The maintenance hub felt like a pause button.
Not safe—nothing was safe—but paused, as if the show had cut to a quieter scene to let the audience breathe before the next spike.
Marcus's cap, up close, had a stitched slogan: NO DAYS OFF. Elena stared at it like it was a personal insult.
People spread out in the cramped chamber, collapsing against shelves and toolboxes. A woman vomited into a plastic bin. Someone prayed. Someone else filmed the obelisk with shaking hands even though phones had no signal, because the act of recording was muscle memory now.
The black terminal hummed. Its surface rippled with icons like a streaming menu.
Hanson approached it carefully, as if it might bite.
His interface flared with a new panel, the way a channel dashboard might pop up for a creator with too many notifications.
EXTRACTION ELIGIBILITY: 0
Your Status: UNVERIFIED CONTESTANT
First Blood: ✓
Viewing Quality: IN REVIEW
Sponsor Interest: HIGH
Sponsor interest.
Hanson swallowed.
Elena came up beside him, breathing hard. "What is it?"
He hesitated, then told her the truth because there was no point hiding it from someone trapped in the same nightmare. "It's… a terminal. It says extraction eligibility. Like—" He forced the word out. "Like a way out."
Elena's eyes went glassy. "Then we— we just need to qualify."
A man nearby—broad shoulders, baseball cap, face smeared with soot—laughed. It was a sharp, mean sound. "Yeah? And who decides that? You?"
Hanson turned.
The man stepped into the glow of the emergency lights with the easy confidence of someone who enjoyed being seen. He was mid-thirties, built like he worked out to punish the world. His cap was black, the brim low.
A small blue check icon hovered beside his name in Hanson's peripheral, as if the system had decided he needed a label.
CONTESTANT: MARCUS "MARC" BLAKE (NYC)
Engagement Rank: #2
Hanson's gut tightened. "You're—"
"On the boards?" Marcus grinned, showing teeth. "Yeah. I know."
The chat spiked with new messages the moment Marcus entered frame, as if the system had been waiting for a rival to make the story easier to sell.
TWO CONTESTANTS
DRAMA TIME
WHO'S BETTER
MARCUS IS HOT
NO IT'S HANSON
The warmth of likes wavered—split—like a resource being fought over.
Elena's eyes flicked between the two men. "You're both…" she said, voice hollow. "They picked more than one."
"Of course they did," Marcus said, stepping closer to the terminal. "It's a show. You think they're gonna bet on one horse? Nah."
He looked at Hanson with a sideways smile. "You did good, though. First blood. Nice swing."
Hanson's grip tightened on nothing. He'd left the kinetic anchor pipe outside the hub because the Sound Dampener field required him to stay in frame—the system punished anything that felt like privacy.
Marcus tapped the obelisk's surface.
The terminal responded.
A new poll widget popped into Hanson's vision—bigger, brighter—center-screen, like a featured clip.
POLL (EARTH) — 00:20
WHO SHOULD GET THE FIRST ACCESS ATTEMPT?
A) HANSON
B) MARCUS
C) RANDOM CIVILIAN
The crowd gasped as if they could see the poll, as if their bodies recognized the shape of being judged.
Marcus lifted his hands as if addressing an audience. "Come on," he said, voice louder. "You want to see if this thing works? Vote me. I'll show you."
Hanson stared at him. "You're… campaigning."
Marcus shrugged. "It's either that or die off-camera."
Elena's jaw clenched. "People are dying out there and you're—"
Marcus's smile sharpened. "And you're still alive in here. Because of him." He nodded at Hanson. "Because he knows the camera matters. He just doesn't want to admit it."
Hanson's heart count surged as both of their faces filled frame.
♥ 271,003 → 289,110
The warmth in Hanson's muscles rose—but so did something colder: rage at being manipulated into feeling grateful for it.
The poll percentages climbed.
A) 43%
B) 47%
C) 10%
Marcus laughed softly. "See?"
Hanson swallowed. He had to do this right. If the terminal could be used—if "eligibility" was a real path and not a promise designed to keep them running—then wasting the first attempt on Marcus's showmanship could cost lives.
But if he fought the poll, if he tried to force his own choice, the system could punish him with exposure cuts and strength loss.
The terminal hummed again. A new line appeared on its surface, visible to everyone this time, projected in pale light across the hub:
Someone offered Hanson a half-crushed bottle of water. He took one sip, then passed it on down the line without meeting anyone's eyes.
ACCESS ATTEMPT AVAILABLE: 1
CONDITION: CONTESTANT IN FRAME
A camera requirement.
Always a camera requirement.
Hanson stepped forward into the center of the hub, deliberately blocking Marcus from taking the spotlight.
The chat flared.
HANSON STEP UP
DON'T LET HIM TAKE IT
HERO VS JOCK
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "You serious?"
Hanson met his gaze. "This isn't a game."
Marcus's grin returned, wider. "Sure it is."
The poll timer ticked down.
00:05… 00:04…
Percentages twitched like a crowd shifting seats.
A) 48%
B) 45%
C) 7%
The poll ended.
RESULTS FINAL.
A) HANSON — 49%
Hanson's stomach dropped. Not because he wanted it—the system had given it to him, and that meant it wanted him here.
The terminal pulsed. A small slot opened on its side with a quiet click, offering a flat, black disk like a coin.
INSERT PALM. VERIFY SUBJECT.
Hanson hesitated.
Elena grabbed his arm. "Do it," she whispered. "If there's any chance—"
Marcus leaned in, voice low. "Careful, man. Eligibility sounds like chains."
Hanson placed his palm on the terminal.
Cold surged into his hand. The world held its breath.
A progress bar appeared over his vision, painfully familiar, like a buffering stream.
VERIFYING…
UPLINKING…
ASSESSING VIEWING QUALITY…
The heart count climbed. People watched. The chat screamed.
The progress bar hit 82%—
—and the emergency lights in the corridor outside the hub flickered violently.
A pressure hum rolled through the walls.
The door at the far end of the hub—one that led into another service corridor—bulged inward as if something heavy pressed against it.
Elena's eyes widened. "No."
Marcus swore.
The system chimed, bright as a laugh track.
SYSTEM NOTE:
Supplemental stimulus introduced for engagement continuity.
The door buckled again.
Hanson's progress bar froze at 83%.
A new message pinned itself under it:
VIEWING QUALITY REVIEW: CONTINUE PERFORMANCE.
Hanson's mouth went dry.
The terminal was not just a key.
It was a leash.
And the show would not let him unlock anything unless he kept dancing.
Outside the hub, something scraped metal.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like a creature that had time.
And like an audience that wanted to see what he would sacrifice next.