“No,” Rebecca says.

  She can’t accept his words. If she does, it would mean Reese could still lose, even after this. Even after pulling herself out of his picture.

  Her fingers graze the door handle, but she immediately jerks her hand away. Ding ding ding ding. A cheerful, artificial chime drills into her brain.

  She freezes. So does Contestant 1. For a second, neither of them react. Outside, doors swing open. Footsteps. Murmurs.

  She exhales, steadies herself, and steps into the hallway.

  Holographic splashes of color spread across the white walls—bright, undulating in chaotic patterns. The bell-like strikes are louder than her thoughts. It’s the kind of spectacle reserved for a winner. Like someone just hit the jackpot.

  Contestants gather, drawn by the noise. Some dazed, others wide awake. Then, a familiar voice comes on—right after there are enough people to hear. It’s the same voice that haunts their days and nights. But this time, it brims with enthusiasm.

  "Congratulations, Contestant 42!"

  Rebecca’s stomach turns. Forty-two? Did she hear that correctly?

  The voice goes on. "You have successfully ruined the most genuine love story we’ve ever witnessed on Live."

  The crowd reacts instantly—with gasps, laughter, mutters. Rebecca doesn’t move.

  “Not only that,” the voice continues, delighted. “According to our research, this was the first time in your life you shared a deep, mutual connection with another person.” The laughter grows. Someone claps. "I hope you feel proud of yourself, Contestant 42, for breaking the heart of the only man who has ever dared to love you."

  The words land like a blade to the chest. Rebecca forces herself to breathe.

  "And in case anyone is wondering—no, we don’t care who wins or dies."

  The laughter stops. Contestants mumble questions like, “What?”, “What does that have to do with anything?”, “What is it talking about?”

  Rebecca takes a step back. The wall keeps her from collapsing to the floor. The whole corridor spins.

  "All we care about is our viewers’ entertainment."

  Silence. Darkness

  The other contestants don’t take long to resume their whispering and snickering behind cupped hands. They stare at her, all of them, but there’s only one pair of eyes she’s too afraid to meet. And yet, she does.

  Reese stands outside his room, leaning against the doorframe. He already knows. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal—it’s all there, open and exposed, written across his vacant gaze and tensed jaw. His hands curl into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.

  His eyes lock onto hers. And she knows. She’s done exactly what she set out to do. And she hates herself for it.

  Without thinking, Rebecca cuts and runs. The bedroom corridor becomes suffocating. Unbearable. Saturated with witty remarks and eyes that dig into her like knives. She needs to disappear.

  One, two, three..

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She opens the door to a dead dining hall and drops into the nearest chair with the full weight of her body. She buries her face in her hands, shaking, sick to her stomach.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  At least now, Reese won’t fight for her anymore. That was the point. That was the plan. Despite what the voice over the speaker says—or Anya, or Contestant 1—Reese will win. That’s what Cerevora said.

  “And in case anyone is wondering—no, we don’t care who wins or dies.”

  Or was Cerevora’s prediction just another one of Anya’s lies? Just to watch her tear her bond with Reese apart with her own hands. Just to give the audience a good show.

  And Rebecca fell for it.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  The sound of metal scraping against tile rips through the room. Rebecca looks up. It’s Reese. He drags a chair from a table near the entrance. His face is red, veins bulging.

  He lifts the chair, grips two of its legs, and swings. The camera in the far-right corner shatters on impact. Rebecca flinches, but she doesn’t move. Another swing. Another camera down. Again. And again.

  He moves methodically, destroying every lens he can see. The little pieces of glass scatter through the air like solid rain. When he’s done—when the cameras are nothing but fractured plastic and exposed wires—he turns to her.

  He steps closer. Rebecca doesn’t move. She barely breathes. He stares at her, chest rising and falling too fast, fingers contorted tight around the chair leg. Then, finally, he asks.

  "Rebecca, what the fuck."

  But words feel unreachable, like they’re coming from the other end of a tunnel. She knows she should say something. Anything. Instead, she exhales first, slow and unsettled.

  "I told you I didn’t want you to fight for me."

  Reese stills, and for a second, she thinks she can see it—the exact moment he pieces it together. Maybe it’s just her imagination. Wishful thinking. But for a second, his face seems to lighten. His gaze softens. Like all those times he’s looked at her with love, despite her efforts to pull away.

  And then a new sound, coming from all sides, clicking against the floor. It’s the spider drones. They flood into the room, metal legs carrying their rounded bodies.

  Rebecca jerks upright, but Reese doesn’t show any sign of noticing them. The drones close in around him and force him out of the room. His body disappears behind the kitchen door. But his eyes never leave her—right up until he’s gone.

  In the morning, when breakfast is served, Rebecca searches for him in the dining room, but he isn’t there. He hasn’t been released yet, and she doesn’t know when he’ll be back. She tries to visit him in his cell, but the spider drones intercept her before she can even reach the emergency stairwell door.

  Throughout the entire day, Rebecca walks through the house, head down, pretending not to hear. But the laughter follows her. Snickers. Mutters. Whispers just loud enough to hit their mark.

  "Romantic, isn’t it?" someone sneers as she passes. "All that effort and you end up blowing another dude."

  She doesn’t react. She won’t give them that.

  Lena finds her at lunch. She sits beside her without a word. She doesn’t post anything this time. She doesn’t even take out her phone once.

  And she doesn’t leave.

  Rebecca stares at her tray, gripping the fork so tight her knuckles ache. She doesn’t know how to say thank you without choking on it. So she just mutters, "I appreciate it."

  Lena nods and keeps eating. That’s enough.

  Evening falls. Rebecca’s heart pounds—harder than ever before. Reese is still locked up. She catches herself wishing he’d come back before the battle begins. She is a hypocrite. She knows it. She went out of her way to keep him from fighting again, and now what? Now she wants him to walk through that common room door like some prince on a white horse, ready to take her place?

  No. That won’t happen. Even if he were released, he wouldn’t do it. Not anymore. She made sure of that.

  The voice over the speakers calls the contestants to the common room. Tonight’s episode is about to begin. Rebecca never liked that voice before, but now it makes her sick with repulsion.

  Of course, before announcing today’s selected contestants, the hosts drag it out—going on and on about what happened between her, Reese, and Contestant 1.

  Rebecca lowers her head and stares at her feet. Her eyes well up, her vision blurs. When the numbers finally flash across the nearest screen, she can only make out a distorted image of them.

  1 - 42

  The room erupts, one familiar voice standing out. “Are Mommy and Daddy having a fight? Ding ding ding! House wins again!” Rebecca breathes in and out. Several times. And against her better judgment, she looks at the door. Reese never shows up.

  Contestant 1 grins at her from across the room. "Guess it’s my lucky day."