The smell of hot grease and cooking protein hit the camp like a physical blow.

Anabelle sat cross-legged next to the fire pit. She had found a rusted, discarded tin can near the highway, scrubbed it clean with sand, and was now using it as a makeshift frying pan over the open flames.

She cracked two fresh eggs against a rock. The yolks hit the hot metal with a loud, aggressive sizzle.

The rich scent of frying eggs drifted directly into the wind, sweeping over the five cots.

Stomachs growled in unison. The other contestants looked like walking corpses.

Kody swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He quickly ran a hand through his hair, pasting on a wide, friendly grin. He walked over to the fire pit, squatting down right next to Anabelle.

"Wow, Annie," Kody said, his voice dripping with fake charm. "You really saved our lives. That smells amazing. We make a great team, right?"

Anabelle didn't look up. She kept her eyes fixed on the bubbling egg whites, using a thin green twig to carefully separate the edges from the tin. She let him talk.

Kody's smile faltered when she didn't respond. His eyes darted to the cooked edge of the egg. His stomach let out a loud rumble. He reached his hand out, his fingers inching toward the hot tin.

Smack.

Anabelle whipped the twig through the air, bringing it down hard across the back of Kody's hand.

The sharp crack echoed through the quiet camp.

Kody yanked his hand back, his face twisting in pain. He cradled his stinging knuckles against his chest.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Kody screamed, his friendly mask shattering. "Are you trying to hoard it all for yourself?"

Anabelle slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were completely devoid of emotion. She looked at him the way a person looks at a stain on the sidewalk.

"Pay me," she said. Two words. Ice cold.

Kody let out a harsh, barking laugh. He pointed at the drone hovering above them. "We are a team! We're supposed to help each other! You're being selfish!"

Camila sat up on her cot, wrapping her arms around herself. "He's right, Anabelle. We're all starving. It's really mean to eat in front of us."

Anabelle stood up. She wiped her hands on her jeans.

"Let's do the math," Anabelle said, her voice projecting clearly over the crackle of the fire. "Market value of two organic eggs: one dollar. Labor cost for a ten-mile round trip on foot: twenty dollars. Technical surcharge for wilderness fire-starting and sanitation: twenty-nine dollars."

She looked dead into Kody's eyes.

"The price is fifty dollars for one egg. I don't do credit."

The camp fell dead silent.

"You're out of your damn mind!" Kody roared, kicking a cloud of dirt into the fire. "You're extorting us!"

"It's basic supply and demand," Anabelle replied smoothly, her thumb rubbing her index knuckle. "I hold the monopoly on food. You hold the demand. Pay the premium, or starve."

In the live chat, viewers were losing their minds. The brutal, unapologetic capitalism coming from a girl in a frayed flannel shirt was intoxicating. They mocked Kody relentlessly.

Kody's face turned a deep, ugly purple. The humiliation burned in his chest. He spun around, kicking a large rock near the fire pit.

"You're going to lose!" Kody spat at her. "Nobody is going to help you when you fail!" He stormed off toward the edge of the woods.

Camila quickly pulled her hand back, realizing the beggar routine wouldn't work. She lay back down, turning her face away from the smell.

Diego sat on his cot, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. He tilted his head, watching Anabelle with a new, sharp intensity.

Anabelle sat back down. She ate the eggs slowly, methodically, making sure not to drop a single crumb.

When she was finished, she carefully wrapped the remaining two eggs in a piece of plastic she had saved, burying them deep in her backpack. She pulled out the free tube of high-end toothpaste and walked toward the small creek to wash up.

Behind a thick oak tree, Kody watched her walk away. His chest heaved with angry breaths. He motioned for Camila to come over.

"She didn't buy that stuff," Kody whispered, his eyes narrowed into slits. "She stole it from the production crew's tent. If we get close to her, we'll get disqualified too."

Down by the creek, Anabelle saw Kody's reflection in the water. She saw him whispering. She saw Camila nodding.

