don’t get your point.”

  “I’m saying the show could be scripted.”

  "But"—Reese takes a step closer and rubs a finger along Rebecca’s cheek—"there’s no script."

  He doesn’t look at her; instead, he focuses on the movement of his own hand.

  "We don’t get a script. We improvise. We react."

  He’s not wrong. That was her first thought too.

  "It’s not a script, not exactly," she concedes. "But we don’t know how they operate. They could be guiding us somehow, pulling our strings without us even noticing."

  Reese steps away, sits down on the edge of the bed and nods slowly. "They definitely could have that power."

  He fixes his gaze on the pattern of the cover and runs a hand through his hair.

  "But I don’t know, Becky. You saw how the hosts reacted when I said I was fighting in your place. They didn’t expect that," he says. "They can’t be that good of actors."

  “Yes, you’re right,” Rebecca insists. “I question it too. But starting from season four, there are things that just don’t make any sense. For example, the winner is always the one with the most screen time.” She stands in front of him, the room suddenly feeling hot. “And I’m not talking about just having the most screen time by the end of the show. I mean they’ve had more from the very start. The winner is always favored like that.” She pauses, waiting to see if he’ll push back, but he doesn’t. "Also," she adds, "in season eight, only the favorites—the ones the show and the viewers depicted in a good light—seemed to have special abilities when they fought. And this season, the best skills go to the contestants who generate the most views, which means more money."

  She takes a breath.

  "You, for example. Contestant 1 too, with his entire party backing him. Contestant 3, and the rugby team—though he got voted off quickly. But I also read he sucked."

  Reese leans forward, grabs her hands, and tugs her down next to him. “I see, that is weird.” A pause. “I’ll figure it out,” he states, his voice regaining its strength. “I’ll find a way to dig deeper. But… how’s this supposed to help us?”

  Rebecca sighs. “I don’t know. They could cancel the show, maybe?” It’s far-fetched, she knows it, but she can’t bear the idea of one of them dying, even Lena. Now she realizes just how much Reese’s promise that morning ignited something in her. “I don’t know if this helps in any way, but I really don’t want to be here.”

  “Alright, then,” Reese says and kisses her on the forehead. “Let’s get this show cancelled.” Then he clears his throat. “Anyway, while I was training today, I had a different idea.” Rebecca raises her eyebrows. He continues. “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but… it’s kind of insane, really. Like, straight-up action movie shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “Maybe I could get someone to fly us out here by helicopter.”

  Rebecca frowns. It does sound a bit extreme. “Do you really think it is possible?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But I’ll give it a shot. I’ll try anything, honestly. Something’s gotta get us out of here.”

  Rebecca smiles, relieved. “Thank you,” she whispers, resting her head on his shoulder.

  After a few seconds of silence, Rebecca starts to pull away, intending to stand up and return to her room. However, Reese doesn't let her move. “Don't even think about leaving," he says, his voice firm, yet his eyes soften. His fingers brush gently against her cheek, sending a shiver through her. "Stay tonight, yeah?" he whispers. “Stay with me.”

  Rebecca smiles and nods.