Chapter 3: The First Challenge
A hand touched his shoulder—not Vanessa’s. A bald man in a black tech shirt had materialized beside him. “Time to move,” the man said, his voice flat. He didn’t wait for a response, just applied gentle, inexorable pressure, steering Jacky toward the door. The shiny black garment was still clutched, forgotten, in Jacky’s fist.
They moved down a narrow, darkened corridor lined with thick cables. The electronic hum swelled into a physical vibration in Jacky’s teeth. A distant roar, rhythmic and tidal, pulsed through the walls. Applause.
A heavy door swung open. The sound and light hit him like a wall.
The stage was a surgery-white expanse under a ceiling of searing halogen beams. It was circular, ringed by a moat of darkness, but that darkness was alive with the pinprick glow of thousands of phone screens and the occasional red dot of a laser pointer skating over the floor. The air was ozone and chilled sweat. In the center, a semicircle of five women stood under softer, kinder light. They looked like a curated display: all different, all terrifying.
Vanessa was already at a gleaming podium, a microphone curving like a silver serpent toward her lips. “Ladies and unseen enthusiasts… welcome our final participant! Give it up for Jacky!”
The roar from the dark was deafening, a wave of pure noise that made Jacky flinch. The red dots converged on his chest, dancing over his threadbare t-shirt. They’d given him his clothes back, a small mercy that now felt like a cruel joke.
“Come on out, Jacky! Don’t be shy,” Vanessa crooned. The bald man gave him a slight push into the full glare.
The women watched him approach. A tall, muscular woman with a severe blonde ponytail and arms crossed over a tank top—Sloane—looked him up and down as if assessing livestock. Beside her, a woman with a playful smile and curly hair—Tasha—waved with a little finger-wiggle. A sharp-faced athlete in sports gear, Mira, didn’t smile at all. A petite redhead with freckles, Ivy, offered a small, sympathetic-looking smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The fifth, a woman with sleek dark hair and a predatory stillness, simply watched. Keira.
“Jacky’s our special rookie this season,” Vanessa announced, her voice echoing in the vast space. “So we’re starting him off with something classic. A test of focus. Of… resilience.”
A section of the floor lit up, revealing a winding path marked by neon-green tape. At the far end was a small pedestal with a single, ridiculous item: a giant, fluffy pink dice.
“The rules are simple,” Vanessa said. “Jacky must retrieve the dice and bring it back to start. But along the path, our magnificent contestants will be stationed. They each hold a token.” She gestured. Tasha held up a silver whistle. Mira held a stopwatch. Sloane had a small vial of liquid. Ivy clutched a silk scarf. Keira’s hands were empty, her fingers slowly flexing.
“To pass each station and receive the token, Jacky must perform a simple task they request. Collect all five tokens, get the dice, and you win the round. Fail…” Vanessa shrugged, a beautifully casual gesture. “The audience decides the consequence. Ready?”
He wasn’t. A digital countdown blared from hidden speakers: Three. Two. One.
A horn sounded. The women took their positions along the path. Jacky stumbled forward, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. The audience whooped.
First was Tasha. She bounced on the balls of her feet, the whistle dangling between her breasts on a lanyard. “Hi again!” she chirped. “Okay, my task is easy. Just answer a quick question. Truthfully.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper the microphone still caught. “Are you a virgin?”
The laughter from the darkness was instant and brutal. Jacky felt the heat explode across his face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The red dots swarmed over him.
“Aw, he’s blushing! That’s an answer,” Tasha laughed, and blew the whistle sharply in his face. She dropped the token, a plastic chip, into his sweating palm. “Good luck, sweetie.”
He shuffled to the next station, his ears ringing. Mira stood, holding the stopwatch. “Task,” she said, her voice cold and clear. “Ten push-ups. Form matters. I’ll be judging.”
Jacky got on the floor. The cool surface against his palms. He started. One. His arms trembled. Two. A muscle in his shoulder quivered.
“Back straight,” Mira snapped. “That was three. Doesn’t count. Start over.”
He did. The audience began a slow, mocking clap to his rhythm. By the seventh, his arms were noodles. He collapsed on eight, his chest heaving.
Mira snorted. “Pathetic.” She tossed the token onto the floor beside his face. “Move along.”
Sloane was next. She uncapped the small vial. “Oil,” she said. “My task. You put this on my shoulders. Demonstrate… therapeutic intent.” Her gaze was a challenge.
His hands shook as he poured a little of the slick, coconut-scented liquid into his palm. He reached out, tentatively touching her bare shoulder. The muscle there was hard as stone. He made a feeble rubbing motion.
