Please check your E-mail!
Please check your E-mail!
Then, the scream.
Viola bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. Across the sprawling penthouse suite, on a matching sectional sofa, a woman with fiery hair and a constellation of freckles was staring at her own wrist.
Bailey’s card read: Explore the building. Floor 13 is locked. Do not pick the lock. (But if you do, we’ll be watching.)
That’s when the first door slid open silently, revealing a long table set for three. On each plate was a single card.
Apolonia’s card read: Design the weekly schedule for your co-stars. Balance wellness, conflict, and desire. Make it entertaining.
Bailey, who confessed she was a former stuntwoman now running a tiny YouTube channel about urban exploration, looked less scared and more intrigued. “It’s a game. An immersive show. We’re the cast.”
“Alright,” Viola said, picking up her card and a nearby bottle of rare truffle oil. “If they want a lifestyle spectacle, let’s give them a meal they’ll never forget. Bailey, you’ve got the lock. Apolonia, don’t make my schedule too hellish.”
The three women looked at each other. The city hummed below, indifferent. The camera lenses hidden in the smoke detectors, the paintings, the potted fiddle-leaf figs, all blinked a silent, red .
Before she could answer, a third voice, dry as a martini and laced with a Spanish accent, cut through the morning haze. “Because, chicas, we’re not here by accident.”
Apolonia raised an eyebrow. “No promises. Entertainment first.”
Viola looked down. There it was, in neat, blocky script: .
