The moon hung low and heavy over Apocalypse Park, washing everything in silver light and long shadows.
The night's challenge was called "Final Stand."
The rules were simple — survive the wave of zombies until sunrise.
Of course, "simple" was the production team's favorite lie.
Contestants gathered in the main square, trembling under the flickering carnival lights.
Fog coiled around their feet. Somewhere, an animatronic clown laughed — off-cue, broken, glitching.
Aria Lane stretched lazily beside the old carousel, frying pan hanging from her belt like a sidearm.
Bianca glared at her. "Do you ever look scared?"
Aria smiled. "Every day. Just never on camera."
💬 "That's going on a poster."
💬 "She's officially the queen of quotables."
💬 "If confidence were a crime she'd get life."
The horn blared.
The first wave of "zombies" stumbled out from the shadows, groaning dramatically.
The weaker contestants screamed. Someone tripped over their own prop sword.
Aria rolled her eyes. "Every apocalypse needs a blooper reel."
She stepped forward, frying pan in hand.
The cameras zoomed in, expecting comedy — what they got instead was choreography.
Her first swing caught a zombie across the ribs — a perfect arc, controlled power, not a hint of wasted motion.
The pan rang like a bell through the fog.
Clang.
Pivot.
Clang.
Turn.
Elbow.
Sweep.
Each move flowed like a dance — fluid, beautiful, terrifying.
The audience watching from their screens went insane.
💬 "She's not surviving, she's styling on them!!"
💬 "I need her combat tutorial NOW."
💬 "Chef of Chaos cooking up violence again 🍳🔥"
💬 "She's built like the final boss."
Then, one of the zombies didn't fall.
He took her hit, grunted — and came back faster.
Aria froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.
That wasn't choreography. That was instinct.
That was training.
"Too fast," she whispered. "Too real."
The "zombie" lunged again, this time with precision — not a staged flail but a soldier's strike.
Her reflexes took over before thought could catch up.
She ducked low, swung up hard — frying pan colliding with the attacker's jaw.
CRACK.
He went down instantly.
Bianca screamed from behind a barricade. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"
Aria didn't answer. She crouched beside the fallen man, fingers checking his neck.
No makeup tag. No mic. No ID chip.
"Not an actor," she muttered.
The drone zoomed in. The chat feed exploded.
💬 "WHAT DOES SHE MEAN NOT AN ACTOR???"
💬 "Is this REAL??"
💬 "Someone tell me this is staged pls 😭😭😭"
Production cut the audio feed, but it was too late.
Millions had already clipped it.
The hashtags exploded across every platform:
#FryingPanVsUndead
#ThisIsNotAShow
#WhoIsAriaLane
In the control room, chaos reigned.
"Turn off her camera!" the director shouted.
"We can't—public stream mirror's live on three servers! We've lost feed control!"
"Then get her out of there!"
No one moved.
Aria stood over the fallen man. Her breathing was calm, controlled — the kind that came from years of training, not panic.
She pulled back his sleeve. The mark was there again.
The same small insignia — a winged serpent, burned faintly into the skin.
Her stomach turned cold.
"Agency," she whispered.
The man groaned faintly. Aria hesitated for half a second, then pulled him behind a pile of debris, hiding him from the cameras.
If the Agency was sending operatives disguised as actors, this wasn't a random infiltration.
They were watching her.
Bianca ran up behind her, trembling. "Aria! They said on comms we have to regroup at base—"
Aria turned, eyes sharp as knives. "No. Stay low. Move west. Away from the cameras."
"What? Why?"
"Because this isn't a show anymore."
The way she said it — flat, certain — made Bianca obey without question.
In a hidden van parked outside the perimeter, Noah Hale watched the feed flicker and die.
He slammed his hand on the console. "That's not a prop! That's one of ours!"
His handler's voice crackled through his earpiece.
"Then it's true. They've embedded Agency sleepers in the production crew."
"Idiots," Noah hissed. "If she's alive, why use her as bait?"
"Because someone wants confirmation," the voice said calmly. "And now they have it."
Noah's fists clenched. "Not on my watch."
He grabbed his gear. "Open the north gate. I'm going in."
Back inside the park, the surviving contestants gathered near the ferris wheel, terrified and shaking.
Aria walked among them, steady, eyes sweeping the shadows.
The fog had thickened again, swallowing the edges of the set.
Bianca whispered, "Why are you so calm?"
Aria didn't look at her.
"Because panic's a luxury," she said. "And I ran out of luxuries a long time ago."
💬 "That line. CHILLS."
💬 "She's not acting. I swear she's not acting."
💬 "Give her the Oscar, the Emmy, and a bulletproof vest."
Somewhere beyond the fence, Noah sprinted through the darkness — his old comm frequency buzzing in his ear.
"A-01, if you can hear me… it's Hale. I'm here. Hold on."
Inside the park, Aria froze mid-step.
Her wristband — dead silent until now — crackled faintly.
Then, through static, she heard it:
"It's Hale. I found you."
Her blood ran cold.
She turned toward the nearest camera and whispered,
"…Took you long enough."
The livestream cut out instantly.
For the first time since the show began, millions of viewers stared at a black screen.
The feed read:
"CONNECTION LOST."
But Aria Lane didn't need an audience anymore.
The game was over.
And the real hunt had just begun.