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.

The silence of the planet wrapped around her. Only the wind and her own harsh breathing.

Miles away, in a luxury office, Adolphus Richmond stared at the black screen. His jaw was clenched tight. His finger tapped the desk. He wasn't angry. He was... curious.

Back on A13, Casey's hands were a bloody mess. But the hole was deep enough. It was shaped like a shallow grave, just big enough for one person to curl up in.

Her fingers hit something hard. Not a rock. The texture was different.

She dug faster, ignoring the sting. She grabbed the object and pulled.

It was a knife. About eight inches long. The blade was covered in thick rust. The handle was wrapped in rotting leather. A relic from a previous visitor.

Casey's heart leaped. A knife was life.

She pulled a strip of tent fabric from her pocket. She grabbed a handful of rough sand from the ground. She started to sharpen the blade. The motion was practiced, professional.

Minutes later, the rust was gone. The edge gleamed in the sunlight. It was still sharp.

She stood up and flicked her wrist. The knife spun in her hand, a natural extension of her arm.

She used the knife to cut down some branches. She sharpened the ends and drove them into the ground around the hole, reinforcing the walls.

Her stomach growled. A loud, painful cramp. She hadn't eaten since she woke up.

She slid the knife into her belt. She grabbed the empty water bottle. She closed her eyes and sniffed the air.

There. A faint trace of moisture.

She walked into the jungle, pushing through thorny bushes. After ten minutes, she found it. A small stream, the water crystal clear.

She knelt beside it. She cupped some water in her hand and smelled it. No chemical scent. She took a tiny sip. Cold. Clean.

She looked into the water. Fish. Weird fish. They were fat, with colorful scales and jagged dorsal fins. They looked alien. Dangerous.

Casey didn't hesitate. She kicked off her boots and rolled up her pants. She stepped into the freezing water.

The chat was mocking her again. She thinks she can catch fish with her hands? What an idiot.

Casey stood still. She held the knife reversed in her grip. She became a statue. The water flowed around her legs.

A large red-tailed fish swam close. It was oblivious.

Casey's eyes snapped into focus. Her arm moved. It was a blur.

A splash. A wet thud. The knife was buried in the fish's gills, pinning it to the stream bed.

She twisted the knife and tossed the thrashing fish onto the bank. The whole move took less than a second.

The chat went dead silent.