By sunrise, Apocalypse Playground was trending in 40 countries — again.
But this time, it wasn't just because of Aria Lane's frying pan heroics or her "Sorry, Reflex" line.
It was because the internet had collectively decided she was cheating.
💬 "There's no way she knows where every camera blind spot is."
💬 "She predicts zombie ambushes before they happen. Production rigged it."
💬 "No, she's just built different. #TeamAriaForever"
💬 "She's definitely hacking the game system — look at her wristband glitch!!"
The conspiracy storm was unstoppable. Fans uploaded slowed-down clips of her wristband flickering green when everyone else's glowed blue.
Within hours, entire Reddit threads were dedicated to decoding "Aria's hacker symbols."
Meanwhile, Aria herself sat cross-legged on the roof of a broken cotton candy stall, casually munching on a stolen energy bar.
"'Cheating,' huh?" she said, gazing at the drones circling above. "That's one word for competence."
💬 "She SAW the rumors and doesn't even deny it 😭"
💬 "She's too calm for someone being accused of espionage."
💬 "Queen of controlled chaos."
Inside the production trailer, panic was brewing like bad coffee.
"Her wristband isn't syncing with our central server anymore," a tech said, typing furiously. "It's like she cloned the connection and rerouted it."
The director turned pale. "She hacked the tracking system? How?!"
Marcus, the producer, rubbed his temples. "We're not dealing with an actress. We're dealing with a walking data breach."
The tech hesitated. "Should I report it to HQ?"
Marcus hesitated — then shook his head. "No. If the higher-ups find out, we're all fired. Contain her quietly. Send a monitoring team."
"Who?"
"Anyone who isn't terrified of her."
Silence.
Back inside the park, the contestants were whispering too.
"She always gets the good drops," Milo muttered. "And the cameras never catch her for hours."
Bianca folded her arms. "She's definitely cheating. I bet she's got a producer feeding her clues."
A camera caught their hushed argument, and within minutes, the livestream comments were feasting.
💬 "Bianca jealous again 💤"
💬 "'She's cheating!' — says the woman who faked her own zombie attack."
💬 "Aria's too smart to cheat. She's just… winning."
Aria appeared behind them, silent as smoke. "If you're going to accuse me," she said, "at least make it interesting."
Bianca jumped a full foot. "Wha— how long have you been standing there?!"
Aria grinned. "Long enough to hear you underestimate me."
💬 "SHE'S TERRIFYING AND I LOVE HER."
💬 "The way she materializes like a ghost 💀"
💬 "Bianca's going to combust by episode 30."
That night, a new rule was announced via loudspeaker:
"Effective immediately, contestants are prohibited from tampering with game equipment. Any interference with electronic devices will result in disqualification."
Aria blinked. "Subtle."
She was sitting near her fire, half-smiling as she scrolled through her wristband menu — which, of course, no longer looked like anyone else's.
She'd reprogrammed it hours ago. Now, it displayed live drone coordinates, system vulnerabilities, and battery frequencies.
She leaned back, talking softly to herself.
"Let's see what you're hiding, sweetheart."
Her fingers danced over the interface, decrypting data packets one by one.
What she found wasn't just camera feeds.
It was external access ports.
There were connections to an offsite network — one that didn't belong to the show.
And one ID code repeated across multiple transmissions: "Agent 17."
Her smile faded. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
In the van outside, Noah Hale's monitor beeped.
"Alert: Unauthorized access detected on node 17."
He frowned. "She's in the system already?"
The handler's voice buzzed through his earpiece.
"We told you — she was the best. You taught her, remember?"
He rubbed his temples. "Yeah. Unfortunately."
Back on the livestream, viewers noticed something new — their comment feed was glitching.
Messages were rearranging themselves, briefly displaying strange symbols and binary strings before resetting.
💬 "Anyone else seeing that code flash???"
💬 "What's with the 01010101 stuff???"
💬 "Bro she's HACKING THE COMMENTS 💀💀💀"
The truth? She was.
The data she intercepted from "Agent 17" had encrypted triggers.
To cover her tracks, she rerouted them — right through the live comment overlay.
The entire internet had just become her camouflage.
"Thanks for the distraction," she murmured, typing a final command. "You're all very useful."
💬 "She literally called us useful?? I'd die for her."
💬 "She's breaking the fourth wall again 😭"
💬 "This show's not a show anymore, it's a revolution."
Moments later, Marcus stormed into the control tent.
"Status on the monitoring team?"
"They can't find her," the tech said helplessly. "Her tracker shows her in five different places at once."
Marcus froze. "She's spoofing her signal."
The director stared at the static-filled monitors. "What is she doing?"
The tech hesitated. "Sir… she's rewriting the show."
At that exact moment, Aria sat calmly on the ferris wheel again, the flickering drone light painting her face in soft red.
In her wristband's reflection, code streamed like rain.
She whispered, "Now we're playing my game."
The system beeped — Access Granted.
Her smile widened.
"Let's see what's behind curtain number one."
Somewhere deep in the network, a hidden server came online.
The words flashed across the screen:
PROJECT A-01 – STATUS: INCOMPLETE. SUBJECT LOCATED. RETRIEVAL INITIATED.
Aria's smile disappeared.
"Oh, hell no."