Her phone explodes with notifications—The screen drowned in messages, comments, and reactions. When she unlocks her phone, a head-spinning mix of support and vitriol floods in: sympathetic messages like “Poor thing, it’s inhumane” and “We’re here to support you,” intermingled with disturbingly obsessive declarations such as “I swear if you get out I’ll make you my wife.” The massive volume of attention feels suffocating.

  These are the same people who tune in nightly to watch the brutal battles, the same ones who decide who lives and dies. The disconnect is jarring; their sudden empathy feels like a grotesque parody of a real connection. The ones who obsess over her don’t frighten her—it’s those who truly care about her well-being that unsettle her. They already know her fate: she’s destined to die in two months, or however long the show lasts. Why invest in her?

  Even with her stalkers lurking, Rebecca feels a surprising calm during dinner. The simple act of eating—a basic human need—feels like a small victory, though a full stomach does little to quell the unease gnawing at her.

  That night, sleep eludes her. Her body remains restless, her mind a storm of racing thoughts. She rolls onto her back, her hand brushing the cool surface of the nightstand as she reaches for her phone. A few taps on Live’s music app, and the soft, haunting strains of a piano fill her room.

  She sits up slowly, her bare feet grazing the cold floor. She stays at the edge of the bed for a moment, fingers tightening around the sheets. Her heart pounds. She doesn’t even understand why. It’s just dancing. It's what she loves.

  On impulse, she stands. Closes her eyes. Her movements are tentative at first—a plié here, a pirouette there. It feels natural, her body falling into the steps as if it has a mind of its own. The music embraces her, pulls her into a world where only the two of them exist. For a fleeting moment, she feels weightless. Free.

  She extends her arms, rises onto the balls of her feet—one leg firm, the other bent at the knee, hips open—and spins. Spins. It was always her favorite part. Soon, she loses herself in the rhythm, moving with a grace she thought was gone.

  But then the memories creep in. The mix of fear and excitement, the admiration in the judges' faces, the opening night, her pretty costume—and what followed. The red faces, the mocking laughter, the suffocating press of bodies, and the sudden, searing pain that stole the ground from beneath her... The endless nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if she would ever be whole again.

  Her steps falter. The music turns eerie in the dark, like a haunted music box. Each note sinks deep inside her, trapping her. Her chest tightens. Her breath comes in shallow gasps. She stumbles, catching her reflection in the mirror. Instead of a dancer, she sees only a shadow of who she once was.

  Rebecca stops. Her arms drop limply to her sides. She reaches out and silences the music; the sudden quiet leaves her feeling empty. She stands there, motionless, pushing away the images of her past and the tight knot they twist in her chest.

  Then a soft knock echoes at her door.

  “Open up, Becky. I’m just here to talk,” a familiar voice whispers from the other side. Rebecca freezes, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Cautiously, she approaches while keeping the door firmly shut. “What do you want?” she asks, her voice tight with apprehension. After a stretch of silence, Reese’s voice—so much softer than expected—replies, “I want to make a deal.”

  Rebecca remains silent, her gaze fixed on the reinforced steel door as she catches her breath. Reese presses on, “Just watch my story, will ya?” His voice rises. “I can’t stand the thought of you believing that pathetic version of me they’re feeding the public.”

  Although she feels a twinge of hesitation, her curiosity wins out, and she taps open the app to check out Reese's profile. The video begins. He looks nothing like the misunderstood victim the show has been broadcasting. In the video, Reese stands with an unyielding posture, his tousled hair only adding to his fierce presence. He exudes pride and defiance, refusing to be diminished. Yet it is not his attitude that shocks Rebecca—it is his words. He directly addresses his fans, taking full responsibility for his actions. He confesses to orchestrating riots and crimes, detailing his role with unsettling frankness. He admits to masterminding acts of vandalism and even violence, showing no remorse. He makes it clear he doesn’t care about sympathy or public opinion; he will do whatever feels right to him in the moment, whatever is necessary to get what he wants. But he won’t turn his back to those who offer a hand.

  The video ends, and Rebecca doesn’t know what to think. There’s something compelling about the way Reese owns up to his crimes—unfiltered, dangerous, and undeniably honest. She can’t help but admit it.

  But his willingness to dismantle a more convenient, sanitized image and embrace a villainous role while still remaining loyal to his fans contradicts everything he told her that afternoon. He’s not giving the audience what they want.

  Unless she doesn’t understand what they want.

  She's left speechless—the ventilation system whispers behind her, the fading echo of the piano rings in her ears—and she feels pressured to say something, But why? What could possibly happen if she doesn’t?

  She finally asks, “So… that’s your deal?”

  Reese chuckles with a quiet growl from his throat. “That’s just the starter. The real feast’s you.” He pauses. “You and me, taking the chessboard piece by piece, setting up the endgame.”

  A brief, tense silence follows. Yes, she respects him now—she admits it—but can she trust him? If anything, he seems even more intimidating.

  “Leave me alone, okay?” she adds firmly, her tone resolute.

  “Is that a yes?” he asks, undeterred.

  Rebecca furrows her brow, wondering in what universe “leave me alone” could be taken as a yes. Still, without really thinking about it, without even realizing it, she replies, “I’ll think about it.”

  She waits, straining to catch any sound that might indicate Reese is still there. Convinced at last that he has departed, she withdraws to her bed, the metallic frame cold against her skin.

  Sleep comes reluctantly, filled with restless images and vivid, unsettling dreams.

  In her dream, she wanders a labyrinthine corridor, the walls closing in, time running out. Reese appears—not as the polished pop star, nor the defiant rebel from his video. Just... different. He tells her to follow him. Says he knows a way out. A different one. A shorter one. She doesn’t want to at first, but the walls of the labyrinth tighten, pressing in until she can barely move without brushing against them. Stricken by a desperate need to escape—and not be alone—she follows. But he’s too far ahead, and she can’t move any faster. Her legs feel like lead. She pushes forward, but it’s useless. Reese turns a corner. She reaches it a second later, breathless, but he’s gone. She doesn’t know where to go next.

  The dream ends abruptly, leaving her heart pounding and her breath ragged. Little by little, her reality takes hold—colder and more menacing than any nightmare.