VII

  The lights soften with the first strains of the final waltz, signaling the approaching end of the celebratory ball. The sky, previously black, now dissolves into a deep shade of blue. By now, their clothes are wrinkled, their hair is messy, and their smiles have faded into frowns. Among them, Rebecca feels her intestines twist. She glances at Reese, who surveys the hill with apparent indifference, yet when his eyes meet hers, she catches something deeper—a look she’s seen before, though she hasn’t learned what it means yet.

  Out of nowhere, he pulls her toward a secluded spot by the edge of the hill. The wind has turned more aggressive. Rebecca rubs her arms, trying to fight off the cold. He reaches out, his fingers gently tucking her hair behind her shoulders, and then he places his hand on her waist. Their dancing transforms into a mere swaying back and forth.

  "You know," he says, smiling with his eyes rather than his lips, "I’ve been reflecting on what you mentioned on my balcony."

  Rebecca raises an eyebrow. "Have you?"

  He nods. "Yes, you said we should save the acting for when the cameras are on."

  "What about it?" she asks, unsure where he's headed.

  "Well, I have some ideas for us now that the battles are coming."

  "Like what?"

  The music carries them along.

  "Like a video, for example—me playing guitar, you dancing. It’s so obvious we can’t not do it!" He looks excited—almost too excited. "A photoshoot might work too; we could pick an interesting spot. Here would’ve been perfect." He blushes slightly. "And I’ve realized that the only time we ever kissed was when no cameras were around. Remember, in the hallway after the interview?"

  How could I forget? flashes through her mind, but instead she says, "Barely."

  He snickers. "That wasn’t a wise move on our part. The audience would kill to see us kiss."

  Suddenly, Rebecca feels lost again—confused, disappointed. It’s all part of the show, after all. His feelings, as she assumed, are a sham.

  "I don’t think so…"

  Reese looks utterly disappointed. "What part?"

  "All of it. Especially the kiss—it feels kind of forced."

  "But if we don’t take advantage of the views we're getting, what’s the point? Those ideas I just told you are going to sell like hot bread."

  Every trace of a smile vanishes from Rebecca’s face. "Sell what? Your music?" she challenges, anger seeping through. "I’m not your new marketing toy, Reese."

  He sighs. To her surprise, he doesn’t meet her anger. "I was thinking we could sell 'us'—together. Create our own brand," he admits, his gaze drifting toward the surrounding cameras. "Who knows? We might even get big."

  "What? Did you forget where we are? Are you having a stroke?"

  "You don’t need to be so mean." He meets her eyes again, but now there's a seriousness she hasn't seen before. "We're both performers; I thought you wanted to be seen. That's what performing is all about."

  "Well, I don’t want to." She says. "Now I get it. That’s why you wanted an alliance with me—you want me to dance for you, to kiss, to be used like a prop doll."

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  "No," Reese answers. "You're wrong. I want to share something with you—that’s all." He blushes. "And you look so beautiful tonight; even if it’s a staged kiss, I want the world to know you're mine." His voice trails off.

  Her heart aches at the longing in his eyes. "I never said I was yours," she whispers, raising her hand as a shield.

  He nods slowly, resigned. "Yeah. You never said you were mine." He pulls her closer, and they sway together to the music. "But you admitted that when the cameras are on, we’d show the world how we feel." He pauses, gently stroking her hand with his thumb.

  As the last notes fade away, they stand for a moment, lost in each other's gaze. The illusion of the dance—of their fake but dangerous romance—crumbles, revealing a fragile truth neither can deny.

  "Well, there goes our chance," he says, as the sun begins to arise. Leaning in closer to her ear, he whispers, "You're killing me, Rebecca. All I wanted was one kiss."

  “Contestants,” the same voice that preys on them in the house now echoes around them. “Please prepare to return to your respective cryogenic capsules.”

  Rebecca stiffens, pulling back slightly, her hand rising to rest against his chest again. "Reese," she says softly, a mix of warning and regret in her voice, "I'm sorry—you should've picked someone else. I can’t kiss on cue; the cameras make me nervous."

  His expression shifts, the trace of annoyance softening into fleeting tenderness. "You're playing a dangerous game, Rebecca," he mutters, eyes searching hers. "This 'hard to get' act... it's intriguing, but..." He trails off, his hand slipping from her waist.

  "But what?" she challenges, tilting her chin upward and meeting his eyes with a defiant spark.

  A slow smile spreads across his face. "But it only makes me want you more," he replies with a mix of frustration and undeniable desire in his tone. He steps back, creating a small space between them. "You know, this whole 'forbidden fruit' scenario fits our narrative perfectly, doesn't it? The viewers eat it up." He runs a hand through his hair. "They would have loved a kiss in this setting, but it's fine. This push and pull—it’s captivating. You may not want to perform for them, but you're still doing it. And your performance—it’s sincere. That can’t be smart."

  Rebecca holds his gaze, despite the drones on the hill now moving in their direction. She knows he’s right; every interaction is analyzed by an audience hungry for drama. But another kiss would only complicate matters further, and the audience has little to do with it.

  "I'm losing track, Reese. Where does the acting end and the truth begin?" she confesses, her voice on the verge of breaking. "I've asked you in every possible way to keep things separate—to make it less complicated. Why can't you do that for me?"

  "You find being around me complicated. Do you want me to vanish from your side completely?"

  "No," she answers before she can think. There's a long, heavy pause before he speaks again.

  "So, you want me around—you just don’t want to do anything with me or show me how you feel," he says, amusement glinting in his eyes. "What do you want me to be? A shadow?" He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Open your eyes, Rebecca. My whole life, I've said the right things—the necessary lies—to get where I am. But with you... you're the only person I've been completely and foolishly honest with, and you never stop to consider that I might be telling the truth. Open your heart, Rebecca. Just because we might die tomorrow doesn't mean you can't live now. You're missing out."

  He turns and walks away, vanishing into the thinning crowd. Rebecca stands alone in the whispering wind, her eyes fixed on the spot where Reese disappeared.

  The first morning rays wash the island in yellow light, the waves of the sea the only music accompanying them now.

  Rebecca lingers a bit longer, contemplating the vastness of the sea. She can’t find peace anymore, not with the voice from the speakers reminding her of her true place in the world:

  “Attention, contestants. The ball is officially concluded. Please proceed to your designated cryogenic capsules immediately.”

  The spider drones—creepy as ever—threaten the contestants with their red flares. Some comply without hesitation, their elegant gowns and tailored suits clashing with the growing urgency of their obedience. Others, caught in the emotional undertow of the impending fights, cling to the last vestiges of the night.

  “Please, just a little longer,” pleads a young woman in a shimmering silver dress, tears streaming down her mascara-streaked cheeks. Contestant Forty-Something—Rebecca can’t quite remember—sobbed.

  “I don’t want to go back… not yet.”

  An impassive spider drone steers her toward the capsules. Amid the rising tide of panic, Rebecca also obeys, her obsidian gown flowing around her like liquid night. As she leaves the hill behind, she adjusts the delicate silver chain around her neck.

  She doesn’t look back; her gaze remains fixed on the path ahead.

  She doesn’t want to leave the island—the sense of liberation, the ability to breathe freely—only to return to those suffocating walls. Yet, the end of the ball means little to her compared to Reese’s Machiavellian game, with his twists and turns as he leads her through the stages of Live.