Silence.
Not the tactical kind—the kind that hums between gunshots—but the wrong kind. The kind that eats sound from the inside out.
Aria blinked into white. Not light. White.
The sterile, disorienting kind that felt like waking inside a hospital lamp.
Her lungs refused air. Her brain refused reason. The weight on her chest felt too small, too soft.
She moved a hand—slowly, like it might not belong to her. The nails were glossy pink. The skin was smooth, no calluses, no faint scars from a decade of knives and trigger guards. Her fingers weren't her fingers.
A voice murmured nearby, syrup-thick and nasal.
"Oh my god, she's awake! Aria, can you hear me?"
Aria.
The name hit her harder than the blast.
She tried to sit up, and the room spun in polite, pastel colors—lavender curtains, flower-scented air, a hospital monitor that beeped like it was afraid of her.
Her throat scraped when she spoke. "Where's Malik?"
The woman beside her—young, in an ill-fitting blazer—froze mid-gasp. "Malik? Who's that? Sweetheart, you hit your head, okay? I'm your manager—Kelly! Don't you remember me?"
Manager?
Aria stared. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the monitor screen.
A delicate face blinked back. Pale skin. Long lashes. A beauty mark under one eye. No trace of her battle-hardened self.
No scars. No muscle definition.
Just a stranger.
She swallowed the impossible. Her agent brain did the math anyway.
New body. Unknown environment. Unfamiliar alias.
Possible scenarios:
① Amnesia simulation (unlikely).
② Black-ops containment.
③ …Or the worst: consciousness transfer.
Kelly fanned herself with a stack of papers. "You scared the hell out of me, girl! The media's been eating us alive since you fainted on that set. You can't afford another collapse, okay? They're calling you the queen of bad luck! And if you cancel one more gig, the sponsors will walk."
"Set?" Aria croaked.
Kelly sighed dramatically. "Don't tell me you forgot about the zombie survival show. I got you that slot to clean your image! Filming starts in three days."
Zombie survival.
Show.
Filming.
…Live.
The words rearranged themselves like targets in her mind.
Aria Lane—this body—was a celebrity. A very low-tier one, apparently.
She scanned the room again. Designer handbag. Tabloid magazines. An untouched fruit basket labeled "Get well soon, Queen of Scandals!"
Perfect. She'd been dropped into a PR nightmare.
The door burst open.
A nurse entered with a tray of food—soup, crackers, and something green that claimed to be healthy.
The smell hit her nose.
Aria, lifelong operative, first of her unit, who'd eaten grasshoppers in Afghanistan and survived three weeks in Siberia on melted snow—almost groaned aloud.
Her stomach betrayed her with a low, primal growl.
Kelly blinked. "You—uh—want me to feed you?"
Aria grabbed the spoon before the woman could finish. "No. Step back. I'm starving."
She downed the soup with the precision of a soldier under fire.
Kelly stared, half-horrified, half-relieved. "Okay… okay… that's new. Usually, you don't eat carbs. Or anything that isn't Instagram-friendly."
Aria wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Carbs save lives."
Kelly blinked again. "Sorry, what?"
Aria leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly, testing the new voice in her throat. Softer. Higher pitch.
This wasn't her world. But weakness? That was a role she'd learned to play long before she'd ever picked up a gun.
"Kelly," she said sweetly, "send me everything about the show. Rules, cast list, layout—everything. I want it tonight."
The manager gawked. "You… actually want to prepare?"
Aria smiled. "Preparation is survival."
Kelly nodded uncertainly and hurried out, muttering about brand damage.
Aria waited until the door clicked shut.
Then she ripped off the monitor wires, swung her legs off the bed, and stood—too fast, too easily for someone "weak." Her body protested faintly, but her reflexes adapted in seconds.
She found a mirror near the sink. The stranger stared back again—big eyes, trembling lips, a softness that could fool a firing squad.
"Alright, sweetheart," she told her reflection quietly. "If you're gonna live my life, I guess I'll have to live yours."
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Unknown number. Text message:
> [Survival Show Cast Chat Group Created]
Welcome to "Apocalypse Playground" 🎥 Live in 3 days!
Aria scrolled through the participant list. Twenty names. Influencers, singers, actors.
One note in her mind: 20 players, 1 arena, 24 cameras.
She smirked.
"Sounds like a mission," she murmured. "Except this time, the bullets are fake."
She picked up a cracker, chewed slowly, eyes gleaming with a predator's humor.
"Let's see who the real zombie is when the lights go out."