The rough texture of the tree bark pressed against my back as I rested in the sitting position, but then it transformed into something cold and unyielding, like smooth concrete or a steel table as I lay flat against it.

My eyes snapped open, replacing the image of the apple-filled forest floor with the stark, blinding whiteness of the room's walls. The room's sterile and unnatural environment was an abrupt difference to the cursed woods I had become accustomed to.

My head throbbed, and a haze of confusion enveloped me. Was this a dream? The rotten egg stench had vanished, leaving only an unnerving silence.

Grogginess washed over me like a crashing wave, prompting me to close my eyes once more. The pungent scent of fermented apples, in various stages of decomposition, intensified in my nostrils.

Disoriented, I tried to make sense of my surroundings, but it was as if I existed in two places at once, or perhaps somewhere in between. My body retained vivid memories of the cursed woods, but I also began to sense the unmistakable signs of this unfamiliar environment, which I now believed to be real.

As I lay there, gathering the strength to open my eyes or even turn my head, my ears provided more information than any of my other senses.

The sound of a pair of heavy footsteps marching along the solid ground toward me perked my ears.

In my mind, I could still picture the four figures in protective suits carrying the lifeless body of the Witch away in the noxious fog. However, in the cold, sterile room I now found myself in, I was certain that I was nowhere near a forest or fog.

Where was I?

A strange conversation unfolded around me, and it was all I needed to understand the ugly reality. Two unknown male voices discussed something related to blood and measurements.

"Completed vitals?" The male's voice came from about ten feet away. "How many vials did you take?"

"Brigette wanted the usual, a complete blood count and RH factor," another male answered. His voice was straightforward, unbothered, clearer, and louder. He was closer to me, right beside me, making me feel as if the room we were in swallowed us in its substantial space.

"So, two?" the first male confirmed. "Labeled, secure?"

"Yes, sir."

I listened intently while lying there, pretending to be unconscious. My eyes remained closed, and I kept as still as my body would allow. I considered holding my breath to stay motionless, but I thought better of it. I couldn't move even if I wanted to. The dead weight in my body and limbs acted as my prison, so I absorbed as much information as I could to make sense of what was happening.

The crisp chill in the air reminded me of filtered air conditioning, a stark contrast to the dank mugginess of the woods.

All my senses were engaged, yet I remained unable to move.

"Where's the aeroblade?" The first guy asked, a tinge of frustration in his tone. "You have to return it to her arm."

"Brigette talked so much shit about her using that thing so well that the woman thinks it might become an upcoming problem in the Games. So, I removed it, plus how else was I supposed to get a proper read of her blood pressure and vitals?"

"You've been in show business for how long, man?" the guy asked rhetorically. "You know there's such a thing as film continuity. If she goes back out to the live games without the aeroblade on her arm, viewers will question it. I mean, it's a memorable weapon. The last thing we need is an uproar and Brigette up our asses about more dropped sponsors and diminishing viewership."

"If the showrunner wanted her to use a baton or a knife, or even that stupid ass club, why even put the aeroblade on the list of options?" He huffed and I imagined him shaking his head in frustration. "Fucking dumb. I could write better shit than this, but they want me back here to do the dirty work."

"It's place on the list is because an aeroblade looks good as an option!" the other guy emphasized. "No one ever goes for strange weapons they've never seen in action before. Usually, they opt for the familiar stuff. No one expected her to choose that blade. But that's not our problem now, is it? Get that blade back on her arm, and let's move on before she wakes up and we have more trouble to deal with."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Don't fuck around, alright?" the guy continued, giving his no nonsense attitude. "And don't forget to stuff those protein bars back in her suit. Film continuity, remember?"

As gloved hands lifted my bare arm, I dared not to attempt to open my eyes.

Still the image of foggy, dimly lit forests and the sweet stench of fermented and rotten apples lingered behind my closed lids and memory.

"While you ready her, I'm gonna go check on the other one in room two." His footsteps retreated but as he left the space he called out, "Looks like a pretty bad sprain but we're gonna dose her with a shot of steroids to boost its healing. She's looking like the favorite right now. Don't think Brigette wants her out too soon, she's pulling in the ratings."

The man working on my arm added, "And she's the only one alive that seems to give no fucks when it comes to taking out the competition."

"Anyone that goes after the activist is sure to be in Brigette's favor," the man went on, shouting from another room or down a hall. "In all fifteen competitions, I never saw a showrunner so invested in making a player suffer. It's almost like it's personal."

"Isn't that obvious?" The cold brass of my blade's cuff was wrapped and secured around my exposed arm. "We never had a participant so willing to take down the entire system before. I mean, screw the money. A young social activist who cares about the survival of her junkie sister and taking down Arcanum—"

"It's gotta make for good TV."

"I'd say fuck this place too if it wasn't for the healthcare, housing, and education benefits offered for my family."

The man further away lowered his voice until it was barely audible. "Don't let that mad bitch hear you say that. Who knows, you might end up being the next—"

"—Fuck off."

As the men finished their conversation, the room fell silent once more. I lay there, my body tense, hoping someone might inadvertently mention something about Millie, her condition, or her whereabouts. But as the minutes ticked by, a sense of helplessness washed over me.

My body went completely lax and after the faint sound of a mellow breeze and muggy, musty air encased me, I opened my eyes to see the haunted forest and its eerie trees towering ominously in the darkness.

Finally able to move my head, I took in the familiar sights of dense apple trees and brush. The roughness of the bark at my back anchored me to my location.

When I glanced back over my shoulder towards the place where the fog had originated, I should have seen the lifeless body of the Witch. However, I questioned whether what I remembered about the men behind the scenes was just a dream or hallucination, especially as nothing was there.

Fortunately, the bodies of the burly brothers lay in the same positions where they fell on the mulch trail far ahead. Their soft snoring was the only sound in the vicinity, apart from the leaves gently fluttering in the breeze.

I lifted my arm to see my crescent blade attached to the cuff, and then patted my makeshift pocket on my chest to find the individually wrapped protein bars tucked away.

How much of what I experienced was real? Had I been dreaming? Was my mind playing tricks on me?

With a subtle glance, conscious of the many cameras capturing the scene from various angles, and the potential presence of drones or cranes, I discreetly inspected the minuscule puncture mark in the crook of my elbow where a possible hypodermic needle had been.

If they had indeed transported me backstage or to a medical facility for blood work and vital checks, then it was possible they had administered steroids to Sonya's injured ankle to accelerate her healing.

Were they truly manipulating the course of the Games to favor certain participants, or were they exclusively aiding Sonya so she could eliminate me since I was the supposed threat to "Brigette" or Mother Holle's empire?

I rose to my feet, considering why I was the first to regain consciousness. My mind raced with questions about the fate of the others, whether they, too, had been taken backstage or to whatever place I had briefly been.

Among the Jeffrey brothers, it was Dylan who appeared to have some knowledge about this mysterious backstage area. I couldn't help but wonder how he had acquired this knowledge. Had he also regained consciousness during a backstage examination?

The purpose behind all of this remained shrouded in mystery. Why would they need to monitor our vitals in this twisted competition?

My mind swirled with a whirlwind of questions and concerns. The most pressing one, of course, was the whereabouts of my sister. If I couldn't stand by her side in this extreme game, what was the purpose of my presence other than hunting down Mother Holle to deliver a long-overdue reckoning?

The more the idea of hunting down the showrunner took root in my thoughts, the more it felt like a mission. If I didn't locate my sister soon, I feared I might lose myself in the most tragic way.