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, their smiles wide and easy. It's clear that the new furniture has somehow managed to transform these cutthroat competitors into one big happy family. But Rebecca knows better. It's 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, throwing its glow across the contestants. The screen shows the arena, a sprawling landscape of neon lights and roaring crowds. Rebecca feels the energy of the scene even from here, but she can't understand their excitement. Are they cheering for them or for their deaths? In the center of it all, on a raised platform, the two hosts command attention. Their smiles are flawless, their movements precise. Every gesture feels rehearsed, perfected, like everything else in this game.

"Oi, oi, oi," the male host shouts, his voice too loud, too 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 says, her tone syrupy sweet.

Their voices are amplified, not for the contestants, but for the audience—the ones in the arena and the viewers who sit comfortably in their homes. The male host motions to the massive screen behind them. One by one, the contestants' profiles appear, their crimes and the ever-crucial follower count.

"He came in with only ten," the woman says, her voice trembling with mock emotion. "And now? Now he could fill three stadiums!" She wipes an invisible tear, pausing just long enough to let the audience drink it in.

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

"A self-made man," the male host announces, his voice thick 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 face, strikingly handsome, framed by soft lighting, his smile confident but not arrogant. Numbers pulse around him—millions of followers, glowing endorsements.

Rebecca swallows hard. She remembers reading about the riot. One version blamed Reese entirely, while another called him a victim of his fans' recklessness. The truth doesn't 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 woman continues, her voice soft and tragic. "She was poised for greatness—can you imagine? And then, driven to desperation, she lashed out."

The man steps forward, lowering his voice like he's delivering a eulogy. "A single moment of rage, and her entire world burned to ash."

On the screen, her mugshot appears, harsh and unflattering. Next to it are 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 but understandable, a narrative designed to pull the viewers' heartstrings.

Rebecca's stomach twists. The manipulation is so blatant, it's almost laughable. But the other contestants don't laugh. Their gazes focus on her now, filled with pity, judgment, and other things she can't quite name.

Across the room, Reese watches her profile with an expression she can't read. His mask of confidence falters for a split second—enough for Rebecca to catch a hint of something. Surprise? Respect? It's gone before she can decide.

The screen shifts, turning its attention to the next contestant. The twins, who had seemed polished and harmless, are exposed for what they are—calculating and cruel, their parents demise laid bare. The sobbing woman from earlier is revealed as a drug addict who tried to sell her own child on the dark web. One by one, the contestants are stripped down to the worst versions of themselves, their humanity warped into entertainment.

Rebecca studies the room, her chest tightening. She doesn't see allies or enemies anymore. She sees people—broken and battered, trapped in this machine just like her, while the producers pull the strings and the audience eats it up.

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