By the third night, the park had changed.
The production crew called it "atmosphere."
Aria called it "bad lighting and worse intentions."
Fog rolled low over the cracked concrete, and the once-silly background music had been replaced by an eerie hum. The loudspeakers crackled every few minutes — too quiet to be background noise, too distorted to be random.
Twenty contestants entered the night's challenge.
Only nineteen came back.
---
The rules were simple — which meant they weren't.
> "Survive the night," the host announced brightly.
"Do not remove your wristbands.
Do not attack the crew.
And above all… don't get bitten."
The audience laughed at that last line.
Aria didn't.
She was too busy watching the extras shuffle out from the shadows — the "zombies." Their makeup was perfect, grotesque even, but it wasn't the latex or the fake blood that made her frown.
It was the way they moved.
"Too coordinated," she muttered. "Someone trained them."
Bianca, nearby, hugged herself. "Oh please. It's a reality show, not a horror movie."
Aria smirked faintly. "That's what they all say before the credits roll."
> 💬 "She's joking but she's so dead serious 😭"
💬 "The sass keeps me alive."
💬 "She knows something we don't."
---
The first hour was harmless enough — contestants running in circles, fake zombies growling, chat exploding with laughter.
Then the feed caught something strange.
A figure in the background — not quite matching the others — moving faster, too sharp, too deliberate.
He tackled a contestant with real force.
The scream wasn't staged.
Aria's head snapped toward the sound before anyone else reacted.
Her instincts kicked in.
She sprinted through the fog, her frying pan swinging low and steady.
"Cut the feed!" someone shouted from the production tent — too late.
The drone followed her, catching the moment in perfect clarity.
The zombie lunged again, and she ducked, twisting her hips, slamming the pan across his jaw with a ringing CRACK.
The impact echoed across the park.
The man collapsed — and didn't get back up.
---
Silence.
Then chaos.
Contestants screamed, scattering like startled pigeons.
Bianca froze, trembling behind a broken game booth.
The chat exploded faster than the crew could moderate it.
> 💬 "THAT SOUND WAS REAL."
💬 "She hit him like a pro!"
💬 "Was that supposed to happen???"
💬 "Why did he move like that?!?"
The director slammed his headset onto the console. "What the hell was that?!"
"Not ours," the stage manager stammered. "That one wasn't from makeup. No actor ID, no signal tag."
"Then who the hell—"
Onscreen, Aria crouched over the fallen "zombie," checking his pulse with calm efficiency.
Nothing. No heartbeat.
Her jaw tightened. "This isn't a game anymore."
---
Bianca crept closer, shaking. "Wh-what do you mean?"
Aria glanced at her, eyes cold and sharp. "He wasn't part of the crew. Look—no implant, no safety padding."
"Then who—who is he?"
Aria didn't answer. She looked up at the nearest drone and smiled thinly.
"Ask your boss."
> 💬 "She's terrifying when she smiles 😳"
💬 "She's not acting anymore."
💬 "I swear production's hiding something."
---
The feed cut to "technical difficulties" for ten full minutes.
But by then, millions of viewers had already clipped the fight, dissected it frame by frame.
Forums lit up with theories.
Fans compared her stance to military combat footage.
Someone even slowed it down enough to catch the moment her expression changed — calm, focused, lethal.
> 💬 "That's not panic. That's training."
💬 "Who is Aria Lane really?"
💬 "#ReflexesDontLie is trending again."
---
When the broadcast resumed, the host's voice shook slightly.
> "And what a thrilling performance from our contestants! Amazing realism, huh, folks?!"
Aria leaned against a wall, her frying pan resting on her shoulder like a weapon of divine retribution.
She muttered just loud enough for the drone's mic to catch it:
"If that's acting, someone deserves an Oscar and a hospital bed."
> 💬 "SHE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT 💀"
💬 "Aria's PR team quit five minutes ago."
💬 "No lies detected."
---
In the control tent, Marcus slammed his coffee onto the table.
"She's improvising again! She's breaking tone, breaking protocol—breaking everything!"
The director rubbed his temples. "And somehow, the numbers just doubled. Don't touch her feed."
---
By sunrise, Aria had dragged two injured contestants back to camp, stabilized them, and resumed sipping instant coffee as though nothing had happened.
Bianca watched her from across the fire, eyes wide.
"You didn't even look scared," she whispered.
Aria looked up. "Scared people make mistakes. I don't like mistakes."
> 💬 "That line just unlocked a new phobia."
💬 "She's Batman with snacks."
💬 "This show's not about zombies anymore—it's about surviving her."
---
That night, Noah Hale watched the replay for the hundredth time.
He froze on the moment she turned her head toward the drone, that ghost of a smirk at the corner of her mouth.
He exhaled shakily.
"Yeah," he murmured. "That's her."
He reached for his comm.
> "Requesting immediate access to the Apocalypse Park perimeter. Priority one: confirm subject safety."
The operator hesitated.
> "But sir, headquarters still lists A-01 as deceased."
Noah smiled faintly. "Then someone better update their files."
---
And inside the park, under the flickering neon glow, Aria leaned back against a rusted carousel horse, eyes half-lidded.
For the first time since she woke in this world, she whispered her old name to herself.
"Agent A-01," she said quietly.
Then she smiled — a small, dangerous smile.
"Still standing."