Chapter 2: The Green Room Wait
The black sedan dropped him at a loading dock behind a featureless industrial building. A man with a headset wordlessly scanned a barcode on Jacky’s newly issued contestant lanyard and pointed to a steel door. It hissed shut behind him with a sound of final suction.
The green room was nothing like he’d imagined. It was cold, all frosted glass and neon-blue LED strips that cast no warmth. The air tasted sterile, like a hospital, but underneath was the faint, sweet-rot scent of perfume and nervous sweat. A low, electronic murmur vibrated through the floor, a hive-hum of machinery and muffled voices. He was alone.
Then a peal of laughter shattered the quiet, sharp and close. It came from the other side of a vast glass wall to his left. He could see blurred, shapely silhouettes moving in the neon-lit room beyond. Women’s voices, clear and unconcerned, cut through.
“—told him it was for a yoga channel, poor bastard believed me!”
More laughter, raucous and overlapping.
“My guy literally cried. Said he loved me. I had the release forms ready while he was still sniffling.”
Jacky froze, his hand halfway to a complimentary bottle of water on the vanity. The vanity mirror reflected his own pale face, and the empty room behind him. The voices kept coming.
“What’s the prize pool for this season? I heard the betting lines are insane.”
“It’s not about the prize, it’s about the exposure. My agent says this segment can double my follower count.”
A slower, smokier voice chimed in. “I’m just here for the freebies. And to see how long the new one lasts. The skinny kid. He looks like a strong breeze would snap him.”
Jacky’s breath hitched. He took a step back from the glass, his heel scuffing the polished concrete. They were talking about him. The women were contestants? Or were they…
Before he could untangle the thought, the main door to the green room slid open. Vanessa walked in, her heels clicking a precise rhythm on the hard floor. She wore a different outfit today—a tailored, powder-blue blazer that ended just below her hips, and the same impossibly short black skirt. She looked like a newscaster from a dystopia.
“Jacky! You made it. Settling in?” Her tone was all bright, professional warmth.
“Those women…” he stammered, pointing a thumb toward the glass.
“The other participants? Pay them no mind. Pre-game jitters.” She placed a sleek metallic briefcase on the vanity, clicking it open. Inside, nestled in black foam, were a tape measure, shears, and several swatches of shimmering, spandex-like fabric. “We need to get you camera-ready. It’s time for your wardrobe consultation.”
“Wardrobe? I brought clothes.” He gestured to his duffel bag, packed with his best jeans and a polo shirt.
Vanessa gave a light, tinkling laugh. “Oh, sweetheart. No. The show has a very specific… aesthetic. We provide everything. It’s all in the release you signed. The ‘aesthetic presentation’ clause.” She picked up the tape measure, letting it slither through her fingers. “Now, jacket off, please.”
The command was pleasant, but absolute. Jacky’s mouth went dry. He remembered the phrase: total physical exposure. He unzipped his hoodie with clumsy fingers, draping it over the back of the chair. The room was chillingly cool on his thin arms.
“Good. And the t-shirt.”
He pulled it over his head, the static making his hair stand up. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, feeling the goosebumps rise.
Vanessa didn’t comment on his skinny frame, his prominent ribs. Her demeanor was that of a skilled tailor. She looped the tape around his bicep. “Just measurements. Nothing to be nervous about.” Her fingers were warm against his skin.
She worked efficiently: chest, waist, inseam. She called out numbers to no one, her voice clear in the empty room. Each call seemed to hang in the air for a moment before being absorbed by the walls.
“Now, the final and most important measurement,” she said, her voice dropping into a confidential register. “For the foundational garment. Please remove your jeans and socks.”
Jacky’s heart was a frantic bird in his throat. “My… what?”
“The denim will distort the measurements. We need precision.” She smiled, a bland, bureaucratic smile. “It’s standard. I assure you.”
The hum in the floor seemed to grow louder. From the women’s lounge, another burst of laughter. He felt a hot wave of shame climb his neck. With trembling hands, he undid his button, his zip sounding grotesquely loud. He stepped out of his jeans and socks, standing there in his faded grey boxers, arms wrapped tightly around himself.
“Arms at your sides, please. For accuracy.”
He forced them down, his entire body taut with humiliation. Vanessa kneeled in front of him, placing the end of the tape at his hip bone. He stared rigidly over her head at the mirror on the vanity. He saw his own terrified eyes, the stark blue light bleaching his skin of all color.
Vanessa called out a number. Then she said, “And the final inner-leg depth.”
A soft, melodic chime echoed through the room, seemingly from everywhere at once. Vanessa paused, tilting her head as if listening to a voice in her ear. A moment later, she smiled up at him. It wasn’t her professional smile. This one had teeth.
“Excellent! The audience has voted on the design. They’ve selected ‘The Catalyst’ in onyx. Very popular choice.”
“Audience? Voted?” Jacky whispered.
Vanessa stood and pulled from the briefcase a swatch of fabric. It was black, shiny, and smaller than his hand. She held it up by two thin strings. It was a g-string, a minimalist wedge of material.
“Your competition attire, Jacky. The show is called ‘The Last Man Standing’. The wardrobe reflects that… singular focus. Now, final step. Boxers off, please. We need to ensure the fit is perfect.”
The world narrowed to the chill of the air on his skin, the hum in his bones, the predatory glow of the blue light. The glass walls around him felt suddenly infinite. He looked into the mirror, into his own widening eyes, and then past his own reflection.
In the depths of the glass, in the blackness behind his own image, tiny red lights flickered to life. Dozens of them. Hundreds. A constellation of silent, watching attention fixed on his half-naked, trembling form. It was the same as the mirror in the office, but now he understood. There was no behind. The glass was the audience.
Vanessa followed his gaze. Her smile didn’t waver. “Ah. You’ve noticed our studio audience. Say hello, Jacky. They’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”
She held out the tiny black garment.
The chime sounded again, insistent.
“The vote is unanimous,” Vanessa said, her voice smooth as oil. “They want to see the fitting. Live.”
She took a step closer, the fabric dangling from her finger. The red lights in the mirror glowed brighter, waiting. The murmur from the women’s lounge had ceased. The entire world was holding its breath.
Jacky stood, paralyzed, exposed not just to the woman in front of him, but to the countless unseen eyes drinking in his shame from the other side of the glass. The game had begun long before he’d stepped onto any stage. It had begun the moment he’d picked up the pen.