V

  Reese speaks louder than everyone else. Rebecca recognizes his voice from afar. He stands amid a cluster of contestants, laughing and gesturing dramatically. Now, not only do the twins surround him, but also three young women and a boy with distant eyes and grayish skin. They’re all criminals, but he really looks like a delinquent—the type that would make Rebecca cross the street if she had ever run into him outside.

  They all look at Reese like he’s some sort of deity. He loves it. His desperate need for attention strikes her as almost pitiful—reminiscent of a small child whose mother is too distracted by a drunken husband or unpaid bills, seeking attention, approval, any form of parental care amid a chaotic family breakdown.

  At that thought, a soft chuckle escapes her lips, barely audible above the noise yet somehow carrying through. From the corner of her eye, she notices a shift among the group around Reese. His attention wavers, then homes in on her quiet laugh. He pauses mid-sentence, his gaze prowling the hallway. Does he see her? Does he know it was her who laughed? She holds her breath. He looks at her, but his expression gives her nothing. His dark, fathomless eyes unnerve her. After a beat, he resumes his loud talk, but that brief pause—that faint hesitation—tells her he might have noticed. She hopes not; the last thing she wants is the ire of a self-proclaimed celebrity and his fanatical admirers. She already suspects how unforgiving this world of Live can be, even after just a few hours.

  When Reese finally finishes his theatrical display, his gaze snaps back to Rebecca. He pushes through the growing crowd, despite some of them asking him where he’s going and telling him to stay. He just ignores them. They’ve lost his interest, and their disappointed faces show they know it. His focus is somewhere else now—on her. On Rebecca.

  He approaches her from the side and begins talking immediately. His voice softens into something almost intimate. The shift is unnerving—one moment, he was the center of attention; now, his words wrap around her like a whispered secret. He says something about shared vulnerability, the ruthless nature of the game, and finishes his speech with a vague offer of protection. He speaks clearly, with a melodic tone, yet the unease Rebecca feels—because of him, because of all the other contestants watching her like she’s the luckiest person in the world—warps his sentences into an unintelligible blur in her mind.

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  Fortunately, an announcement cuts through his feigned charm:

  “Contestants, return to your designated quarters. Preparation for the nightly events starts in thirty minutes.”

  For the first time since she woke up, Rebecca is glad to obey.

  “We have to go,” she simply says.

  She dismisses his words without a glance. He hasn’t moved from his spot, he’s probably still looking at her, but she doesn’t turn around to confirm her suspicion. The hall empties swiftly. For a second, she’s thankful for the silence. Until the mechanical thrum within the building and the upbeat music return. Her adrenaline fades, leaving behind that unsettling tension, now becoming routine. She reaches her room—Room 42—and hurries inside, closing the door quickly behind her.

  Inside, she hardly recognizes the space as part of the same facility. A minimal, feminine yet sterile design greets her. Silent—a world apart from the chaos in the hallway. Beyond the bed, a small private bathroom extends. On the wall in front of the door, a round mirror reflects her intense, contemplative face. She studies her reflection, sifting through fragments of Reese’s words; the scattered pieces are everything she needs to recognize his manipulative tendencies. For a moment, she considers forming an alliance, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it appears. His offer feels less like genuine interest and more like a ploy to break through her guarded shell. Still, she cannot shake the sting of turmoil—he has prodded an old wound, a latent pain she carried long before Live invaded her life.

  Drifting onto her tiny private balcony, Rebecca gazes at the glittering cityscape, yet the hypnotic neon lights against the night sky fail to soothe the agitation boiling in her chest. Perhaps for the first time all day, she truly understands where she is, why she’s here, and what it all means. And she sees only two possible futures ahead of her: either submitting to the game—pretending to be someone she’s not, shamelessly licking other people’s butts, destroying her character with white lies, everything she so determinedly avoided in the dancing world—or dying.