VII

  Rebecca steps into the common room, squinting against the sharp glare of the studio lights. The room, which once held rows of cold capsules, now feels strangely inviting. Plush armchairs and sleek chairs are scattered across the space. The contestants settle into their new surroundings, chatting like old friends with wide, easy smiles. It is clear that the new furniture has somehow transformed these cutthroat competitors into one big, happy family—but Rebecca knows better. It is all a performance; like the room itself, their warmth feels fake and fragile.

  At the front of the room, a massive holographic screen buzzes to life, casting its glow across the contestants. The screen shows the arena—two stories deep, twice the size of the living space, bright and loud with neon lights and a roaring crowd—during the very first round of competition. On this occasion, it is a battle for the viewers’ hearts in a special four-hour premiere episode. Rebecca feels the energy of the scene even from here, though she cannot fathom their excitement. Are they cheering for the contestants or for their deaths?

  In the center of it all, on a raised platform, the two hosts command attention. Their smiles are flawless and their movements precise; every gesture feels rehearsed and perfected, just like everything else in this game.

  “Oi, oi, oi!” The male host shouts, his voice too loud and chipper. He stretches his arms wide as if to embrace the room. “What an interesting bunch of misfits we’ve got this year!”

  “My, oh my…” the female host rattles in a syrupy-sweet tone. “Would you like to say hello to our contestants?”

  The next couple of seconds feel surreal to Rebecca. On the holographic screen, the arena disappears, replaced by a live broadcast of the common room—all of them in it. Most contestants stare at the screen, just as lost as she is. Others, like Reese, wave and blow kisses to the audience. Rebecca breathes again when the hosts’ faces return to view.

  “But before we begin with our wonderful fifty-four contestants, let’s talk about our sponsors!” the male host announces, gesturing grandly with both hands. “First up, AttackTech Industries—pushing the limits of endurance with next-generation combat gear.” He flashes a grin.

  “Let’s not forget OmniEspect,” the female host adds, matching his enthusiasm. “Leaders in surveillance and predictive technology, keeping you one step ahead. OmniEspect sees it all.”

  “And, of course, Drugobrand—reshaping the future, one fiber at a time!” the male host concludes with a flourish.

  Their voices are amplified not for the contestants but for the audience—both the ones in the arena and the viewers lounging comfortably at home. The male host motions to the massive screen behind them, and one by one, the contestants’ profiles appear along with details of their crimes and the ever-crucial follower count.

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  “He came in with only ten,” the female host says, her voice trembling with mock emotion. “Now he could fill three stadiums!” She wipes an invisible tear, pausing just long enough for the audience to drink it in.

  When Reese’s profile flashes onto the screen, Rebecca stiffens. The hosts’ voices rise in unison.

  “Contestant 13!”

  “A self-made man,” the male host announces, his voice charged with artificial gravitas. “A true underdog story—a boy who turned his life around, only to be caught in the chaos of fandom.”

  The image on the screen is almost too perfect: Reese’s strikingly handsome face is framed by soft lighting, his smile confident but not arrogant. Numbers pulse around him—millions of followers and glowing endorsements.

  Rebecca swallows hard. She remembers reading about the riot—one version blamed Reese entirely, while another portrayed him as a victim of his fans’ recklessness. The truth does not matter here, she realizes; what matters is the story that sells.

  Then her own number flashes on the screen. Her heart sinks.

  “She was at the top of her career,” the female host begins, her tone dripping with pity.

  “Such a waste,” the male host says, shaking his head slowly. “And so beautiful, too.”

  Rebecca wants to disappear as they spin her life into a cautionary tale. “A brilliant dancer, brought low by envy and betrayal,” the female host continues, her voice soft and tragic. “She was poised for greatness—can you imagine? And then, driven to desperation, she lashed out.”

  The male host steps forward, lowering his voice as though delivering an eulogy. “A single moment of rage, and her entire world burned to ash.”

  On the screen, her mugshot appears—harsh and unflattering—next to fragments of her past: graceful poses, bright eyes, the promise of success. The hosts’ words mold her into a victim, her actions framed as tragic yet understandable. Just like with the others, they’re deliberately pulling at the viewers’ heartstrings.

  Rebecca’s stomach twists. The manipulation is so blatant that it is almost laughable—but the other contestants do not laugh. Their gazes fix on her now, filled with pity, judgment, and other feelings she cannot quite name.

  Across the room, Reese watches her profile with an unreadable expression. For a split second, his mask of confidence falters—enough for Rebecca to catch a hint of something: surprise, perhaps even respect. It is gone before she can decide.

  The screen shifts its attention to the next contestant. The twins, who had seemed odd but harmless, are now exposed for what they are—calculating and cruel, with their parents’ demise laid bare, despite the hosts’ attempts to paint them as poor victims of a neglectful society. The sobbing woman from earlier is revealed as a drug addict who once tried to sell her own child on the dark web. One by one, the contestants are stripped down to their worst selves through double-edged compliments and condescending praise.

  Rebecca studies the room, her chest tightening. She sees no clear allies or enemies anymore—only people, broken and battered, trapped in this machine just like her, while the producers pull the strings and the audience devours every moment.

  Her gaze returns to the screen, now flashing dazzling images and clips of yet another contestant, but she looks away quickly. Below, her reflection quivers on the surface of the reinforced steel door that connects the common room to the arena—fractured, distorted.