Rebecca's gaze shifts from the sprawling cityscape to the building's entrance below, where the lights blur into indistinct smears. Her balcony—an exclusive perch with a view—sits unnervingly close to the main entrance. From this vantage point, she notices a large electronic poster board above the reception area, its messages cycling in a rhythm that feels more like commands than mere decoration.

The first slogan flashes brightly, pulsing with relentless urgency: "DON'T FORGET TO POST." The words repeat more frequently than the others, reminding the imprisoned contestants of the show's obsessive need for engagement—after all, their lives depend on it. The slogan feels like the building's heartbeat, a rhythmic demand that refuses to be ignored.

Next, a softer yet far more sinister message appears: "YOU'LL GET THE LOVE YOU'VE NEVER HAD." The phrase creeps into Rebecca's mind like a quiet lullaby, exploiting her insecurities and toying with her desires. It promises warmth and deceit, aimed squarely at those who crave validation and yearn for connection at any cost.

The third message, far less frequent but infinitely more unnerving, reads: "THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO SHINE." The words serve as a warning—a countdown of her scarce time left.

Finally, a fourth message blinks into view, sharp and final: "THE PRIZE, FREEDOM." It speaks for itself. Freedom—dangled as the ultimate reward—feels both like salvation and mockery.

Rebecca stares at the board, her chest tightening as the slogans swirl together. The advertising is only a side effect; their true purpose is to exploit the contestants. Each message cuts deeper than the last, intended to manipulate and coerce. Together, they form a singular, unrelenting directive: Conform, or perish.

Below, the city lights—once vibrant and dazzling—now appear harsh, their brilliance marred by the game's oppressive reality. Even the faint murmur of the building's systems—the white noise she barely noticed before—now feels sinister, letting her know not even the air she's breathing is real, making sure she never forgets she is under surveillance. Every light, every sound, every slogan is part of the same machine, pressing down on her from all sides.

Back in her room, Rebecca lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The thin mattress offers little comfort, but that hardly matters—comfort is a distant luxury now. She reaches for her phone, hesitating as her fingers hover over the lock screen. When she finally swipes, its glow illuminates her face.

The screen feels alien in her hand—cold and unfamiliar. She does not know what she seeks, yet she cannot bring herself to set it down. Notifications flood in, fragments of the other contestants' desperation spilling through the digital noise.

"Hi, new followers!" chirps one voice, gratingly cheerful. Another, softer and more rehearsed, says, "Let me show you my room... it's... cozy." The forced intimacy—the transparent desperation to connect—feels almost comical.

Rebecca's own profile, once quiet and untouched, now teems with activity. Her follower count soars—thousands, maybe more—an inexplicable surge she cannot quite comprehend. When did it happen? How did it happen so fast? Her profile remains unchanged; it is still the same collection of photos and videos of her dancing, candid moments with friends and family, and the occasional shot of her cat. The only difference is that her life is now an open book, exposed for strangers to consume. Likes and comments pile up, the adoration pouring in faster than she can grasp.

The phone feels heavier in her hand with each passing moment, as if burdened by an audience she never asked for. She scrolls, numb, as messages continue to stream in. Their affection feels hollow—suffocating rather than uplifting.

A restless energy builds in her chest, propelling her to her feet. She slips out of her room, the familiar theme song of the show trailing her down the empty, C-shaped corridor like an omnipresent specter. Room 13 looms ahead, and before she can second-guess herself, she raises a hand and knocks.

The door slides open, revealing Reese standing before her. His expression is a dissonant blend of euphoria and something darker—an unease lurking in the shadows of his eyes. His practiced smirk stretches wide, a mask of triumph that fails to conceal the suspicion etched in his features.

He remains silent at first, waiting for her to break the stillness. Rebecca, her voice steadier than she feels, asks, "How many new followers do you have?"

The smirk deepens, turning almost predatory. "Two million," Reese replies, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "Two million new followers today." His voice purrs with excitement.

Rebecca's breath catches. The number is staggering, incomprehensible. A cold knot twists in her stomach as the reality of the game sinks in with crushing clarity. She glances up at one of the embedded cameras—they are probably watching her right now.

"I'm not sure that's a good thing," she murmurs.

Reese's eyes narrow, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before returning with a sharper edge. "It's not," he admits, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "Two million followers... that's not a victory. It's a target."

Rebecca turns, an urgent desire to retreat and hide from the world's gaze overwhelming her. The corridor stretches behind her—a sterile, white expanse leading back to the relative safety of her room. But Reese's hand, surprisingly gentle, rests on her arm, halting her retreat. "Wait," he says, his voice softer now.

The manic energy from earlier fades, replaced by a weariness that mirrors her own. "They don't care about the followers, not really. They care about the story, 42. And right now, they're writing it for us."

"My name isn't '42.' It's Rebecca," she replies firmly.

Reese's lips twitch into a bitter smile. "Rebecca," he repeats, as if testing the weight of her name. "Two million followers... that's a target on our backs. It's a liability, not an advantage. They'll want to see this... this... chronicle play out—to the bitter end." He pauses, his voice strained. "Or until one of us breaks." He continues, withdrawing his hand from her shoulder. "And when we fall, they'll cheer. Unless..." His voice trails off as his eyes search hers for understanding. "Unless we take control. You and me, Rebecca."

Rebecca responds immediately. "Ask someone else," she says, her voice cold and final. Without waiting for a reply, she turns and walks away.

The corridor feels lighter, less oppressive, as she leaves him behind. His invitation is tempting, but she does not allow herself to falter. Whatever narrative the game is building, she refuses to let Reese or anyone else dictate her role in it. For now, the path ahead is hers alone—and she intends to keep it that way.