I

  Rebecca feels tired. So tired. She just wants to keep her eyelids shut. She can’t. A whine pulses in her ear, distant, dreamlike, yet intrusive. Then it’s gone. A throbbing bass vibrates through her bones. She snaps her eyes open, but white light blinds her. She gasps. The smell of antiseptics creeps into her throat. When her vision adjusts, she finds herself encased in a sleek, transparent cylinder. She’s not alone. Dozens. No, more. Each trapping a similarly disoriented figure.

  Then, out of nowhere, a voice—smooth and chillingly pleasant—drills into her ears.

  "Welcome, Contestants, to Live! Your journey for survival begins now."

  Rebecca clenches her jaw and a metallic bite floods her mouth. Disgusting. She swallows, but the bitterness clings to her tongue. Contestant 42. The number stares back at her, embroidered on the chest of her uniform jumpsuit, like another brand burned into her already scarred identity. She’d been sentenced to twenty years, maybe less if she behaved. No one said she’d end up here.

  Not that it made a difference, really.

  The voice continues outlining the brutal terms of survival: permanent live streaming, nightly battles, and endless social media engagement. There’s nothing cheerful about the information the voice is delivering, except for its ridiculous tone. Millions of viewers hold the power over their lives, their popularity scores determining who stays and who vanishes.

  Rebecca scans the room through the cryogenic capsule’s glass, until her eyes land on an oddly familiar face—Contestant 13. She’s seen him before. Where? It has something to do with music. That’s it. It's him, Reese. Famous for his music, loved for his climb from nothing to pop star. Charisma radiates from him; his presence feels almost magnetic. He stands like a predator, firm in his territory, his gaze sweeping the room as though cataloging his prey. Unlike Rebecca, Reese enters this arena untarnished, whole, already adored.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Once, she was great, too. The best. Perfect. Then they took everything. Left her with nothing. So she acted—without thinking, without caring. Just anger, despair, and something darker, something she didn't know she was capable of. Arson, they called it.

  The events leading to the fire, however, had destroyed more than her dancing career. They had consumed her dreams, her reputation, and even her name. The doctor had told her the news like they were discussing a hobby. Ballet was her life, not a hobby. The fire followed. The fire that swallowed her studio whole. The same jealous vipers who tore her down called it revenge. Accused her of attempted murder. But she didn't know they were there. And they were the ones who betrayed her first.

  Now, this—a high-tech prison masquerading as entertainment, where her sentence is decided not by a jury, but by faceless masses. Now, she is nothing—a disgraced dancer clinging to scraps of her former self—while Reese, the self-made pop star, strides into the game with his fame intact. Rebecca has never met him before, but she already resents him—her resentment born from the undeniable power imbalance between them and pure, shameful envy.

  The voice concludes its briefing by announcing the first challenge: a medical and psychological examination to assess physical and mental prowess. Or so the voice says. When the capsules open, Rebecca feels nauseous, and she stumbles as her surroundings swim. Her gaze drops instinctively to her ankle, still healing from its injury.

  She shifts her weight tentatively. To her astonishment, the familiar ache that had plagued her for weeks is absent. She flexes her foot slowly, then again—with growing confidence. It’s unbelievable. Impossible. A trick of her imagination. The capsule’s smooth surface no longer feels confining; instead, it becomes a brace as she tests her limits. It doesn’t make sense but each small motion proves it’s the truth: her ankle appears completely healed. The pangs, the ache—both are gone. She rotates her foot fluidly, marveling at its strength—unable to believe it, yet letting the thrill consume her.

  She’s ruined, trapped, used for entertainment, and yet she can’t help but smile—a fragile spark of hope ignites within her. She glances at her unscarred, steady ankle. The whole situation defies logic. Could the show, with all its twisted ways, have healed her? Were they really offering her a second chance? The thought takes root, tentative but insistent. For the first time in months—perhaps longer—she envisions herself dancing again. She imagines the rhythm coursing through her, her body moving without restraint, unburdened by pain or regret. Maybe, just maybe, this arena is not her end. Perhaps it is her beginning.