Aria woke the next morning to sunlight stabbing through gauzy curtains and the faint whine of her phone vibrating itself to death on the nightstand.
She didn't dream anymore—hadn't, since her first kill—but this body apparently came with nightmares. Sweat slicked her hairline. Somewhere in the dream, a blast, a boy's voice, and the echo of her own—"I get the first taco."
Her hand brushed against smooth skin again, and the wrongness hit like recoil. No muscle tension. No scars. The faint scent of jasmine lotion. Whoever this woman had been, she'd lived a life with manicures and ring lights.
The phone buzzed again.
> [Kelly]: "Wake up, queen. Crisis meeting in one hour. Dress cute."
[Kelly]: "And don't punch anyone this time."
Aria frowned. She scrolled higher. The chat above was a minefield of chaos—tabloid headlines, screenshots, hashtags.
> #AriaLaneExposed
#RefusesDirector
#TemperQueenStrikesAgain
A video thumbnail showed the "former" Aria yelling at a man twice her size on a film set. The clip froze on her face—tears, shaking voice, a slap that never landed. The comments section was a public execution.
> 💬 "She's crazy."
💬 "Can't act, can't behave. Why's she still in the industry?"
💬 "You reject him and expect to get another job? Delusional."
Aria's lips twitched.
A rejection. A scandal. A punishment.
Classic.
She looked around the apartment—too pink, too curated. Velvet sofa, white fur carpet, a mountain of unopened PR packages. On the vanity table, a single photograph: the "old" Aria smiling under studio lights, glassy eyes that didn't reach the soul.
Aria reached for the picture frame.
"Poor girl," she murmured. "You fought the wrong war."
A knock rattled the door.
Kelly burst in like a hurricane with a tablet, sunglasses, and a latte. "Okay, ground rules. No sarcasm, no arguing, no mentioning the last director incident. Just smile, cry if needed, and maybe say you've 'reflected deeply.'"
Aria tilted her head. "Reflected on what?"
"On you! On the mess!" Kelly waved the tablet at her. "You're trending again! People think you slept your way unsuccessfully. We can't let this define your brand!"
Aria blinked, deadpan. "You think I have a brand?"
Kelly groaned. "Don't start that agent-of-chaos thing again."
Aria hid a smile. The irony was exquisite.
She followed Kelly into the car—one of those tiny electric sedans that smelled faintly of perfume and despair.
Through tinted glass, the city shimmered. Skyscrapers replaced satellite uplinks, coffee replaced caffeine pills, and every billboard screamed at her in curated color: faces, filters, fame.
She glanced at her reflection again. Every movement this new body made was small, precise, afraid of space. She would have to unlearn strength—or at least learn to hide it.
They stopped at the production office. A small army of PR assistants bowed their heads in greeting like terrified interns before an execution.
The man at the center—Director Ren—sat with arms folded. Middle-aged, smug, perfectly polished. His eyes flicked up and down Aria's body, assessing, not meeting her gaze.
"You're early," he said flatly. "Unusual for you."
Aria's tone was light, silk over steel. "Thought I'd try a new tactic."
He smirked. "Your 'tactics' cost me a sponsor last time."
Kelly's nervous laugh ricocheted off the glass walls. "We've all learned from that incident! Aria's ready to cooperate—right, honey?"
Aria looked at him—really looked. The microflinch in his left eyelid, the way his thumb rubbed the ring on his finger.
Predator instinct catalogued everything.
She'd seen his type before.
Different uniform. Same rot.
"I don't do cooperation," she said softly. "I do results."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Kelly's strangled cough filled the room.
Ren's eyes narrowed. "You better hope you can provide both. Otherwise, this new show will be your last paycheck."
He shoved a contract across the desk. She skimmed it quickly—eyes darting over clauses, fees, a nondisclosure threat that could sink a small country.
She smiled sweetly. "Sign here?"
He nodded.
She clicked the pen, spun it once, and signed with the precision of a sniper shot.
"Good girl," he said.
The phrase curdled in her ears.
If she hadn't been trying to pass for soft, he'd already be missing teeth.
Outside the office, Kelly exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for days. "You didn't hit him! I'm so proud of you!"
Aria adjusted her sunglasses. "He's not worth the calories."
Kelly blinked. "What does that even mean?"
Aria just smiled.
Back in the car, she opened the show's file Kelly had emailed last night.
[Show Title]: Apocalypse Playground
Genre: Live survival challenge
Location: Abandoned amusement park, 20 contestants
Duration: 5 days live broadcast
Objective: "Survive" zombie attacks, complete missions, avoid elimination
Under Contestants List, familiar celebrity names flashed past—singers, influencers, actors, and one rival name in bold:
> Bianca Drew — Model, rising star, rumored to have replaced Aria in recent endorsement.
A smirk tugged at Aria's mouth.
"Bianca Drew," she whispered. "Let's see how you run when the 'zombies' start chasing."
The city lights blurred past the window. She could already feel her instincts waking—muscles twitching beneath fragile skin, hunger stirring like an old companion.
She'd lost her team, her body, her world. But she still had her mind, her reflexes, and her appetite.
This new life wanted a scandal?
Fine. She'd give them one.
She bit into the remaining croissant in her hand, crumbs scattering like shrapnel.
"Game on."