"Contestant 42," Anya says, neither surprise nor anger make an appearance in her vacant demeanor, despite Rebecca's unauthorized presence in a room off-limits to contestants. "My name is Anya. I am… well, let’s say, for your understanding, that I manage the department responsible for viewer expectations." A subtle, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corner of her lips. "I understand you and Contestant 13 have had some... inquiries regarding the extent of our access to your devices." She pauses, her eyes holding Rebecca's gaze without even blinking. "Well, you don’t need to go through the trouble of reviewing our data. Let me clarify it for you right now: We have access to everything—microphones, cameras, the content of your coded communications. I.e. your digital conversations. Everything."

  For a moment that lasts forever, Rebecca can’t breathe. Her hopes, dreams, expectations—the very reason she hasn’t lost her mind, hasn’t surrendered to the game like poor, sweet Lena—are destroyed in a single sentence. And she says it without a drop of compassion.

  With a void in her chest, Rebecca forces herself to ask a question she no longer cares about. She does it for Reese—he’ll want to know.

  “Then why didn’t you stop us?” she asks.

  The audacity of their intrusion, their successful bypass of the supposed unbreakable security system, it all feels like a child's game now.

  Anya leans closer to her computer camera, her expression shifting only slightly. A minute alteration, almost imperceptible, but Rebecca notices it.

  "Because," Anya says, "I wanted to talk to you."

  Her answer is the last thing Rebecca expected to hear. She stares at the woman a second too long, speechless, waiting for the moment she laughs and says it was just a joke. But that moment never comes.

  "What could you possibly want to talk about with me?" Rebecca asks, regaining some composure.

  Anya smiles, but not in a human-like way; it's more akin to a psychopathic grin.

  "Because I need you, the show needs you. Contestant 13 needs you."

  Rebecca frowns. She heard the words, they just didn't make sense. "What?"

  Anya clears her throat and adjusts her position in her seat. "Let me explain it from the beginning," she says, inhaling deeply through her spread nostrils, her chest inflating. "Every season, we use a complex set of algorithms to predict certain situations, run by Cerevora, an AI machine that specializes in data predictions. Let’s be clear, we don't control the outcome directly. But Cerevora... it's never wrong. It predicts the winner before the show even begins."

  Rebecca gasps. She was right, then. There wasn't a script but her suspicions were true.

  Anya continues, seemingly oblivious to Rebecca's bittersweet realization. And the hollow pride that comes with it.

  “It’s uncanny how every prediction Cerevora makes seems to end up happening on the show. For example, Cerevora also predicted, from the outset, a high likelihood of a sexual liaison between yourself and Contestant 13. Even higher, in fact, was the probability of a similar affair with Contestant 22.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The way she spits out those facts—like they’re discussing inflation of the dollar—sickens Rebecca, and her cheeks flush crimson. She’s right there, communicating with her, yet still sees her as nothing more than a character in a game. What’s the point of sharing that information? To humiliate her? To shatter the already fractured pieces of her spirit?

  "So you use those predictions to manipulate the viewers?" she finally asks.

  I wouldn’t say ‘manipulate,’" Anya counters. "We subtly guide viewer sentiment, nothing more. We may highlight or filter some of the content that gets published, but contestants forge their own path. They live longer or briefly because of their own actions; we just make sure the audience is prepared. I mean, we're talking about a matter of life and death here, darling.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Anya scoffs.

  “Every year, it works like clockwork. The viewers are satisfied, the ratings are through the roof. It’s a predictable formula that ensures maximum engagement—you could call it a win-win.”

  She pauses.

  "But this year... something happened." Her chest rises and falls. Her nostrils flare, wider than before. "Cerevora’s prediction... has changed."

  "It was wrong?" Rebecca asks.

  Outside, Reese plays a loud, high-pitched note on his guitar. He’s still there, waiting for her—expecting her to share what she’s found. Her heart aches at the thought of what she has to tell him: that they’re trapped, and that the only two possible ways out are in solitude or a casket.

  "No,” Anya says. “It is never wrong.” Her frustration cracks through her voice. "But it overlooked a factor with only a roughly two percent chance of occurring. And yet, it did. Our predicted winner fell deeply in love." She swallows, as if sicked by her own words. "Cerevora’s prediction has recalibrated.”

  She displays a pie chart—different from the ones in the contestants’ subfolders. This one is simple, with clear headings in plain English, like the ones Rebecca used to study in her math classes, back in high school.

  “There’s now a ninety-eight percent chance that Contestant 13 and you will reach the finale. And that he will sacrifice himself for you. That means, you kill him. You win.”

  Cold dread washes over Rebecca, from head to toe. "I won't," she whispers, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

  The sudden urge to unplug the computer and throw it across the room makes Rebecca’s hands itch. It’s hate—hate toward the show, the people who watch it, but especially toward Anya. That thick mass of black hair. Those olive-shaped nostrils that seem to glare back at her, dominating her sharp, pointy nose. Anya speaks as if she’s stating a fact—an immutable command, dictated by an almighty algorithm.

  "Cerevora accounts for all variables, Contestant 42," Anya continues, her voice as flat as the screen that separates them. "Viewer sentiment is a crucial factor. People have fallen deeply in love with Contestant 13. They've invested their emotions in his narrative. He represents something for them.” She sighs. “Then there's also the Drugobrand issue, but considering how closely they're watching him, I suspect you're already aware. For anyone else to win would be catastrophic. It would destabilize the entire system."

  Rebecca's discomfort clouds her ears, making it difficult for her to focus on the conversation. Anya studies her from the other side of the screen with pity in her gaze, while Rebecca replays her last statement. And then, it clicks. She knows exactly where Anya is heading.

  “So you want me to kill myself in the finale. Before I kill Reese, or he does the same for me.” She can’t hide the venom in her words.

  Anya blinks, her head jerking back as she lets out a laugh. “No,” she replies, wiping the tears of laughter from her cheeks. “We can’t wait until the finale to ensure his victory. It’s far too risky.”

  Rebecca’s hands ball into fists. “Then what?” she demands, her voice shattering.

  “We need Contestant 13 to stop fighting in your place sooner,” Anya explains, raising her eyebrows just slightly, enough to fake sadness. “And for that to happen... you need to make him fall out of love with you.”