Contestant 36 stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders. His neck cracks as he rotates it—first one side, then the other. Rebecca doesn’t remember much about him, other than that he’s an illegal immigrant, and his ability: energy absorption. She knows what that means. Reese is walking into hell.

  She can’t watch the battle.

  She leaves before the doors to the arena open, pushing through the hallways until she reaches her dorm. The walls feel narrower than usual, the air too still. She presses her back against the door and squeezes her eyes shut.

  And she prays. Not to anyone in particular. Not to anything, really. Just a desperate plea, cried into the void.

  Let him win. Let him come back.

  She has no control. No way to intervene. Only fear—that she’ll never see him again. Maybe not this time, but the next. Or the one after that. And shame, for begging that someone else die. What kind of god would answer a petition like that?

  She presses her hands to her face, breath coming in gasps. She should be stronger than this. But she isn’t.

  After an hour and fifty-eight minutes of spiraling—of looking for reasons not to do the one thing she knows would work all too well—the distant sound of cheers yanks her back. She bolts for the common room, feet barely touching the ground, heart slamming against her ribs.

  She crosses the doorway, and there he is. Reese stands right by the door, barely straight, his face covered in dark spots. Whether it’s dirt or blood, she can’t tell.

  He won.

  Rebecca smiles, relieved. But it lasts only seconds. His body sways. He stumbles sideways, catching himself against the back of a chair, his chest hitting the edge hard. His fingers grip the frame, the veins in his hands bulging as he fights to stay upright.

  He won. But he won’t survive another fight.

  Rebecca knows what she’s supposed to do. Keep her distance. Keep her mask on. But she doesn’t. She crosses the room, shoving past the others, and wraps her arms around him. She holds him tight. The strategy, the control, it all leaves her mind. It all stops existing for a moment. All that is left in her is raw instinct.

  He doesn’t speak. Just exhales, slowly, shaky, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.

  Rebecca walks Reese to his room. He barely makes it to the bed before his body gives out, collapsing onto the mattress with a quiet, exhausted groan. She doesn’t say anything. Just watches for a second, listens to his slow breath, sees the tension finally bleed from his face.

  And then, actual blood, dripping from his nose. Rebecca gasps. That’s not possible. All his other wounds have healed. Why hasn’t this one? Did he suffer brain damage? Are the fibers wearing out? One thing is certain. This isn’t a good sign.

  With tears rolling down her cheeks, she wipes away the thread of blood and kisses him softly on the lips. Then, she turns and leaves.

  Back in her own room, she tries to sleep. It doesn’t work. Her body jolts awake every time she drifts off, her mind snapping back to the image of him bleeding in his sleep, pale and exhausted. She knows it’s Live that’s killing him, but it feels too much like it’s her doing, not theirs. He’s always been meant to win. They want him to win. The system thought he would. The only reason he’s not—the only reason he’s wearing the fibers out into malfunction—is her.

  She stares at the ceiling, listens to the artificial thrum of the ventilation system. Closes her eyes. Tries again. Fails.

  By the time she gives up, it's nearly morning. She pulls on a sweater, shoves her feet into her shoes, and leaves. She doesn’t think about where she’s going—she just moves, her feet taking the lead, her thoughts a mess. The plan is vague, half-formed. The kitchen first. Then the rooftop.

  But the moment she steps into the kitchen, a new plan begins to take shape.

  Contestant 1 stands by the counter, pouring himself a glass of water—in the same spot where, more than a month ago, she and Reese had initiated their exploration of the house, clinking their glasses of milk in a quiet toast.

  Cheers.

  He looks up when he hears her, a polite, almost knowing smile spreading across his face.

  "You too?" he asks, lifting his glass slightly. "Always thirsty at night?"

  Rebecca doesn't answer. She returns the smile with a nod. Then opens a cabinet and grabs a glass for herself. She doesn’t particularly care about water, but now she has a reason to stay.

  "Something like that," she mutters, filling the glass halfway.

  He doesn’t push. Just takes a sip and heads to the dining area, casting her a look—expecting her to follow. When she does, he leans against one of the tables. His posture is casual, but everything about him is guarded. Precise. The way he speaks, the way he moves. The way he keeps his face perfectly neutral, just warm enough to be approachable, just distant enough to remind everyone who he is.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A politician, first and foremost.

  They exchange the kind of small talk that means nothing—empty words passed between two people who don’t trust each other, don’t particularly like each other, but have nothing better to do. Somewhere between the silences, they both expect to gain something from that empty conversation, and they’re both well aware of it.

  He is exactly the kind of person she should be standing next to. Cold. Calculating. Focused on winning, on surviving no matter what. The type who doesn’t fight for other people, only for himself.

  Reese probably hates him.

  She grips the edge of the counter, pressing her fingers into the cool surface. She doesn’t let herself hesitate. Doesn't let herself reconsider. Reese needs to stop. He needs to stop fighting for her, bleeding for her, risking himself over and over until there’s nothing left of him. She doesn’t know how much longer he can last.