Anabelle spit the white foam into the dirt. A cold, sharp smile touched her lips. Let them isolate her. A wolf hunts best alone.

By noon, the California sun was a brutal, unforgiving weight pressing down on the camp. The heat baked the dirt, making the air shimmer.

Hunger was a physical ache in everyone's stomach.

Kody sat in the shade of the boulder, leaning close to Camila and Diego. His voice was a low, venomous hiss.

"I'm telling you, she's a sociopath," Kody whispered, making sure his microphone picked up every word. "She's dangerous. People like her, from the trailer parks? They'll stab you in your sleep for a dollar."

Camila clutched her knees to her chest, her eyes wide with manufactured terror. "I'm so scared of her. Did you see how she hit you?"

Diego kept his arms crossed. His jaw clenched. He didn't nod, but he didn't defend Anabelle either. The seed of doubt was planted.

Fifty yards away, Anabelle sat on a flat rock in the blistering sun. She ignored them.

She pulled the folded coupon insert from her pocket—the only part of the newspaper she had kept. On its back side, a half-page advertisement for Schmidt's Bistro was printed. Her eyes locked onto it.

Schmidt's Bistro. Finish our Hell-Tier Crossword Puzzle in under ten minutes, and your lunch is on us. A $100 value.

Anabelle's fingers traced the edge of the paper. Her eyes scanned the sample clues printed on the ad. They were complex. Obscure.

A surge of absolute confidence rushed through her veins.

She folded the insert, stood up, and walked directly toward the whispering trio.

Kody snapped his mouth shut the second her shadow fell over them. He scrambled backward, pulling his knees up defensively.

Anabelle stopped three feet away. Her face was a mask of polite indifference.

"I found a way to get a free lunch," Anabelle said, her voice flat. "I'm going to the commercial district. You can come if you want."

It was a test. She needed to know exactly how deep Kody's poison had spread.

Kody jumped to his feet, pointing a shaking finger at her. "It's a trap! You're trying to get us to break the rules so we get eliminated!"

Camila hugged her backpack tight against her chest, shaking her head violently. She took a physical step back from Anabelle.

Diego looked at her from behind his sunglasses. "I'll stick to the emergency rations," he said coldly.

Anabelle didn't blink. She didn't argue. She just gave a slight, careless shrug.

"Enjoy the starvation," she said.

She turned her back on them, adjusted the straps of her backpack, and walked out of the camp.

The live chat erupted, tearing Kody apart for his cowardice and cheering for Anabelle's solo mission.

Three miles later, Anabelle stood on the pristine brick sidewalk of the upscale commercial district.

Schmidt's Bistro had a massive, heavy glass door with gold-leaf lettering. Through the glass, she could see white linen tablecloths, crystal wine glasses, and men in tailored suits.

Her own reflection stared back at her. Mud-caked shoes. Dirty jeans. A flannel shirt stained with sweat.

She pushed the door open.

The air conditioning hit her like a wall of ice.

The host, a tall man in a crisp vest, took one look at her and his face contorted in horror. He stepped out from behind his podium, raising his hands to physically push her back out the door.

"Excuse me, the kitchen entrance is in the alley," he sneered.

Anabelle didn't step back. She stood her ground, her spine snapping perfectly straight.

She held up the coupon insert.

"I am here for the crossword challenge," Anabelle said.

Her voice shifted. The slight southern drawl of the trailer park vanished, replaced by an unexpected, flat coldness. Her tone became sharp and clipped, carrying an undeniable, quiet certainty that left absolutely no room for argument.

The host froze. The sheer force of her aura paralyzed him. He lowered his hands, confused by the massive disconnect between her clothes and her command.

The cameraman shoved his way through the door, pushing the lens right into the host's face.

Gus Schmidt, the owner of the bistro, was walking across the dining room. He saw the camera. He saw the red recording light.

His eyes lit up with the promise of free publicity.

"Let her in, Thomas!" Gus boomed, plastering a fake, welcoming smile on his face. "Schmidt's Bistro welcomes all challengers!"

