The production compound sat on the edge of the city, tucked behind a row of abandoned warehouses that looked exactly like every covert ops mission Aria had ever survived.
Kelly parked the car with trembling hands. "I swear this place gives me anxiety."
Aria looked out the window. Cracked concrete, rusted roller coaster tracks in the distance, a ferris wheel half swallowed by ivy. The air smelled faintly of rain, metal, and money.
"Smells like home," she murmured.
Kelly gave her a look. "Your definition of home terrifies me."
A group of contestants milled near the check-in gate — all dressed for danger but clearly allergic to dirt. Ring lights reflected in their sunglasses. One of them squealed as her white sneakers brushed against a puddle.
A camera drone whirred overhead, blinking red like an electronic eye.
"Smile," Kelly hissed. "They're streaming pre-footage for the fans."
Aria plastered on a delicate smile, the kind that said I'm harmless, while scanning the area with the precision of a sniper.
Twenty contestants. Five camera crews. Two security guards pretending to be relaxed. One exit, poorly monitored.
Old habits refused to die.
"Aria Lane!" a woman's syrupy voice cut through the chatter.
Bianca Drew, the rival. Every inch of her radiated polished hostility — perfect hair, expensive perfume, a grin that could curdle milk.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Bianca said sweetly. "I thought you only survived scandals, not survival shows."
Aria tilted her head. "Oh, I'm good at both. Want lessons?"
Bianca's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Cameras caught it.
Kelly whispered, horrified, "You're trending again and we haven't even started."
The host appeared — tall, loud, and full of synthetic energy. "Contestants! Welcome to Apocalypse Playground!"
The crowd cheered. Aria didn't.
The host continued, "Over the next five days, you'll navigate our re-created zombie wasteland. Cameras will follow you everywhere. Every movement, every alliance, every scream — broadcast live!"
A few contestants giggled nervously. Aria just adjusted her jacket.
He added dramatically, "Those who can't handle the pressure can call it quits by signaling to the nearest drone. Survival isn't guaranteed — even without real zombies."
"Even without?" Aria muttered. "Cute wording."
Bianca leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't worry, sweetie. If you faint, I'll make sure to look shocked for the camera."
Aria smiled pleasantly. "If you trip, I'll make sure to help… after I finish my snack."
Kelly pinched her arm. "Play nice!"
"I am," Aria said. "This is my nice voice."
They were ushered to the costume tent next. The outfits were a mix of tactical and trendy — fake dirt artfully smeared, distressed jeans, "apocalyptic chic."
Aria inspected hers: a black combat vest over a thin shirt and cargo pants.
Not bad. Functional. She'd worn worse.
While changing, she overheard two makeup artists whispering:
"Is that the Aria Lane? The scandal one?"
"Yeah, the fried chicken girl! She's actually kinda cool."
"Bet she won't last a day out there."
Aria smirked. Challenge accepted.
Kelly waited outside the tent, clutching her clipboard like a life raft. "Okay, reminder: you're supposed to appear soft but determined. Think… kitten with trauma."
"Got it," Aria said. "Predator pretending to be prey."
"NO—!"
Too late.
The production assistant handed her a mic and a water bottle. "Miss Lane, interview time! Can you say a few words for the livestream?"
Aria turned toward the nearest camera, face framed perfectly by late afternoon light.
"Hi everyone," she began sweetly, voice as soft as sugar hiding a knife. "I'm not sure how long I'll last, but I can promise I won't die hungry."
The comment section exploded immediately:
> 💬 "Fried chicken girl's back!!"
💬 "She's gonna eat the zombies, isn't she?"
💬 "Queen of quotes never misses."
The host laughed. "Confident! I like it. Let's hope you keep that energy when the night missions start."
Aria smiled faintly. "Oh, I plan to."
As the contestants loaded into the transport vans headed for the game zone, Aria sat by the window, watching the city fade into wilderness. The road wound through mist and overgrown grass, the amusement park silhouette looming larger with every mile.
Kelly texted from another vehicle:
> [Kelly]: Remember, no punching, no hacking, no—
Aria's reply was instant:
> [Aria]: No promises.
Her phone buzzed again — but not from Kelly.
> [Unknown]: You really shouldn't have come. They're testing for something.
She typed back without hesitation.
> [Aria]: Good. I like tests. They show who breaks first.
The message marked as "read." No response.
The van jolted as they entered the gates.
Behind her, Bianca complained about the dust. In front, a camera drone hovered like an omen.
Aria glanced up at the creaking ferris wheel ahead, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the blood-orange sky.
Whatever game this was, it wasn't just television. She could feel it — in her gut, in her bones.
Someone had built this "show" like a trap.
And she had just stepped right into it — smiling.