The stage lights dimmed. A deep, resonant electronic chime echoed through the studio.

Director Quinn Vance jogged onto the stage, a microphone in his hand. His face was flushed with excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted. "The twelfth season of 'Ancient Love' is about to begin!"

A massive hologram flickered to life above the stage. It showed Planet A13. Red dirt. Black forests. A wasteland.

Quinn cleared his throat. "The rules are simple. Survive on the planet for one month, and you split the grand prize!"

The contestants buzzed with excitement. They whispered to each other, forming alliances.

In the dark corner, Casey's eyes snapped open. One month. That wasn't enough. She needed a year.

She stood up. She walked toward the center of the stage, her stride purposeful. The crowd parted for her, sensing the danger radiating from her.

She reached Quinn and grabbed the microphone right out of his hand.

Quinn gaped at her, reaching for it back. "Hey!"

Casey sidestepped him easily. She brought the mic to her lips.

"Director, a one-month challenge is boring. I want to invoke Clause 7.4 of my contract," she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the noise of the crowd. "I'll survive for a year, and the planet becomes mine."

Silence. Then, laughter. It started as a chuckle and grew into a roar. The audience pointed at her, tears streaming down their faces.

The holographic comments reappeared for a split second on the main screen, just so she could see the mockery. She's insane. Gold digger wants to die.

Coralie covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake shock, but her shoulders shook with hidden glee.

Quinn's face turned red. "Give that back!" he hissed. "You're disrupting the show!" He shoved her shoulder. "Get off the stage, or you're disqualified!"

Casey didn't move. The shove didn't budge her. She stared Quinn down.

"I want to invoke Clause 7.4," she repeated.

Security guards started moving toward her.

Then, a sound broke the tension. Slow, deliberate clapping.

Everyone looked up. In the VIP box on the second floor, a man lounged in a velvet seat. Giles Henson. The Second Prince. He was handsome, with a lazy, dangerous smile.

He pressed a button on his armrest. His voice boomed through the speakers. "I find this... entertaining. Director, grant her request."

Quinn started sweating. He wiped his forehead. He knew better than to argue with royalty.

He sighed into his backup mic. "The challenge... is approved."

The crowd erupted. They stared at Casey like she was already dead.

Casey shoved the microphone back into Quinn's chest. She looked up at the VIP box. Her eyes met Giles's. She didn't thank him. She just looked at him like he was a variable in an equation.

Casey walked off the stage. She headed straight for the resource distribution area in the back.

A staff member stood behind a counter. He looked at her with open disgust. He slapped a holographic tablet down on the counter.

"Sign this," he sneered. "Death waiver. Hurry up."

Casey didn't react to his tone. She scanned the document. It was a standard release form. If she died, it wasn't the show's fault. She picked up the stylus and signed. The tablet beeped.

"Done," she said.

The staff member rolled his eyes. "Now pick your gear."

Across the room, Coralie was surrounded by her men. She giggled as she selected a sturdy, wind-proof cabin. She grabbed a stack of high-grade nutrient packs and a thermal sleeping bag.

Elena Tran, the leopard beastman, chose a dry cave and a steel crossbow.

One by one, the contestants took the best items. By the time it was Casey's turn, the table was empty.

Except for one thing. A single-person tent, dumped in the corner. It was covered in dust. One of the main poles was snapped. The fabric was torn in three places.

Next to it sat a single bottle of cheap water. 500 milliliters.

"This is what's left. Take it or leave it," the staff member said, his voice dripping with malice. "Looks like this is all the system thinks you deserve. Better luck next time."

The live chat was having a field day. They predicted she would cry. They predicted she would beg.

Casey's face was blank. She walked over and picked up the torn tent. She didn't look at the staff member. She shoved the bundle into her tactical backpack.

She picked up the water bottle. She unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. Just enough to wet her throat. She screwed the cap back on.

She turned and walked toward the transport pods. The staff member stared after her, looking disappointed.

"Contestants, enter your pods," a robotic voice announced.

Casey stepped into the narrow pod. The heavy metal door slid shut, sealing out the noise.

The pod lurched. A crushing weight pressed down on her chest. The G-forces made her vision blur. She gripped the metal handrail, her knuckles white, regulating her breathing.

Minutes later, the shaking stopped. A hiss of pressurized air. The door slid open.

A wave of hot, dry air hit her face. It smelled like rust and dead things.

Casey stepped out. Her boots crunched on the red dirt of Planet A13.

Casey stood on a ridge of red rock. Behind her was a barren wasteland. Ahead, a dark, dense jungle loomed.

A drone, Echo-7, hummed to life above her head. Its camera lens locked onto her face.

She ignored it. She walked toward the edge of the jungle, finding a spot on higher ground, sheltered from the wind.

She dropped her backpack. She pulled out the broken tent. The waterproof coating was peeling off in strips. It was useless as a shelter.

She grabbed the fabric and ripped. The sound was loud in the quiet air. She tore the tent into long, sturdy strips of cloth.

She looked at a large, dead tree. The roots formed a natural hollow. Perfect.

She knelt on the hard, rocky ground. She didn't have a shovel. She used her hands. She curled her fingers into claws and started to dig.

The soil on A13 was hard. Packed clay and sharp stones. It fought back.

Her nails cracked. The skin on her fingertips tore. Blood mixed with the dirt.

The live chat was active again. Gross. She looks like a dog digging a grave. Pathetic.

Casey didn't feel the pain. She kept digging. Rhythmically. Efficiently. The pile of dirt behind her grew.

A sharp beep came from her wrist. A red light flashed. A holographic screen popped up. Director Quinn's face appeared.

"Casey," Quinn said, his voice arrogant. "I'm getting immense pressure from General Richmond's people. He is strongly suggesting you withdraw for your own good. Tap the withdrawal button now. Stop embarrassing yourself and upsetting Coralie."

Adolphus. The name triggered a flash of memory. Her past self, kneeling in the rain, begging this man for a crumb of attention. Him kicking her away.

A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. Her eyes went cold.

The chat was going crazy. The General is so protective! True love!

Casey looked up. She stared directly into the drone's camera. Her face was smeared with dirt and blood. Her eyes were dead.

"Tell that self-righteous idiot," she said, her voice clear and steady, "to take his white lotus and get the hell away from me."

She raised her middle finger. "Son of a bitch," she said flatly.

The chat froze. The internet broke.

Quinn's face on the screen went pale. He fumbled with the controls and the call cut off.

Casey hit the mute button on her wristband. Silence. She shook the dirt off her hands and went back to digging.