Chapter 2The Boy Who Finally Smiled

"Beck!"

Cyrus’s eyes welled with tears, his shoulders trembling like a startled fawn. "I honestly don't know what I did to make you hate me this much. If it's about the Best Newcomer award... I'm sorry. I really am."

He bowed his head, a gesture of profound, submissive apology.

And right at that moment, the door swung wide. The camera crew stepped in, their lenses catching the final frame of his sorrow.

The livestream was officially live.

In seconds, the chat overlay on the production monitor turned into a blinding blizzard of hate.

"Oh my god! Why is our sweet Cyrus bowing to that freak?"

"Is Beck terrorizing people again? Why is he still employed?"

"Cancel him! Cancel him now! I can’t stand his miserable face."

"Cyrus is too pure for this world. My heart is breaking."

Seeing the red recording light, Gideon leaped into his role. He cradled his wrist, wincing with a look of stoic endurance.

"Beck, we all know you're going through a dark time. We know about your depression. But Cyrus has no survival gear. The jungle is lethal. How can you sit there and watch him go in unprotected?"

It was a brilliant trap. He had just painted me as a cold, calculating monster to millions of live viewers.

I turned to the lens. My pulse was steady. My voice held no tremor.

"The contract states that the production team provides standard gear. If a participant loses theirs, it is their responsibility to request a replacement. My bag contains specific medical supplies tailored to my physiological needs. If Cyrus needs gear, the network can overnight him a set. This is a cheap attempt at emotional blackmail to steal private property."

My logic was airtight, but logic is useless against a mob.

"It's just some medicine, you psycho! If anything happens to Cyrus, your life wouldn't be enough to pay for it!"

"So selfish. Why is this trash still on our screens?"

Cyrus wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. "It's fine. I don't blame Beck. I'm a man. I can take care of myself and look out for the others." He turned to the camera, offering his signature, heart-melting smile. "Please don't be mean to Beck, everyone. He's just... scared."

With a few sentences, he cemented his status as the brave, forgiving martyr.

The director’s voice crackled urgently through Gideon’s earpiece, demanding we move.

Within the hour, the six of us were packed into a helicopter, flying toward the dense, suffocating green canopy of the rainforest.

The roar of the rotors was deafening.

Cyrus sat directly across from me. When the camera panned toward the window, he caught my eye, his lips moving silently to form four distinct words:

"You. Are. Dead. Meat."

I stared back, my expression flat. I reached down, my thumb brushing the tiny micro-tracker concealed inside the cuff of my sleeve.

Seventeen trials had taught me one fundamental truth:

When someone shows you who they are, you don't argue.

You map out their path to destruction.

The helicopter touched down in a muddy clearing, and the nightmare began.

Our first task was setting up camp.

Cyrus immediately went to work, embodying his "sunshine boy" persona. He took on the heaviest branches, helped Mallory—a rising starlet who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else—pitch her tent, and kept everyone laughing.

The camp was thick with praise for him.

"Cyrus is literally a lifesaver."

"I know, right? Unlike some people who just sit under a tree holding their precious little bag like a security blanket."

Mallory threw a disgusted look my way.

I ignored her.

My eyes were busy scanning the topography, calculating the potential angle of a mudslide if the looming clouds decided to burst. This was my survival protocol.

That evening, food was rationed.

Cyrus was in charge of distributing the limited survival bars provided by the crew. He broke them into small pieces, handing them out with careful, equitable grace.

When he reached me, his hand slipped.

The bar tumbled directly into a puddle of thick, black mud.

"Oh no!" Cyrus gasped, his face instantly falling into a mask of deep regret. "Beck, I am so sorry. My hands are just so sweaty from the work. Here..." He knelt down, reaching for the mud-covered bar. "Maybe... if you wipe it off, it's still edible? We don't have much else."

Mallory stood up immediately, her voice sharp. "Cyrus, don't apologize to him! He didn't even try to catch it! If he doesn't want to eat, let him starve."

I looked at the ruined food, then at the tiny, triumphant glint in Cyrus's eyes.

"Don't bother," I said.

I stood up, hoisting my pack.

"I'm going to scout the perimeter."

I walked into the darkening wall of the jungle.

Behind me, Cyrus's voice drifted through the trees, heavy with feigned concern. "Beck, it's pitch black out there! Don't go far, it's dangerous!"

I didn't look back.

Because the moment I stepped out of their line of sight, I pulled down my night-vision goggles.

The lens flared, and I looked back at the muddy bar left in the dirt.

Coating the surface of the chocolate was a very fine, pale yellow powder.

I knew exactly what it was: the powdered dander of the golden-fringe moth, a rare rainforest insect.

Ingesting even a microgram of it would trigger a violent, acute asthmatic attack within an hour, followed by asphyxiation.

My eighteenth trial had officially begun.