The second night in Apocalypse Park was colder than expected — not because of the weather, but because half the contestants were too afraid to leave their shelters.
Fake zombie moans echoed through the park's speaker system, a cheap attempt to keep tension alive.
It worked on everyone except Aria Lane.
She sat by her tiny fire pit, calmly polishing her frying pan with a rag that used to be part of a T-shirt.
The pan gleamed under the firelight like a loyal blade.
From the darkness, the ever-present drone hovered near her, recording everything.
Aria looked up. "What? Never seen a woman in love with her cookware before?"
> 💬 "Not the pan again 😂😂"
💬 "She's actually naming it, isn't she?"
💬 "This is a rom-com between Aria and a frying pan."
She smirked faintly. "Don't worry, guys. I'm not naming it. Yet."
---
At dawn, the contestants were summoned for another challenge.
The host — far too awake for this hour — stood on a wooden platform, his smile twitching under the weight of fake enthusiasm.
> "Good morning, brave survivors! Today's mission: defend your team's territory from a zombie horde!"
The plaza erupted in chatter and mild panic.
"Wait," Bianca snapped, "do we have a territory?"
The host blinked. "You do now! You're standing on it!"
Aria sighed, rolling her shoulders. "At least he's honest this time."
> 💬 "She's already tired of this man 😭"
💬 "If sarcasm were a weapon she'd have already won."
---
Each group received a crate of "defense supplies."
Inside: wooden sticks, duct tape, and… an assortment of cookware.
The host beamed. "Be creative!"
Bianca wrinkled her nose. "What are we supposed to do, cook the zombies?"
Aria plucked a pan from the box, testing its balance.
Her fingers curled around the handle like they'd done it a thousand times.
She grinned. "Exactly."
---
When the horn blared, chaos exploded.
"Zombies" — actors in tattered clothes — staggered through the park's gates, groaning like badly trained extras.
Contestants shrieked, running in every direction.
Bianca clung to a bench, screaming, "Don't touch me!"
Aria, however, moved through the chaos like it was choreography.
Her pan swung once, twice — clang, clang — two zombies down, one prop weapon shattered.
A camera drone swooped low, capturing every strike in cinematic slow motion.
Her movements were fluid, precise — too clean for television.
> 💬 "THAT FORM THO???"
💬 "She's not surviving the apocalypse, she's directing it."
💬 "Frying Pan Girl supremacy 🔥🔥🔥"
💬 "Someone give her a Netflix deal already."
---
Bianca's team had cornered themselves near the carousel, surrounded by zombies.
"Where's production?! They said they'd cut if it got dangerous!" she screamed.
Aria appeared behind her like a ghost, pan in hand, hair flying loose.
"Guess they're on lunch break," she said, stepping forward.
One zombie lunged. Aria ducked, pivoted, swung the pan into its chest — clang! — then spun the weapon on her wrist with a flourish.
Bianca's jaw dropped. "You—how did you even do that?"
"Practice," Aria said, eyes glinting. "And good cookware."
---
The livestream had officially lost its mind.
> 💬 "I want that pan in a museum."
💬 "She's cooler than the movie heroes!"
💬 "Chef Aria serving ass-kicking with extra seasoning."
By the time the horn sounded to signal mission completion, half the "zombies" were groaning on the ground, refusing to get up until someone confirmed the cameras were off.
One actor whispered to another, "I'm not going near her again. She means it when she swings."
---
Back at the camp, Aria was awarded the day's immunity token.
The host tried to play it off dramatically.
> "Congratulations, Miss Lane! For your… creative use of kitchen utensils, you've earned immunity!"
She saluted him with the pan. "My compliments to the chef."
> 💬 "'Compliments to the chef'—she's unstoppable 😭"
💬 "At this point she's not competing, she's freelancing."
💬 "This whole show is now a documentary about Aria's cooking weapon."
---
Later that night, the footage aired live.
The edit team had turned her entire fight into a cinematic montage with dramatic music.
Every swing, every smirk — perfection.
The internet crowned her a new nickname: The Frying Pan Goddess.
#FryingPanQueen
#ApocalypseChef
#ReflexesDontLie
Even the host tweeted:
> "If the apocalypse comes, I'm hiding behind Aria Lane (and her pan)."
---
Meanwhile, in a dark control room far from the show, Noah Hale replayed the same clip on his monitor.
He paused on the moment she spun the pan, eyes sharp and calculating.
His breath caught.
"I taught her that grip," he whispered.
Behind him, his handler asked, "So it's her?"
He nodded slowly. "It's her. She's alive."
He shut the laptop and stood.
"Get me into that park."
---
Back in her camp, Aria sat by her fire again, gently cleaning the pan.
She glanced up at the drone hovering nearby and smiled faintly.
"Don't get jealous," she told it. "You'll never shine like this beauty."
> 💬 "I love how she flirts with objects."
💬 "She's officially unhinged and I adore her."
The flames reflected in her eyes.
For everyone else, it was just a reality show.
For her, it was a warning flare in disguise — a signal to every ghost from her past that she wasn't gone.
And soon, they'd come for her.
Good.
She'd be ready — frying pan and all.