Instead of the profile reviews and strategizing from the night before, the hosts—grinning wide, arms spread—announce in hyperventilated unison:

"FAN COMMENTS!"

The contestants exchange wary looks, uncertain of what to expect. The hosts dispel their doubts. Two hours. Two hours of watching strangers dissect their lives, their appearances, their actions.

The onslaught begins. 

For most contestants, the comments are a mixed bag—encouragement, criticism, jokes, and outright insults. Yet the distribution is heavily skewed. Fifty percent of the short videos target Reese, an avalanche of adoration from both men and women. "Even before Live, Reese has always inspired me with his music!" one video exclaims. "It's amazing how he connects with people," another adds. "Honestly, I feel like he's changed my perspective on so many things. He gives me hope for, like, humanity!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she observes him. His usual easy confidence appears muted. His arms are crossed tightly against his chest, his expression unreadable, though a subtle twitch of his jaw hints at something simmering beneath the surface. His charismatic smile is absent, and his posture is closed off.

Why is he reacting this way? The outpouring of adoration is clearly meant to boost his popularity, yet he doesn't seem pleased. Instead, he exhibits a quiet intensity that Rebecca cannot decipher. It's neither his usual playful arrogance nor the effortless charm he so easily projects. She wonders if this has anything to do with what he told her last night—whether it's just another one of his acts or a rare glimpse behind the pop star mask.

Rebecca's own comments come mostly from men—lavishing praise on her looks and the 'fierce' side they claim to see—many laced with frankly disgusting propositions.

As the hosts read them out loud, dread sinks its claws into her ribs. They say things she's only ever heard in horny teenage movies, things she prays will never reach her father's ears. Fortunately, he doesn't own a TV—and even if he did, he wouldn't watch a reality show, not even for her. His caregiver, on the other hand... A wave of revulsion twists in her stomach.

After what feels like an eternity, the hosts finally bid farewell to the contestants and audience. The screen flickers off, and the lights come on. The contestants file out of the common room more quietly than the previous night, embarrassed, shocked by the image they project to the world outside Live. At least, that's what Rebecca feels. She waits until the room is nearly empty before making her way back to her dormitory. She had dinner before the show aired tonight, so she is now free to go to sleep. 

As she rounds the first corner, leading to the second row of bedroom doors, she spots a figure huddled on the floor, her shoulders shaking subtly.

It's a girl, younger than Rebecca—perhaps barely out of her teens. Her skin remains smooth, untouched by the harsh realities of the outside world or the brutal confines of Live. Her large, blue eyes—wide and innocent—hold a hint of unshed tears. Her blonde hair, once kept in a neat braid, now falls loose and messy, strands clinging to her damp cheeks. She is strikingly tall and broad-shouldered, and there is a naivete in her gaze that speaks of a sheltered life—a life violently interrupted and hurled into the chaotic turmoil of the game show.

"Do you think the battles will start tomorrow?" the girl asks Rebecca, her question sounds painfully comical over the upbeat strains of the ever-present theme song. Her question encapsulates the pervasive uncertainty they both feel.

Rebecca hesitates before sitting beside her. The girl does not flinch; instead, she stares at the floor, her fingers nervously twisting a loose strand of hair. Rebecca adopts a reassuring tone, projecting a calm confidence she does not entirely feel. "I bet there's something else tomorrow. I bet they'll surprise us," she says gently.

The words are as much for her own comfort as they are for the girl's—it's all she can muster to ease the rising tide of anxiety stirred by the young woman's vulnerable state. An uncomfortable silence settles in—haunted by doubts and possibilities. In the distance, the murmur of voices and the familiar thrum of the contestants' house grow louder.

"You know," the girl continues, wiping away her tears and straightening her back, her voice surprisingly calm, "I never imagined I'd know in advance that I was soon going to die." She shrugs—a gesture that feels almost too nonchalant given the gravity of her words. "At least I'll make sure to kiss Reese before I go. I've been a fan since he released 'Sky Blue.' No, wait—since 'Weeping Funny.'"

Rebecca stares at the younger contestant with a strange mix of pity and unease swirling within her. The girl's casual acceptance of her impending doom is unsettling. There is a chilling detachment in her tone, in her fatalistic resignation that clashes with her youth and apparent naivete. The laid-back way she speaks of death, coupled with her seemingly frivolous wish for a kiss from Reese, creates a dissonance that makes Rebecca's stomach churn. Yet something in the girl's committed gaze stops Rebecca from rolling her eyes. There is a painful fragility in the way she clings to normalcy in the face of unimaginable horror. Instead, Rebecca forces a smile, trying to project an air of casual amusement.

"Oh, you're aiming high," she says lightly, though a knot of tension tightens in her chest.

Morning arrives, and Rebecca wakes with the all-consuming question of what challenges Live has prepared for them today. The breakfast—earned through another social media post—is bland but edible. At the communal table, Reese, ever the showman, talks about shooting a music video with some of the contestants. The good-looking ones, he says, charming as ever while subtly reminding everyone of the ever-present cameras—and how much they love him.

"People are going to love you too, big guy, because you're gonna be with me!"

Training offers a welcome respite. The padded training room—thankfully free of cameras for now—provides a moment of genuine physical exertion. Rebecca moves with the grace honed by years of rigorous dance training, further enhanced by the microscopic fibers woven into her muscles. As she practices her combat techniques—a silent ballet of lethal strikes and evasive maneuvers—the salty note of sweat mingles with the scent of protective padding. It is her release, a way to channel the anger and frustration she feels toward the contrived reality that traps her.

Despite extending her training routine to nearly three hours, the respite is temporary. The inevitable return to the perpetual spectacle awaits her; the producers are already signaling for her and the other contestants to prepare for the next segment.

***

Author notes: Looks like Rebecca has made a new friend. But how smart is it to form friendships inside Live?