III

  A woman’s anguished cry shatters the fragile silence: “I’m no one! I’m going to die!” She collapses to her knees, her long, straight black hair falling over her face. She remains there for a moment, until she accepts that no one will come to her aid. Slowly, she rises, dusts off her pants, and pretends nothing happened. The others, Rebecca included, pretend not to notice. But fear is contagious. It spreads in pleas, sobs, and whispered prayers.

  Rebecca retreats into a shadowed corner, her face remains neutral but her pulse pounds in her ears. Chaos envelops her. Everywhere she looks, there’s someone trembling or speaking to themselves under their breath, yet she wills herself to remain still and unseen. Her gaze locks on the floor, deliberately avoiding Reese’s piercing eyes as he sweeps the room with predatory sharpness. She knows he's watching—reading the room like a gambler sizing up a hand.

  From where she’s standing, the pandemonium transforms into a grotesque performance—a spectacle in which the contestants’ fear fuels the entertainment for millions of unseen viewers. For them, this moment is prime-time drama. Rebecca swallows hard as the bile of resentment and dread rises in her throat. Fighting is one thing, she thinks, but being a pawn in someone else’s show is another.

  Still, she cannot ignore how the contestants’ descent into despair mirrors her own doubts. She’s never been the strongest, the loudest, or the most magnetic. This game will expose her in ways she isn’t sure she is ready for. Survival demands playing the part—even if it feels like a betrayal of herself. Her hand rests on her stomach, grounding her. “I’ll survive this,” she tells herself—whether she believes it or not is a different story.

  The speakers crackle, louder than the turmoil, with another unsettlingly cheerful announcement:

  “Breakfast is served!”

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  Shaken, hesitant, the contestants move toward the dining area. Relief mingles with apprehension on their faces; their postures remain tense, shoulders hunched as if expecting another blow.

  Rebecca follows at a distance and chooses a table at the far edge of the room. She avoids company and refuses to join the delicate, shifting alliances forming before her eyes. She watches as the others file in. Some already sit in groups, calling out each other’s numbers and refusing to let anyone else take a seat at their tables. Some look as if they might be sick. Her own stomach churns, but not with hunger.

  Then there’s Reese, seated like a king at the room’s center. At his sides, two identical boys perch—eerily in sync. Their fair skin and ginger hair stand out from the sterile colors of the room, accentuating their strangely aged faces. Their large, round blue eyes shimmer with childlike curiosity, yet the fine wrinkles around their mouths and eyes betray their true age—likely in their mid-forties.

  They hang on Reese’s every word, nodding in perfect unison, their movements unsettling in their precision. At first, Reese appears pleased with their deference, his trademark smirk in place as he speaks. Then something shifts. His smile falters and his posture stiffens. He leans back slightly, his expression slipping into discomfort. Whatever he sees—or senses—in the twins unsettles him, though he masks it swiftly.

  Rebecca observes the interaction closely. Reese’s bravado seems unshakeable, but this moment of unease reveals a crack in his armor. Around the room, other contestants take notice as well. Some eat in silence, casting venomous glances at the twins. It is not merely resentment toward them—it is about Reese. Whatever alliance he forms poses a threat, cementing the imbalance of power already tilted in his favor.

  Rebecca sips the provided nutrient paste, its flavorless sludge doing little to ease the nausea twisting in her gut. She is not hungry. Her mind spins, trying to map out a strategy, but nothing sticks. Every potential move feels too risky. With the cameras constantly watching her, every action could be taken to an extreme and every misstep immortalized. Even breakfast becomes a battleground—a silent war of glances and positioning.

  She sighs, her gaze dropping to the table as reality sinks in. The battles, brutal as they may be, won’t be the hardest part of being in this place. The worst is the unrelenting pressure to play the game—pretending, performing, calculating every word, every look, every move. Now that she's here, where every flaw is under scrutiny, Rebecca doubts how long she can keep up the act before it breaks her.