Chapter 4The Boy Who Finally Smiled

"Beck! Show some damn respect!"

Gideon shoved his way between us, standing protectively in front of Cyrus.

"Cyrus is trying to save your ungrateful skin, and this is how you treat him? If you want to leave so badly, fine." He pointed to my pack. "Leave the group supplies behind, and you can rot in the jungle for all I care."

I looked at him, my expression dead.

"I’ve told you once. This is my personal gear."

"Your bag has the broad-spectrum antibiotics and the water purification tablets!" Mallory shrieked from behind them. "The team actually needs those!"

Cyrus sighed, playing the peacemaker once again.

"Gideon, Mallory, let it go. Beck is fragile. He needs those things more than we do. We’ll just have to work harder to find a clean spring."

The more he conceded, the more the others hated me.

It was a textbook execution of social isolation. No weapons, no direct violence—just letting the collective weight of the group crush me.

"No way!" Gideon barked. "If you don't leave the supplies, you aren't leaving this clearing."

Two of the other male contestants shifted their weight, blocking my exit path.

I calculated my odds in a physical altercation.

One hundred percent.

But physical violence would trigger a production intervention, and the moment the crew stepped in, I would lose control of the narrative. I would be disqualified, sent back, and my survival would be at the mercy of outside forces.

I reached into my bag, pulled out the heavy plastic case of medical supplies, and tossed it into the mud at their feet.

"If you want them that badly, take them," I said, my voice as casual as if I were discarding a wrapper.

They all froze, caught off guard by how easily I surrendered.

Cyrus's eyes widened in brief surprise, which quickly melted into quiet satisfaction. He thought he had finally broken me.

"Beck, remember, you gave this up voluntarily. No one forced you," he said, his voice dripping with faux-sweetness.

I didn't answer. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked into the green dark of the jungle without looking back.

The silence of the jungle was different from the silence of the city. Here, the damp earth breathed, and every rustle of the canopy was a reminder of my own fragile existence. For two days, I was entirely alone. I followed the contingency plans I had spent my childhood memorizing, mapping out water sources, laying simple snare traps, and constructing a small, high-altitude shelter. It was peaceful, in a way. No cameras. No forced smiles. No Cyrus whispering poison under the guise of concern. Yet, the quiet was deceptive. I knew my eighteenth trial wouldn't end with snake paste or poisoned chocolate. The universe, or whatever malicious force had pursued me for eighteen years, was just catching its breath.

On the afternoon of the third day, the air turned heavy.

The sky bruised into a dark purple, and the clouds opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour.

In the rainforest, rain of this scale is a death sentence.

The clay soil quickly liquefies, and flash floods can tear through ravines in minutes.

From my elevated shelter, I was safe. But on the portable receiver I had synced to the production's emergency channel, I could hear the chaos at the main camp.

They were flooded.

Cyrus was leading the group toward the high cliffs to the north.

It was a massive mistake.

The cliffs had no tree cover to buffer the mudslides, and the sheer rock face would be slick as ice. A single slip meant a hundred-foot drop onto jagged limestone.

He wasn't saving them; he was leading them into a slaughterhouse.

And I had to go.

Because the cliffs were the only route the rescue helicopters could reach in this weather. If I didn't make it to that clearing, I would be trapped in the valley, cut off from any exit.

I pulled on my heavy weather gear, checked my harness, and headed straight into the storm toward the cliffs.

When I arrived at the base of the rock face, they were already attempting to scale it using a single, frayed climbing rope.

Cyrus claimed the production team had left it there as an emergency line.

Gideon and Mallory were already near the top, huddled on a narrow ledge. Cyrus was at the bottom, preparing to climb.

When he saw me emerge from the rain, his face went white.

"Beck? How are you here?" he yelled over the roar of the wind, his voice losing its polished charm. "Get up here! It's too dangerous down there!"

He stepped aside, gesturing to the rope.

"You go first. I'll spot you from below."