The broadcast split into a dual-screen view.

On the right side of the screen, the camera showed the miserable camp. Camila was dramatically breaking a dry block of instant ramen in half, handing a piece to Kody to prove her kindness to the viewers. Kody shoved the dry noodles into his mouth like a rat.

On the left side of the screen, Anabelle sat at a heavy oak table inside the luxurious Schmidt's Bistro.

Alex Green, a waiter with slicked-back hair, slammed a printed crossword puzzle down onto the white linen tablecloth. He didn't provide a pen. He crossed his arms, a nasty smirk on his face, waiting for her to beg for one.

Anabelle reached into her pocket and pulled out a two-inch stub of a pencil she had found on the highway.

Gus Schmidt stood next to the table, speaking directly into the camera lens.

"This puzzle was designed by a linguistics major," Gus bragged. "It takes Ivy League professors an hour just to get halfway."

Anabelle looked down at the grid.

Clue 4 Across: The Latin root for the physical manifestation of guilt.

Clue 12 Down: The specific shade of blue used in the 14th-century frescoes of Padua.

Anabelle's thumb rubbed her index knuckle once.

These weren't just trivia questions. This was the exact curriculum of the private tutors her father had hired for her when she was seven years old.

She pressed the dull lead of the pencil against the paper.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Her hand moved with terrifying speed. She didn't pause to think. She didn't look up. The sound of the pencil tearing across the paper was the only noise at the table.

Alex's smirk faltered. He leaned in, trying to see if she was just drawing squiggles.

Three minutes and twelve seconds later, Anabelle dropped the pencil. She pushed the paper to the center of the table.

"Done," she said.

Gus laughed nervously. He picked up the paper, pulling a red answer key from his jacket pocket.

His eyes darted from the key to her handwriting. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. Every single box was filled. Every single spelling was flawless.

In the live chat, verified linguistics professors were tweeting screenshots, confirming the answers were absolutely perfect. The internet was losing its collective mind.

Gus swallowed hard. His fake smile looked like a grimace. "Well. It seems we have a winner. Fire the Wellington!" he yelled to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, the table was covered. Beef Wellington, black truffle soup, and a delicate French pastry.

Anabelle picked up her silver knife and fork.

She meant to eat like a starving scavenger. But the moment her fingers wrapped around the heavy silver, a sudden, jarring sense of familiarity washed over her. The weight and texture felt far too natural, causing a split-second lapse in her concentration. Her elbows tucked in perfectly. Her wrists angled instinctively. She sliced the beef with a smooth, silent stroke, bringing the fork to her mouth without leaning forward.

It lasted only three seconds.

A few eagle-eyed viewers in the chat caught it, furiously typing out questions about her posture.

Anabelle realized her slip. Her stomach dropped. She immediately threw her elbows onto the table, hunched her shoulders aggressively, and shoved a massive piece of bread into her mouth, chewing loudly and awkwardly to ruin the image.

She cleared the plates in record time.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and looked up at Alex. "I need the zero-dollar receipt for the production crew."

Alex's face went hard. He walked to the register, punched in a few codes, and marched back.

He slammed a black leather billfold onto the table.

Anabelle opened it.

The total wasn't zero.

TOTAL DUE: $13.00

Anabelle's blood ran cold. She stared at the itemized list.

Mandatory Utensil Usage Fee: $3.00

Automatic Gratuity (Based on $100 original value): $10.00

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Thirteen dollars. It was a death sentence for her survival game. It was blatant extortion.

She looked up. Alex was grinning, a cruel, ugly expression.

"Pay up, trailer trash," Alex said loudly, making sure the surrounding tables heard him. "If you can't afford the tip, don't eat at nice places."

Gus Schmidt stood by the bar, watching with his arms crossed, fully endorsing the shakedown.

Anabelle didn't scream. She didn't cry.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the white emergency medical card. Her eyes were black holes of pure, concentrated fury.