  She doesn’t know how much longer she can last. And if this is the only way to end it—then so be it. She exhales, smooths a hand down the front of her sweater, and lets her lips curl into something that almost looks like a smile. Then, she turns back to Contestant 1.

  "Tell me something," she says. It’s been a long time since she last needed her soft, seductive voice. "What do you think of me?"

  Contestant 1 smiles. There’s a hang-up in the way his lips curl upward, like the expression doesn’t quite fit, but he hides it behind his glass. He takes another sip before replying.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman.” His eyes sweep over her, slowly. “Very beautiful.”

  Rebecca doesn’t drag it out. She closes the distance, presses her hands to his chest, and kisses him full on the lips. His glass slips from his fingers. Water spills across the floor.

  His mouth tastes nothing like Reese’s. Too fresh. Like he just brushed his teeth. Typical politician. Always pristine. But there’s something else. A metallic edge, faint but unsettling. Almost repulsive.

  She doesn’t stop. Contestant 1 grips her waist, fingers digging into her sides as he pulls her closer. A single tear slips from the corner of her closed eyes.

  Everything happens fast—a blur of darkness and confusion.

  Contestant 1 leads Rebecca to his room—the one closest to the dining hall, right at the start of the bedroom corridor. He shuts the door behind her. The space feels nothing like hers. Nothing like Reese’s. No rounded mirror like in her room. No armchair either. Instead, there’s a desk. Thick, polished, the objects on top perfectly aligned, as if threatened by the slightest hint of disorder.

  He isn’t gentle with her. The moment the door shuts and the cameras are gone, he transforms into a different person. He shoves her against the desk, forces her forward and bends her over the polished wood. His fingers clamp over her cheeks and nose, parting her lips, sliding between them.

  Rebecca buries her head in her arms as Contestant 1 yanks down her pants with a single, brutal motion. Then, she feels him. He’s quick, inconsiderate. Too eager, too dry. Rebecca lets out a moan, not of pleasure but of agony.

  What am I doing? she asks herself, repeatedly. Contestant 1 grunts, his hands roaming over her body with a possessive fervor. She hates it. Hates his touch, hates the guttural sounds coming from his throat, hates the fact that he smells like a hospital. She despises how he reduces her to nothing more than an object, that he can slam against her as if she were a disposable piece of plastic.

  “Oh my God it’s been so long.” He says, abruptly accelerating his thrusts.

  “I can’t do this.” Rebecca whispers.

  “So fucking long.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “I despise my wife, I do.”

  “Please stop. Stop!”

  And he does, but not due to her pleas. After a loud, animalistic groan, Rebecca feels a cold, viscous substance land on her buttock. Contestant 1 immediately withdraws. He hikes up his pants and sprawls onto the bed, his arms splayed behind his head.

  Rebecca stays frozen for a second. She can’t pull her pants back up without making a mess, but she doesn’t want to walk in front of Contestant 1 like this. Exposed. Vulnerable. That would be too humiliating.

  It already is.

  So she grabs the first thing within reach—a loose piece of paper, a to-do list—and wipes his semen off her skin. Contestant 1 watches. He looks awfully pleased. Proud.

  She clenches her jaw, fighting the urge to punch him until that look disappears. But she won’t give him the satisfaction. She just wants to leave.

  “Can I ask you something?” he says.

  "What?"

  “Why did you sleep with me?” He leans back slightly, like he already knows the answer. “I thought you were deeply in love with your little singer boy—Contestant 13.” The mockery in his tone sharpens when he mentions Reese.

  Rebecca doesn’t hesitate. "I am."

  Contestant 1 scoffs. "Then why did you do it?"

  She swallows hard. “Because I want him to win.”

  Her voice cracks.

  "That doesn’t make any sense," he says flatly.

  "I don’t care what you think."

  He tilts his head, studying her. Then, with a slow smirk, he says, "Personally, I hope he sticks his pussy-wet fingers in a socket and dies."

  Rebecca glares at him. Fully dressed, she tugs at the wrinkles in her clothes and smooths her hair.

  "That won’t happen." She exhales, steadying herself. "Reese is going to win."

  Contestant 1 chuckles. "You don’t know that."

  "I do. He’s the most popular here. Everyone loves him."

  "So?" He shrugs. "Season 6 had this doctor. Strongest in the house, unbelievably so. Everyone adored him—you know how people get about doctors." His voice tightens, jealousy creeping in. "Seemed like the obvious winner. But then he was electrocuted by some defective wiring in the house. Off-camera, too. Some random contestant took the win.”

  Rebecca frowns. She doesn’t remember reading about that on the forums. But now that she thinks about it, Season 6 is barely mentioned.

  "People were furious," he continues. "Viewership tanked. But by the start of Season 7 they had forgotten all about it." He chuckles.

  Rebecca stares at him, her face twisting with disbelief and confusion. Then, fear.

  "That can’t be possible." Her voice is quieter now. "If that was true, why would they care who wins the show?"

  Contestant 1 laughs. "Who says they do?"