“You call that a massage? My grandma rubs harder, and she’s dead,” Sloane barked. The crowd ate it up. She snatched the vial back and shoved the token at him. “You’re wasting time.”
Dizzy with shame, he moved to Ivy. She held the silk scarf, smiling her gentle, freckled smile. “This one is about trust,” she said softly. “I need you to let me tie this around your head. As a blindfold for the next leg.”
It seemed almost kind. A respite from their eyes. He nodded, and she stepped close. She smelled like lavender. She tied the scarf snugly, plunging him into warm, fabric darkness. “There,” she murmured. Her lips were close to his ear. “Now, just stand still for three seconds. The task is just to stand there.”
He stood. He heard a rustle of clothing, a collective, sharp gasp from the audience, and then a series of camera shutters clicking like insects from the darkness.
Ivy’s voice was a sweet, venomous whisper only he could hear. “They just got a great shot of my tits pressed against your arm. You twitched. You’re so easy.”
She pulled away, and the blindfold was gone. She placed the token in his hand, her smile beatific. The audience was hysterical.
The last station was Keira. She stood, unmoving. As he approached, she simply pointed to a spot on the floor between her feet. “Token’s there,” she said, her voice a low monotone. “Pick it up.”
He hesitated. She was wearing heels, sharp stilettos. To get the token, he’d have to get very low, very close to her legs. He bent, kneeling, reaching a hand into the space. As he did, she shifted her weight, just slightly. The heel of her shoe came to rest, not on him, but on the edge of the token, pinning it.
He looked up. She stared down at him, her expression unreadable. “You have to ask for it,” she said.
“Please,” he whispered.
“Please, what?”
“Please, can I have the token?”
She held the pose for a long, terrible moment, letting the image sink in for the cameras: him on his knees before her. Then she lifted her foot. “You can have it.”
He snatched it, scrambling back. He had all five tokens. The fluffy pink dice was just ten feet away. He lunged for it.
A second horn blared, harsh and final. Vanessa’s voice cut through. “Time’s up! I’m afraid our rookie fumbled the clock!”
He hadn’t. He’d been slow, but he’d made it. He stood, clutching the dice, tokens digging into his palm. “I got it,” he said, his voice cracking.
“The tasks must be completed to the satisfaction of the station controller,” Vanessa said, her tone one of mock regret. “Mira? Did he satisfy your push-up requirement?”
“No,” Mira said flatly. “He failed.”
The sound that rose from the audience was a hungry, approving rumble. The giant screen behind Vanessa flickered to life, showing Jacky’s own confused, despairing face in high definition.
“And so,” Vanessa said, spreading her hands, “we put it to a live vote. Audience, you have ten seconds. What is the consequence? Option A: twenty seconds in the chill tube. Option B: forfeit an article of clothing.”
The screen split. Two bars, labeled A and B, began to fill. B, the clothing bar, surged ahead instantly, filling to 98% in a blaze of crimson light. The cheer was deafening.
“The people have spoken! Jacky, an article of clothing. Your choice.”
He stood paralyzed. His shoes? His socks? It seemed absurd.
“Audience specificity override!” Vanessa announced, tapping her ear. “They’re requesting… the top. Let’s see what you’re working with, Jacky.”
The chant started in the darkness, a thunderous, rhythmic stomp. “Off! Off! Off!”
His fingers felt like someone else’s as they grabbed the hem of his t-shirt. The fabric caught on his chin, for a second shielding him, then it was over his head and he was holding it, a limp bundle of cotton. The studio lights were merciless on his pale, skinny torso. His ribs were visible. A faint trail of hair led from his navel into his jeans. He hunched his shoulders instinctively.
“Stand up straight, let’s see!” Vanessa commanded.
He forced himself to stand, arms rigid at his sides. The cameras zoomed in, his image magnified fifty feet tall on the screen behind him. Every mole, every goosebump.
“Aw, look at that,” Tasha cooed from her station. “Smooth as a baby.”
“Nervous nipples,” Mira observed drily into her own microphone. “Classic stress response.”
Sloane just laughed, a short, brutal sound.
Ivy tilted her head, studying the screen. “He’s shivering.”
Vanessa let the moment hang, let the commentators’ laughter and the audience’s howls wash over him. Jacky stared at his own magnified chest on the screen, a naked, bony stranger under the blinding lights.
“Round one goes to the house!” Vanessa finally declared, her smile wide and bright. “But don’t worry, Jacky. The night is young. And the next challenge… involves water.”