Now, huddled under the tarp, he whispered his revelation to the others. Marco's face crumpled. Priya went very still. The remaining four—a washed-up footballer, a TikTok dancer, a disgraced politician, a chef who'd poisoned three critics—stared at him with the dead-eyed acceptance of people who had already been unmade.
But Niko had stopped believing in the edit three days ago, when the drone failed to return from its sunrise sweep. It hadn't crashed. It had simply flown east, as if dismissed, and never came back. The GoPros on the trees were dead. The microphones woven into their collars had gone silent. They were not being watched. Now, huddled under the tarp, he whispered his
A smiley face.
The satellite uplink was down again. Not that Niko could blame it. The storm lashing the coast of Pelion had turned the Aegean into a churning cauldron of grey, and the ancient chestnut trees above their camp swayed like tortured prophets. He huddled under a damp canvas tarp with the other six "celebrities," their designer clothes reduced to mud-caked rags. It had simply flown east, as if dismissed,
He confirmed it last night by shaving a branch with the machete. Inside, a carbon-fiber spine gleamed like a bone tumor. A prop. Everything was a prop.
Niko looked at the centipede. It had stopped moving. He touched it. Plastic. A prop. Everything was a prop.