VI

  Outside, buildings press in from all sides. Her entire view consists of massive glass towers and scattered shiny dots—white, yellow, pink, red, blue. Her balcony sits unnervingly close to the main entrance. She bends over the railing. The stories below her vanish into the void of the street. Jumping would be a way out, probably less painful than waiting for the arena battles. But unoriginal.

  There’s been at least one of those every season.

  As she leans further into the railing, she notices a large electronic poster board above the reception area. Four messages cycle on repeat, more than advertising, they feel like commands.

  Rebecca reads the first slogan: "DON’T FORGET TO POST." It repeats more often than the others. Blunt. It doesn’t even try to pass as an advertisement. That one is for them. To remind the imprisoned contestants of the show’s obsessive need for engagement. After all, their lives depend on it. That slogan feels like the building’s heartbeat. The number one rule. The first commandment.

  Next, a softer yet far more sinister message appears: “YOU’LL GET THE LOVE YOU’VE NEVER HAD.” That one enrages her. Who do they think they are to assume she isn’t loved? Her anger quickly turns to shame, though. Rebecca isn’t sure she even knows what love is. Sure, her parents had loved her. Once. But they weren’t the expressive kind. No big words. No grand gestures. Their love was manifested through endless photos and videos of her dancing—posted on social media to show the world what a great daughter they had.

  And she loved making them proud.

  Then her mum got sick and died. Her father stopped talking to her. And for the first time, she realized she had never truly felt seen.

  The third message, far less frequent but infinitely more unnerving, reads: “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO SHINE.” The words serve as a warning—a countdown of her scarce time left.

  Finally, a fourth message blinks into view: “THE PRIZE, FREEDOM.” It speaks for itself. Freedom. The absolution of all her crimes and enough money to sustain her for the rest of her life. It feels both like salvation and mockery. How does one really get there?

  Rebecca stares at the board, reading each message more than once. Her chest tightens, a little more each time. It’s been almost two years since she quit smoking. Right now, she could use one. Two choices war in her mind, both merciless, both absolute: conform or perish.

  Suddenly, the tiny balcony, the towering buildings, even the bright lights, feel suffocating. The wind, furious as it is, helps a little, but not enough. She turns, steps back into her room, but it’s more of the same. The noise in there—the white noise she barely noticed before—isn’t as loud as the cars outside, but it’s worse. This one is unsettling. It makes sure she never forgets not even the air she’s breathing is real, that she is alway under surveillance.

  Back in her room, Rebecca lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The thin mattress offers little comfort, but that hardly matters—comfort is a distant luxury now. She reaches for her phone, hesitating as her fingers hover over the lock screen. When she finally swipes, its glow burns into her eyes.

  The screen feels alien in her hand, unfamiliar. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, yet she can’t bring herself to set it down. Notifications flood in—the other contestants have already succumbed to the desperation of garnering likes. She sees fragments of them. Half repulsed. Half worried she should be doing the same.

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  "Hi, new followers!" chirps one voice, gratingly cheerful. She scrolls past it immediately. Another—softer, more rehearsed—says, "Let me show you my room… it’s… cozy." The forced intimacy, the transparent desperation to be liked, is almost comical.

  Rebecca’s own profile, once quiet and untouched, now teems with activity. Her follower count soars—more than thousands—an inexplicable surge she cannot quite comprehend. When did it happen? How did it happen so fast? Her profile remains unchanged; it is still the same collection of photos and videos of her dancing, candid moments with friends and family, and the occasional shot of her cat. The only difference is that her life is now an open book, exposed for strangers to consume. Likes and comments pile up, the adoration pouring in faster than she can grasp.

  The phone feels heavier in her hand with each passing moment, as if burdened by an audience she never asked for. She scrolls, numb, as messages continue to stream in. Their affectionate words feel hollow—suffocating rather than uplifting.

  A restless energy builds in her chest, propelling her to her feet. She slips out of her room, the familiar theme song of the show trailing her down the empty, C-shaped corridor like an omnipresent specter. Room 13 lurks ahead, and before she can second-guess herself, she raises a hand and knocks.

  The door slides open, revealing Reese standing before her. His brows are drawn, lips pressed tight, his gaze hard. Until he sees her, and just like that, it’s gone. His eyes widen. His eyebrows nearly disappear behind his fringe. That practiced smirk of his stretches wide, triumphant.

  Rebecca swallows.

  He remains silent at first, waiting for her to break the stillness. Rebecca, her voice steadier than she feels, asks, “How many new followers do you have?”

  His smirk deepens; there’s a hungry quality to it that scares her. “Two million,” Reese replies, his voice purrs with excitement. “Two million new followers. And that’s just today.”

  Rebecca’s breath catches. The number is staggering, incomprehensible. A cold knot twists in her stomach as the reality of the game sinks in with crushing clarity. She glances up at one of the embedded cameras—they are probably watching her right now.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” she murmurs.

  Reese’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t look at the camera, he focuses on her. His smirk falters for a fraction of a second before turning into a soft, sympathetic smile. A bullshit smile, Rebecca thinks.

  “It’s not,” he admits. “Two million followers… that’s not a victory. It’s a target.”

  She nods. Not because she agrees, although she does, but because she sees it now.

  “Thank you, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  She turns, overwhelmed by the urgent need to retreat, to hide from the world’s gaze. The corridor stretches behind her—sterile, white. Cameras watch all the way back to the relative safety of her room. But Reese’s hand, surprisingly gentle, catches her arm, stopping her.

  “Wait,” he says, his voice softer now.

  The greedy energy from earlier gives way to a resignation that mirrors her own. "They don’t give a shit about the followers. Not really. It’s the story they care about, 42. You don’t give ‘em anything to watch? You’re first on the chopping block."

  “Don’t call me ‘42.’ My name’s Rebecca,” she replies firmly.

  Reese’s lips twitch into a bitter smile. “Rebecca,” he repeats, as if testing the weight of her name. "Two million followers… that’s a target on our backs. A bloody liability, not some big win. They don’t want us to have it—they want to watch us crumble. See how this… this little chronicle plays out—to the bitter end."

  He pauses, jaw tight. "Or 'til one of us snaps."

  He exhales sharply, withdrawing his hand from her arm. "And when we fall? They’ll eat it up. Cheer. Like the good little audience they are."

  His voice dips lower. "Unless…" His eyes search hers, looking for understanding. "Unless we take control. You and me, Rebecca."

  Rebecca responds immediately. After all, she had an answer prepared for this.

  “Ask someone else,” she says, her voice cold, final.

  She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just turns and walks away.

  The corridor feels lighter, less oppressive, as she leaves him behind. His invitation is tempting, but she does not allow herself to falter. Whatever narrative the game is building, she refuses to let Reese or anyone else dictate her role in it. For now, the path ahead is hers alone—and she intends to keep it that way.