The hum of the Total Jumbo Jet's engines usually sounded like money to Chris McLean. Tonight, it sounded like a ticking time bomb.
In the shadows of the cockpit, the "most famous man in reality TV" wasn't smiling for the cameras. He was staring at a small plastic bottle in his shaking hand—Sierra's medication. He had taken it "for the drama," to watch her spiral. But as he looked at his own reflection in the dark window, he didn't see a star. He saw a man with a pulse thundering in his ears and a blood pressure reading of 281/140 on his smartwatch.
"Kill the punk's contract, Chris! If Duncan stays gone, you're finished!" The lead producer's voice still echoed in his head, a shrill, corporate scream that had lasted for twenty minutes over the satellite phone.
"They don't get it, Chef," Chris whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm not a person to them. I'm just a remote control for their sick little experiments."
Chef Hatchet didn't look up from the controls, but his grip tightened on the yoke. "The challenges they sent for Japan, Chris... they're too much. Someone's gonna end up in a body bag, not a hospital bed."
Chris looked at the bottle, then at the door where the contestants—those kids he had spent years tormenting—were sleeping. For the first time in three seasons, the guilt felt heavier than the fame.
He wasn't just the host anymore; he was a prisoner of his own creation. He needed a way out. He needed to be human again, even if it cost him everything.