II

Her phone explodes with notifications—The screen drowned in messages, comments, and reactions. When she unlocks her phone, a head-spinning mix of support and vitriol floods in: sympathetic messages like “Poor thing, it’s inhumane” and “We’re here to support you,” intermingled with disturbingly obsessive declarations such as “I swear if you get out I’ll make you my wife.” The massive volume of attention feels suffocating.

These are the same people who tune in nightly to watch the brutal battles, the same ones who decide who lives and dies. The disconnect is jarring; their sudden empathy feels like a grotesque parody of a real connection. The ones who obsess over her don’t frighten her—it’s those who truly care about her well-being that unsettle her. They already know her fate: she’s destined to die in two months, or however long the show lasts. Why invest in her?

Even with her stalkers lurking, Rebecca feels a surprising calm during dinner. The simple act of eating—a basic human need—feels like a small victory, though a full stomach does little to quell the unease gnawing at her.

That night, sleep eludes her. Her body remains restless, her mind a storm of racing thoughts. She sits up, her hand brushing the cool surface of the nightstand as she reaches for her phone. A few taps on Live’s music app, and the soft, haunting strains of a piano fill her room.

She rises slowly, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. Her movements are tentative at first—a plié here, a pirouette there—her body remembering what her mind has tried to forget. The music wraps around her like a familiar embrace, and for a fleeting moment, she feels weightless, free. Her arms extend, her legs sweep through the air, and she becomes lost in the rhythm, moving with a grace she thought was lost.

But then the memories creep in: the harsh studio lights, the judges’ scrutinizing eyes, the applause that once filled her with pride—and what followed. The red faces, mocking laughs, the suffocating press of bodies, and the sudden, searing pain that stole the ground from beneath her... the endless nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if she would ever be whole again.

Her steps falter. The music, once soothing, now feels oppressive, each note striking a nerve. Her chest tightens, her breaths come in shallow gasps. She stumbles, catching her reflection in the mirror. Instead of a dancer, she sees only a shadow of who she once was.

Rebecca stops. Her arms drop limply to her sides. She reaches out and silences the music; the sudden quiet leaves her feeling empty. She stands there, motionless, pushing away the images of her past and the tight knot they twist in her chest.

Then a soft knock echoes at her door.

“Open up, Becky. I’m just here to talk,” a familiar voice whispers from the other side. Rebecca freezes, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

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Cautiously, she approaches while keeping the door firmly shut. “What do you want?” she asks, her voice tight with apprehension. After a stretch of silence, Reese’s voice—so much softer than expected—replies, “I want to make a deal.”

Rebecca remains silent, her gaze fixed on the reinforced steel door as she catches her breath. Reese presses on, “Just watch my story, will ya?” His voice rises. “I can’t stand the thought of you believing that pathetic version of me they’re feeding the public.”

Although she feels a twinge of hesitation, Rebecca's curiosity wins out, and she taps open the app to check out Reese's profile. The video begins. He looks nothing like the misunderstood victim the show has been broadcasting. In the video, Reese stands with an unyielding posture, his tousled hair only adding to his fierce presence. He exudes pride and defiance, refusing to be diminished. Yet it is not his attitude that shocks Rebecca—it is his words. He directly addresses his fans, taking full responsibility for his actions. He confesses to orchestrating riots and crimes, detailing his role with unsettling frankness. He admits to masterminding acts of vandalism and even violence, showing no remorse. He makes it clear he doesn’t care about sympathy or public opinion; he intends to remain true to his “brothers and sisters,” his voice stripped of its usual polished charm and replaced by an unfiltered, defiant energy.

The video ends, and Rebecca's perception changes. There is something compelling about the way Reese owns up to his crimes—raw, dangerous, and undeniably honest. She cannot help but admit it. His willingness to dismantle a more convenient, sanitized image and embrace a villainous role while remaining loyal to his fans reveals a self-awareness and control she had not anticipated.

She's left speechless—the ventilation system whispers behind her, the fading echo of piano notes rings in her ears—and she feels pressured to say something, But why? What happens if she doesn’t?

She finally asks, “So… that’s your deal?”

Reese chuckles with a quiet growl from his throat. “That’s just the appetizer. The main course involves you.” He pauses. “You and me, moving across the chess board together.”

A brief, tense silence follows. Yes, she respects him now—she admits it—but can she trust him? If anything, he seems even more intimidating.

“Leave me alone, okay?” she adds firmly, her tone resolute.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, undeterred.

Rebecca furrows her brow, wondering in what universe “leave me alone” could be taken as a yes. Still, without really thinking about it, without even realizing it, she replies, “I’ll think about it.”

She waits, straining to catch any sound that might indicate Reese is still there. Convinced at last that he has departed, she withdraws to her bed, the metallic frame cold against her skin.

Sleep comes reluctantly, filled with restless images and vivid, unsettling dreams. In her dream, she wanders a labyrinthine corridor, the walls closing in, the time running out. Reese appears—not as the polished pop star, nor even as the defiant rebel from his video, but as a shifting shadow, both familiar and utterly alien. His eyes burn with an intensity that chills her to the bone, and when he speaks, his voice is a distorted echo of what she heard earlier—a tapestry of promises and threats, manipulation and danger that leaves her breathless and terrified. She tries to flee, but her movements are sluggish. Her legs and arms feel weak and heavy. The dream ends abruptly, leaving her heart pounding and her breath ragged. Little by little, her reality takes hold—colder and more menacing than any nightmare.