The first night mission started with flashing lights and fake thunder, the kind of drama producers thought would scare the living daylights out of contestants.
It worked — mostly.
Half the influencers screamed at their own shadows.
Bianca Drew refused to leave the safe zone until someone promised the "zombies" wouldn't touch her hair extensions.
Aria just rolled her shoulders and tied her jacket around her waist. "What's tonight's mission?"
The assistant director's voice crackled through the loudspeaker:
> "Retrieve three fuel cans from the roller coaster station before sunrise. Avoid the zombies. Points double for solo runs."
"Solo runs," Aria repeated. "How generous."
Her teammate, the trainee singer, squeaked, "You're not seriously going alone, right?!"
"I move faster without screaming."
The kid gulped. "But they said they can grab people this round—"
Aria smiled. "Then they'll regret it."
---
Five minutes later, the camera drone followed her through the misty park.
Fog machines puffed around her like ghosts. The metal skeleton of the roller coaster loomed ahead, its broken tracks stretching into the dark sky.
The chat was already boiling over.
> 💬 "Of course she's going solo again."
💬 "This woman is allergic to teams."
💬 "She's going to punch another zombie, isn't she?"
💬 "#AriaLaneDeathWish trending now."
Her boots crunched over gravel. A shadow flitted across the corner of her vision.
She didn't flinch — she counted the movement, the rhythm, the breathing.
Too controlled. Not random enough to be a real actor stumbling.
"Come on, then," she whispered. "Let's dance."
A "zombie" lunged out of the dark, howling on cue. Its makeup was good — latex scars, fake blood, the whole deal — but the momentum was wrong.
Too heavy. Too direct.
He wasn't pretending to scare; he was trying to hit.
Aria ducked, pivoted, and drove her elbow straight into his chest. The man flew backward, landing with a groan that didn't sound rehearsed.
The drone froze midair, whirring in confusion.
The livestream chat detonated.
> 💬 "SHE JUST YEETED A ZOMBIE INTO ANOTHER DIMENSION."
💬 "Did she just BREAK character?!"
💬 "That was NOT in the script holy—"
💬 "Someone get her an action movie NOW."
Aria crouched next to the fallen man. His mask had slipped slightly, revealing part of a tattoo near his jaw — a small wing symbol.
Her symbol.
The same insignia she'd seen on the control box yesterday.
Her pulse slowed. Agency.
The man coughed weakly, reaching for his communicator.
Aria grabbed it first, smiling for the camera as she pretended to "help" him.
"Oops," she said cheerfully, pocketing the device. "He'll be fine. Little stage fright."
The host's voice burst through the speaker system, almost panicked.
> "Wow! Incredible realism from our performers tonight! Truly immersive!"
The chat feed lit up with laughing emojis and praise.
But Aria knew better — the tremor in that man's hand wasn't acting.
She left him there and continued toward the roller coaster.
---
The inside of the station smelled like dust and ozone.
Three fake fuel cans stood on a table marked "Mission Complete." Too easy. Too visible.
She crouched to check underneath — and found another one of those metallic patches embedded into the floor, blinking faintly.
Another tracker.
The message from before echoed in her mind: They're testing for something.
Her instincts screamed that this wasn't entertainment anymore. Someone was using the show as a cover — maybe to find her, maybe to flush her out.
She picked up one of the cans, turned toward the drone, and smiled like nothing was wrong.
"Mission accomplished," she said. "Do I get a snack for this?"
> 💬 "She's unbothered, unstoppable, and probably armed."
💬 "I want her confidence."
💬 "How is she calm while everyone else is crying?"
She dropped the can into her bag and headed back.
---
Halfway across the midway, another "zombie" stumbled out — smaller, slower, waving hands in obvious fear.
Aria recognized him — one of the trainee actors she'd seen at orientation.
"Hey— wait— please," he whispered frantically, forgetting his role. "Something's wrong. People aren't coming back from the east side—"
Then his mic cut out.
The loudspeaker blared over him, drowning out his words:
> "Fantastic! The realism tonight is unbelievable! Keep it up, contestants!"
The kid's eyes went wide. "They're muting us. They—"
A shadow moved behind him.
Before Aria could react, he was yanked backward into the dark. Gone.
The camera drone focused on her face — perfectly still, perfectly calm.
"Guess we're improvising," she said softly.
---
Back at the base camp, her teammates screamed when she emerged from the mist alone, dragging two fuel cans.
"Where's the others?!" Bianca demanded.
Aria shrugged. "Guess they didn't make it."
"Did you see blood?!" someone gasped.
"Just bad acting."
The chat went wild again.
> 💬 "She's so chill it's scary."
💬 "Queen of Doom."
💬 "There's no way she's not ex-military."
In the production trailer, the director stared at the feed, pale as chalk. "Get her off the main camera. NOW."
"Sir," a tech whispered, "you can't. The audience engagement just broke records."
Aria, sitting by the flickering campfire, unwrapped a protein bar from her pack, chewing thoughtfully while others trembled.
The flames danced in her eyes like something hungry and ancient.
For the first time since she'd woken up in this world, she felt truly alive again — hunted, alert, awake.
Someone had built this playground to trap her.
Too bad no one told them she was the one who wrote the rulebook.