The control room wasn't supposed to feel like a war bunker.
But tonight, it did.
Twenty staff members hovered around screens that kept flickering between Aria's collar-cam feed and bursts of static. Half of them were pale, the other half were visibly reconsidering their careers.
The show's director slammed his headset down.
"What is happening in there? Why are we getting military-grade interference on a reality TV show?!"
A tech swallowed hard. "It's… not interference, sir."
"Then what is it?"
"It's… her."
Another tech added quietly, "She hijacked our entire monitoring system. And then she locked us out."
The director stared at the screen, horrified.
"Locked us out? She LOCKED US—this isn't a prison break! She's a contestant on a survival show!"
Someone in the back whispered, "Feels like we're the ones trying to survive…"
The producer rushed in, tie crooked, phone buzzing nonstop.
"Okay." He breathed in sharply. "Someone explain why our livestream looks like a spy thriller."
A tech pointed at the code streaming down the monitor.
"This—this isn't entertainment-grade tech. She's overriding our feed using… uh… I don't even have words for this."
"You're telling me she hacked us with a PEN CAMERA?!"
"Sir, with all due respect, she could hack us with a microwave."
The room fell into grim silence.
No one doubted that.
Aria's feed stabilized for a moment, giving them a clear look at her slipping through the shadows of the warehouse—silent, precise, almost eerie.
The assistant director whispered, "The viewers… they think this is still part of the show."
Another tech coughed. "I—I think our server's melting. Someone posted online that they're mapping the warehouse layout in real time for her. They're coordinating."
The director blinked. "Coordinating what?"
"Uh… tactics?"
The producer paled.
"Her fans are helping her run an operation?"
"More like… becoming her operation."
The stream jumped, seconds of black.
Then a new angle appeared—top-down, grainy, like surveillance from a building across the street.
A camera the crew didn't own.
The room went dead silent.
"What camera is that?"
"Not ours."
"Then whose—"
The producer sank into a chair, face drained of color.
"Oh god. She's pulling external feeds."
"How many external feeds?" the director whispered.
A tech hesitated. "All of them."
Suddenly, another window popped open on the main screen.
A message.
White text.
Black background.
"Stop trying to override me. Focus on keeping the viewers calm."
It wasn't signed, but everyone knew who wrote it.
"Is she—" the director stammered, "is she giving us instructions?"
The tech nodded miserably.
"She's… directing the production now."
"That's my job!"
One brave intern whispered, "Sir, she's better at it."
A staffer from the legal department stormed in.
"We need to cut the broadcast NOW. The network is asking if we're airing an assassination attempt!"
The producer pointed helplessly at the monitor.
"We can't cut it. She rerouted the signal."
"What do you mean she rerouted—"
"She's broadcasting through her own satellite uplink!"
"HER OWN WHAT?!"
Nobody could explain how an actress owned a satellite uplink.
Nobody asked again.
The worst part?
The audience loved it.
The server stats were a waterfall of insanity:
• 48 million live viewers.
• #AriaLaneSurvival trending #1 worldwide.
• #ThisIsNotScripted trending #2.
• #IsSheEvenHuman trending #3.
The PR manager wheezed, "This… this is good for ratings, right?"
"GOOD?!" The director was shaking. "We're witnessing a cyber-crime on LIVE TELEVISION!"
A tech raised a timid hand. "…Actually, it's more like cyber dominance."
The director screamed into his palms.
Then the feed flickered again—Aria close to the camera now, her breath steady, eyes sharp with focus.
She wasn't talking to the viewers.
She was talking to someone behind the scenes.
"Tell your people to stop scrambling the signal," she said quietly.
"It's embarrassing to watch."
Every technician froze.
She continued, voice calm, even bored:
"And if you really want to help, keep the broadcast clean. They need to see what happens."
The director whispered, "See… what?"
But Aria wasn't answering him.
She was answering the hidden figure in the warehouse.
Somewhere in the dark, the sound of metal scraping echoed.
The control room's audio spiked.
Every tech jumped.
Then Aria smiled—slow, dangerous, beautiful.
"Showtime."
And the broadcast cut to black.