It started as a joke.
The network, desperate to recapture the viral gold of Apocalypse Playground, launched a new reality show titled "Zombie Carnival II: The Reckoning."
The producers thought it would be a clever move — same formula, new cast, fresh chaos.
Then someone suggested, "What if we invite Aria Lane as a special guest cameo?"
The idea should've died in the meeting room.
Instead, it trended within an hour.
💬 "SHE'S BACK???"
💬 "They really said: let's traumatize the zombies again 💀"
💬 "Even the undead aren't safe anymore 😭😭😭"
Aria didn't even want to do it.
But her manager called her mid-dumpling.
"Aria," he begged, "just one episode! They're offering triple your old rate and unlimited snacks on set!"
Aria paused mid-bite. "Unlimited?"
"Unlimited."
She exhaled dramatically. "Fine. For the snacks."
The day of filming, she arrived wearing sunglasses, a loose bomber jacket, and carrying her frying pan like a celebrity bringing her own bodyguard.
The crew went silent.
Even the cameramen stood straighter.
Someone whispered, "That's the pan."
The director — a nervous man who clearly hadn't studied his history — rushed to greet her.
"Miss Lane! So thrilled you could join us! We just want you to, you know, scream a little, maybe run, react to—"
"I don't scream," she said flatly.
He laughed weakly. "Oh, I'm sure we can find something that'll—"
"I don't scream."
The poor man's smile cracked. "...Understood."
The show began filming in a mock city built out of plywood and smoke machines.
Fifteen contestants.
Fifty zombie actors.
One Aria Lane.
As the countdown began, the chat exploded.
💬 "She brought the pan again 😭"
💬 "The zombies better have insurance."
💬 "I bet she clears the map in 10 minutes."
The first wave of "zombies" stumbled out, groaning theatrically.
Most contestants screamed.
One fainted immediately.
Aria yawned.
She looked at the nearest camera drone. "Can I hit them, or do you want me to pretend?"
The director's voice cracked through her earpiece:
"NO VIOLENCE THIS TIME, PLEASE—JUST ACT SCARED!"
She shrugged. "Got it."
A zombie lurched toward her.
She looked at him, dead-eyed, and said in the flattest tone imaginable,
"Boo."
He froze mid-lunge.
💬 "NOT HER TRAUMATIZING THE ZOMBIE 😭😭😭"
💬 "He literally stopped moving 💀💀💀"
💬 "Even undead creatures respect her dominance."
Another actor tried approaching her from behind.
She turned without looking, raised her pan, and tapped it lightly against her palm.
"Don't," she said.
The actor took one step back.
Then another.
Then ran.
💬 "She didn't even hit him 😭😭😭"
💬 "Zombies are unionizing against her."
💬 "She's not scared, they are."
The director's voice shrieked in her earpiece.
"Aria! We need tension! You're supposed to act!"
She blinked. "I am acting."
"Act like you're afraid!"
She frowned thoughtfully. Then, in the most unconvincing monotone, said,
"Oh no. I am so scared. Someone please help."
The chat absolutely exploded.
💬 "HER 'acting' just killed me 😭😭😭"
💬 "I've never seen fear so sarcastic."
💬 "Director just rage-quit in real time."
Behind the scenes, one of the stunt coordinators whispered, "Should we tell her the next phase has pyrotechnics?"
The director groaned, "If she punches the explosions, I'm quitting."
Minutes later, a massive "zombie boss" emerged — full prosthetics, heavy animatronics, fake growling.
He was supposed to chase Aria across the set for dramatic effect.
Instead, the moment their eyes met, the actor inside the costume froze.
He slowly raised his hands. "Uh… Miss Lane? Big fan. Can I… just fall now?"
Aria tilted her head. "If it helps your performance."
The zombie toppled himself.
By the time filming wrapped, not a single stunt had gone according to script.
The footage was useless for horror — but perfect for comedy.
The director dropped his headset, muttering, "She's unfilmable."
💬 "ZOMBIES AVOID HER 😭😭😭😭😭"
💬 "This was supposed to be a horror show, not a TED Talk on fear management."
💬 "At this point, she's the final boss."
After the shoot, Aria sat on a prop car, calmly munching on a bag of chips while the crew rebuilt their dignity.
The nervous director approached again.
"Miss Lane," he said carefully, "I just want to say… you're remarkable."
She smirked. "I know."
He tried again. "But, uh, for the next episode… could you maybe, possibly, pretend to be vulnerable? For dramatic balance?"
Aria thought about it, then nodded. "Sure."
The next week, she showed up to set carrying a sign that said:
"I Am Pretending To Be Vulnerable."
💬 "This woman is chaos in human form 😭"
💬 "She weaponized sarcasm."
💬 "Even the undead fear the Foodie Queen."
By the end of the season, her uncooperative behavior had somehow doubled the show's ratings.
Clips of zombies tripping over themselves to avoid her became internet legend.
Even the network executives gave up pretending it wasn't intentional.
And Aria?
She just cashed her check, patted her frying pan, and said, "Easy money."
Meanwhile, deep inside the Agency's secure network, analysts watched the episode too.
One of them rewound the footage frame by frame, stopping at a single moment — the glint of Aria's pan catching a reflection of a hidden camera drone that wasn't part of production.
He zoomed in.
The label on the drone read: Project A-01 — Retrieval Unit.
"She knows we're here," he said quietly.