Rebecca freezes, a statue, her mind paralyzed. She doesn’t want Reese to stop loving her. She doesn’t want him to stop fighting for her. Most of all, she doesn’t want to lose his affection—the moments they share together, the physical closeness. Yes, the alternative is no better: keeping him by her side, knowing it will lead to his death. That would be no different from killing him herself. And yet, it’s such an enticing choice.

  “How?” Rebecca mumbles, the question escaping her lips as a release of air rather than a word.

  Anya’s lips curve into something that resembles a smile, but it lacks the warmth or humanity of a genuine one. “That, Contestant 42, is entirely up to you. Cerevora has already predicted several scenarios. The most efficient being a public betrayal. Other possibilities include a fabricated scandal, a prolonged display of indifference. The options are numerous. The results... less so.”

  “Does your machine also know what people want?” Rebecca asks, clinging to the last glimmer of hope. “What if they want a love story? What if they’re rooting for both of us to emerge victors, together?”

  Anya snickers, this time looking at Rebecca like one looks at a four-year-old. “Don’t be naive. They don’t want a love story. Nobody wants a love story,” she says, her voice turning unexpectedly severe. “Do you have any idea how many 'anti-woman' men watch the show? Our lines are also filled with women from the 'Women Rising' movement. They don’t want a woman to be saved by a man; that would contradict everything they believe in. And the anti-woman men, they’d hate it if their hero gave everything up for a random girl with skinny legs.” She shakes her head. “No. Believe me, they don’t want that kind of happy ending, Contestant 42.”

  Rebecca doesn’t respond. She can’t find anything to say.

  “Let me tell you something else,” Anya proceeds. “I just want you to know one thing is certain: only one person leaves this show alive. That never fails.” She pauses, probably expecting a reaction from Rebecca, but she’s as hollow inside as the AI nurse. “You say you love Reese, and he’s proven his willingness to sacrifice for you. Won’t you do the same for him?”

  The question feels like a poisoned dart aimed straight at Rebecca’s heart. The knot in her throat, the pain in her chest—everything pulls her back to the day the doctors told her she would never dance again. The desperation, the physical need to release her caged rage—it’s all happening again.

  “Should I assume his fans are right, then?” Anya continues, her voice dripping with thinly veiled sarcasm. “Are you merely using him for the safety he provides?”

  Rebecca’s breath hitches. The accusation stings.

  For a brief moment, she dives into the dark, blurry section of her mind where that precise question lies. What does she really feel for Reese? Are her survival instincts kicking in? Is he providing her with enough validation to leave behind her past as a failed ballerina? Is it that she feels alive when she’s with him? As alive as when she danced.

  She looks down, avoiding Anya’s gaze for the first time since the video call began. When she looks back up, Anya’s lips are curved into a triumphant smile. She manages to hide it as soon as Rebecca glances at it.

  "I understand it's a difficult decision, Contestant 42," she says. "But with each passing day that you fail to make the necessary choice... well, let's just say our assistance guiding you toward the correct course of action will become… more persuasive."

  Rebecca swallows, her throat dry. The minutes on the digital clock pass with each of her blinks. Reese is probably wondering why she’s taking so long. It’s been almost an hour since she entered the nurse’s office.

  “I’ll do my best,” she says, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.

  Anya’s eyes, dark and empty, seem to bore into her soul. "Your best will be insufficient," she responds.

  “Probably,” Rebecca says. “I don’t believe either you or me can truly control Reese. He does what he wants, and he feels what he feels.”

  “Control is an illusion, Contestant 42. Especially when dealing with… unpredictable variables.”

  Rebecca scoffs. She certainly agrees with that: Reese is unpredictable, even more so than the average person. His drive, his visions, his sometimes reckless decisions—everything about him is controlled chaos.

  “I’m not asking you to control him,” Anya adds, “I’m asking you to break a bond that, let’s face it, is going nowhere.” She leans forward, smirking with her eyes. "Contestant 42," she continues, "why this desperate clinging to life? What awaits you outside these walls? Another dead-end dance career? More nights spent huddled in the shadows, alone, dueling over the cruelty of others?"

  Rebecca’s body stiffens. She clenches her fists, the metal fibers beneath her skin burning. This Anya woman doesn’t know her at all; her accusations are nothing but vile attempts to break her. It’s just that they’re so accurate it hurts.

  “My legs are healed,” Rebecca says. “I can dance again.”

  Anya’s smile is chillingly serene. “Oh, Contestant 42, I can totally see why Contestant 13 chose you—you’re so incredibly gullible. Even if you win, you don’t get to keep those fibers. They’re extremely expensive. We remove them before the winner leaves the building.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She gestures vaguely toward the exit. “We can’t have a contestant with enhanced strength or agility causing trouble in the streets. What use would a broken, resentful dancer with superpowers be to us? Or, for that matter, a violent, unpredictable influencer who can’t die?”

  Rebecca melts into the chair. She wants to laugh but holds it back, trying not to make it so obvious that she’s losing her grip on sanity. Just when she thought nothing could hurt more than the previous news, Anya throws this bomb: the possibility of dancing. It’s only temporary. Even if she survives, they’ll take it away from her again.

