Reese's voice cuts through the general murmur, instantly recognizable. He stands amid a cluster of contestants, his laughter loud and unrestrained as he gestures dramatically, his words carrying effortlessly down the hallway. The scene blends confidence with insecurity—an appeal aimed at anyone within earshot. From a distance, Rebecca watches, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. His desperate need for attention strikes her as almost pitiful, reminiscent of a small child whose mother is too distracted by a drunken husband or unpaid bills—seeking attention, approval, any form of parental care amid a chaotic family breakdown.

A soft chuckle escapes her lips, barely audible above the noise yet somehow carrying. From the corner of her eye, she notices a shift among the group around Reese. His attention wavers, then homes in on her quiet laugh. He pauses mid-sentence, his gaze prowling the hallway. Does he see her? Does he know it was her who laughed? She wonders silently. His expression remains unreadable, his dark, fathomless eyes unnerving her. After a beat, he resumes his boisterous talk, but that brief pause— that faint hesitation—tells her he might have noticed. She hopes not; the last thing she wants is the ire of a self-proclaimed celebrity and his fanatical admirers. She already suspects how unforgiving this world of Live can be, even after just a few hours.

When Reese finally finishes his theatrical display, his gaze snaps to Rebecca. Pushing through the dispersing crowd with a predatory ease that contradicts the childishness she saw moments before, he approaches her from the side. His voice smoothes into something almost intimate. The shift is unnerving—one moment, he was the center of attention; now, his words wrap around her like a whispered secret. They wash over her, speaking of shared vulnerability, the ruthless nature of the game, and a vague offer of protection. He speaks clearly, with a melodic tone, yet an undercurrent of unease warps his sentences into an unintelligible blur in her mind.

An announcement cuts through his feigned charm: 

"Contestants, return to your designated quarters. Preparation for the nightly events starts in thirty minutes."

The voice is flat and mechanical, permitting no debate.

Rebecca stands briskly, her movements abrupt. She dismisses his words without a glance, letting the metallic click of her heels echo down the corridor. The hall empties swiftly, and its sudden stillness amplifies the low, mechanical thrum within the building. Her adrenaline fades, leaving behind that unsettling tension which is becoming routine. She reaches her room, and the steel door slides open with a clean hiss.

Inside, she hardly recognizes the space as part of the same facility. A minimal, feminine yet sterile design greets her. Silent—a world apart from the chaos in the hallway. The only decoration, a round mirror, reflects her intense, contemplative face. She studies her reflection, sifting through fragments of Reese’s words; the scattered pieces reveal his manipulative tendencies. For a moment, she considers forming an alliance, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it appears. His offer feels less like genuine interest and more like a ploy to break through her guarded shell. Still, she cannot shake the sting of unease—he has prodded an old wound, a latent pain she carried long before Live invaded her life.

Drifting onto her tiny private balcony, Rebecca gazes at the glittering cityscape, yet the hypnotic neon lights against the night sky fail to soothe the agitation boiling in her chest. Perhaps for the first time all day, she truly understands where she is, why she’s here, and what it all means. And she sees only two futures ahead of her: either submitting to the game—pretending to be someone she’s not, shamelessly licking other people’s butts, destroying her character with white lies, everything she so determinedly avoided in the dancing world—or dying.