It was past midnight in Apocalypse Playground, and for the first time in days, the park was almost quiet.
The drones drifted higher, the lights dimmed to simulation-night mode, and the contestants were finally asleep — or pretending to be.
Everyone except Aria Lane.
She moved barefoot through the fog, a silent shadow gliding between cracked stalls and flickering neon lights.
Her destination? The off-limits prop kitchen, a.k.a. heaven on earth for an insomniac foodie with zero respect for rules.
"Transparency Day," she muttered under her breath. "Sure. I'll start by being transparent about my appetite."
> 💬 "It's literally 2AM and she's going to raid the food stash 😭"
💬 "Queen said snack rights > show rules."
💬 "Is this a thriller or a cooking vlog now??"
---
The kitchen door had a flimsy keypad lock.
Aria gave it a look that said you poor thing, then tapped in the code she'd memorized earlier from the crew's screens.
The door clicked open.
Inside was paradise: instant noodles, snack boxes, a half-eaten cake with someone's name scribbled in icing ("To: Director. From: PR.")
She grabbed a handful of chocolate bars, two instant soups, and—after a long internal debate—the cake.
"I'm risking my career anyway," she said. "Might as well add diabetes."
> 💬 "THE CAKE IS STOLEN. I REPEAT, THE CAKE IS STOLEN."
💬 "She's committing crimes with elegance."
💬 "Production crying and she's like 'snack time' 💀"
---
She perched on the counter, fork in one hand, frying pan resting beside her, eating straight from the cake plate.
The drone near the ceiling hummed softly. She looked up at it, unbothered.
"Caught me again?" she said. "Fine. Let's give them a show."
She faced the drone, fork raised like a toast.
"To surviving scandals, fake zombies, and starvation diets. May we never run out of frosting."
> 💬 "ICONIC."
💬 "She's turning every rule break into a quote."
💬 "Even cake looks like a power move when she eats it."
---
But as she took another bite, something flickered behind one of the metal racks — a faint red light.
Not drone movement. Not reflection.
A smaller lens. A different camera.
Her smile faded.
She set the fork down quietly, stood, and approached the rack.
There it was — a hidden black camera no bigger than her thumb, embedded behind a can of beans.
Not standard production issue. No label. No ID tag.
She crouched, studying it.
The metal frame had faint engraving along the edge, almost invisible under the dim light.
She brushed away the dust — and froze.
[PROPERTY OF A-01 – FIELD ISSUE UNIT]
Her own designation.
From her old life.
The cake didn't taste sweet anymore.
---
For a long moment, she didn't move. The air seemed to thicken, pressing against her chest.
She reached out, fingertips hovering just above the lens.
Someone was watching her through this — not a director, not a fan. Someone who knew who she really was.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Cute trick," she said. "But I invented it."
She pulled the entire camera free, disconnected its power line, and tucked it into her jacket.
Then she turned to the nearest production drone and smiled sweetly.
"Hey, chat," she said, lifting the cake again. "Don't mind me. Just taking leftovers."
> 💬 "Did she just talk to us after glaring at something off-screen???"
💬 "Why did her expression change like that? That wasn't acting."
💬 "Bro I swear she's in another movie entirely."
---
In the control tent, Marcus's phone rang again — but it wasn't the studio this time.
The caller ID read UNKNOWN NETWORK: PRIORITY OVERRIDE.
He answered cautiously. "Hello?"
A calm voice came through.
> "You're losing control of your subject."
Marcus swallowed. "Subject? You mean—"
> "A-01," the voice said. "Containment failed. Retrieval is now active."
The line went dead.
---
Outside, Noah Hale crouched behind the perimeter fence, staring at his tracker.
The signal from Aria's wristband blinked erratically, jumping between zones.
"She's scrambling her location again," he muttered. "Smart girl."
Then a second signal appeared — short-range, encrypted, piggybacking off her feed.
He recognized the signature instantly.
Agency tech.
Her old camera.
Noah's jaw tightened.
"They're watching her already."
He rose to his feet, eyes on the glowing ferris wheel above the fog.
"Hang on, Aria," he murmured. "I'm coming."
---
Back in the kitchen, Aria finished the last of the frosting and licked the fork clean.
Then, as if nothing had happened, she looked straight into the drone's lens.
"Goodnight, audience," she said softly. "Sweet dreams."
The comment section exploded, unaware that behind her, the empty shelf now hid a dark hole where the secret camera used to be.
> 💬 "She's too cinematic for a human being."
💬 "She's smiling but it looks like a threat."
💬 "What's she hiding behind that cake???"
---
When she returned to her camp, she sat by the dying fire and turned the camera over in her hand.
The engraved letters caught the moonlight again: A-01.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"So… you finally found me."
She smiled faintly — sharp, tired, dangerous.
"Let's see who survives this time."
The fire crackled once. Then the feed glitched.