  Anya giggles, suddenly. “Oh, you’re so funny, seriously. Can you even imagine Drugobrand giving away their most anticipated breakthrough to a first-degree criminal? That’ll definitely launch them into the market.”

  Among the pain, resignation, and disillusion, a spark of curiosity propels her head high. “What did you mean earlier when you said Drugobrand was watching Reese closely?”

  Anya’s eyes widen. “You don’t know? I could’ve sworn he would have shared this with you by now.”

  “Share what?”

  Anya keeps smiling. She’s savoring every moment. “Oh, Contestant 42, I didn’t come prepared for this, but here—let me enlighten you,” she says. She keeps facing forward, but her eyes are now lost somewhere on her own computer desktop. A moment later, a holographic screen emerges on the wall, its surface shimmering to life. A video call plays, bumpy, but clear.

  On the screen, a young woman with vibrant orange hair shakes her head nonstop, her eyes puffy and her nose red. In a smaller inset, Reese’s face is visible, half hidden by shadows. His eyes are focused, somewhere beyond the present moment.

  The room spins around Rebecca. She recognizes that look on him—the one she’s come to associate with him planning his next move.

  The woman in the video looks at him between hiccups. They both speak at once, which is why Rebecca only catches fragments of what they say:

  “…It’s a solid opportunity… this year’s batch… I can guarantee it…”

  With horror, Rebecca realizes he’s talking about Live. But she can’t decipher exactly what he’s saying about it.

  Little by little, she takes in more of it.

  “My love, love…” he calls out to the woman on the screen while she goes on and on about how he’s gone crazy, how he’s not thinking this through, how this will be a detriment to his career and how she’s going to miss him enormously.

  Rebecca feels sick.

  “I’m doing this, okay?” he responds. “Everything is already done.”

  “But, why, Reese? Why? You’re escaping a perfectly good life!”

  Reese raises his eyebrows, the tendons around his mouth tensing.

  “Right, I forgot my life is perfect,” he says. “How dare I want something different when I already got everything that matters. Money and fame, right?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she defends herself, tears soaking her cheeks. “But you have everything, Reese. You’re young, healthy, and you live off something you love. And you have me. Not everyone has someone who loves them.”

  Rebecca leans closer to the screen, unable to trust her eyes. For a second, Reese looks guilty—actually guilty. But it quickly fades away.

  “You’re right that I love what I do, and I’m risking it, but… I don’t know how to explain it. I need to do this. That much I know. Maybe it’ll give me something to write about that actually means something, for a change.”

  “Can’t you write about me, about us? You used to do that.”

  “I told you, it’s already done, I already signed. But, hey, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m winning this thing, I assure you.”

  Anya stops the video and then breaks the silence. “Charming, isn’t he? So dedicated to the cause. And that’s his current girlfriend, by the way. They never actually broke up.” Her tone is deliberately casual.

  “I don’t get it,” Rebecca says. “What did he sign?”

  “The contract with Drugobrand. They wanted him in the show to promote their most advanced fibers yet, and then load him with money if he wins.” Anya pauses, her eyes narrowing. “The winner doesn’t depend on our sponsors, though. That’s all on you, contestants.”

  The room goes freezing. Rebecca stares at the white wall where the screen used to be, her heart aching. She can’t shake Reese’s image—so determined, so unmoved by his supposed girlfriend’s sadness. In the video, he looked like a different man.

  Rebecca’s hurt. Utterly, irreparably hurt.

  "I think I’ve made my point clear by now," Anya says. "You should get back before Contestant 13 gets suspicious." She leans into the camera. "A word of advice: it wouldn’t be wise to mention any of this to him. Except"—her lips curl into a cruel smile—"the girlfriend part. You two should definitely discuss that part."

  The screen goes dark. Silence swallows the room. Rebecca sits for a long moment, weighing her options, her feelings, and whether her image of Reese has changed after everything she discovered about him. She looks up at the ventilation shaft and sighs. Dragging herself back through those rat-infested tunnels feels pointless, yet there’s no alternative.

  Slowly, painstakingly, Rebecca begins to compose herself. She has to think. She has to plan. She can’t afford to let grief or rage paralyze her. Survival is still paramount—hers or Reese’s—even if the terms have drastically shifted.

  Remembering their established signal, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers tremble as she finds Reese’s latest social media post and presses the like button. The gesture signals to him that she’s heading back to the ventilation system and needs his guidance.

  Taking a deep breath, Rebecca rises. She rubs the sorrow from her face and pushes her wounds to the back of her mind, where they can't reach her.

  Using a chair and the desk as leverage, Rebecca pulls herself into the narrow confines of the duct, disappearing into the labyrinthine network within the facility. Her thoughts are so loud that she barely pays attention to her surroundings. She feels small and insignificant, like an insect crawling through the veins of a colossal, indifferent beast.

  Her thoughts drift to Reese. She needs to see him, to figure out if her feelings are still intact—if they were ever real. That thought, the need to see him, becomes her sole focus. She pushes aside the bitter taste of betrayal, the crushing weight of failure, and the overwhelming scale of her adversary. For now, she needs Reese. Only after that can she begin to face everything else. Only after that can she find her way through the suffocating darkness and back into the brutal glare of Live.