The broadcast split into a dual-screen view.
On the right side of the screen, the camera showed the miserable camp. Camila was dramatically breaking a dry block of instant ramen in half, handing a piece to Kody to prove her kindness to the viewers. Kody shoved the dry noodles into his mouth like a rat.
On the left side of the screen, Anabelle sat at a heavy oak table inside the luxurious Schmidt's Bistro.
Alex Green, a waiter with slicked-back hair, slammed a printed crossword puzzle down onto the white linen tablecloth. He didn't provide a pen. He crossed his arms, a nasty smirk on his face, waiting for her to beg for one.
Anabelle reached into her pocket and pulled out a two-inch stub of a pencil she had found on the highway.
Gus Schmidt stood next to the table, speaking directly into the camera lens.
"This puzzle was designed by a linguistics major," Gus bragged. "It takes Ivy League professors an hour just to get halfway."
Anabelle looked down at the grid.
Clue 4 Across: The Latin root for the physical manifestation of guilt.
Clue 12 Down: The specific shade of blue used in the 14th-century frescoes of Padua.
Anabelle's thumb rubbed her index knuckle once.
These weren't just trivia questions. This was the exact curriculum of the private tutors her father had hired for her when she was seven years old.
She pressed the dull lead of the pencil against the paper.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Her hand moved with terrifying speed. She didn't pause to think. She didn't look up. The sound of the pencil tearing across the paper was the only noise at the table.
Alex's smirk faltered. He leaned in, trying to see if she was just drawing squiggles.
Three minutes and twelve seconds later, Anabelle dropped the pencil. She pushed the paper to the center of the table.
"Done," she said.
Gus laughed nervously. He picked up the paper, pulling a red answer key from his jacket pocket.
His eyes darted from the key to her handwriting. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. Every single box was filled. Every single spelling was flawless.
In the live chat, verified linguistics professors were tweeting screenshots, confirming the answers were absolutely perfect. The internet was losing its collective mind.
Gus swallowed hard. His fake smile looked like a grimace. "Well. It seems we have a winner. Fire the Wellington!" he yelled to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, the table was covered. Beef Wellington, black truffle soup, and a delicate French pastry.
Anabelle picked up her silver knife and fork.
She meant to eat like a starving scavenger. But the moment her fingers wrapped around the heavy silver, a sudden, jarring sense of familiarity washed over her. The weight and texture felt far too natural, causing a split-second lapse in her concentration. Her elbows tucked in perfectly. Her wrists angled instinctively. She sliced the beef with a smooth, silent stroke, bringing the fork to her mouth without leaning forward.
It lasted only three seconds.
A few eagle-eyed viewers in the chat caught it, furiously typing out questions about her posture.
Anabelle realized her slip. Her stomach dropped. She immediately threw her elbows onto the table, hunched her shoulders aggressively, and shoved a massive piece of bread into her mouth, chewing loudly and awkwardly to ruin the image.
She cleared the plates in record time.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin and looked up at Alex. "I need the zero-dollar receipt for the production crew."
Alex's face went hard. He walked to the register, punched in a few codes, and marched back.
He slammed a black leather billfold onto the table.
Anabelle opened it.
The total wasn't zero.
TOTAL DUE: $13.00
Anabelle's blood ran cold. She stared at the itemized list.
Mandatory Utensil Usage Fee: $3.00
Automatic Gratuity (Based on $100 original value): $10.00
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Thirteen dollars. It was a death sentence for her survival game. It was blatant extortion.
She looked up. Alex was grinning, a cruel, ugly expression.
"Pay up, trailer trash," Alex said loudly, making sure the surrounding tables heard him. "If you can't afford the tip, don't eat at nice places."
Gus Schmidt stood by the bar, watching with his arms crossed, fully endorsing the shakedown.
Anabelle didn't scream. She didn't cry.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the white emergency medical card. Her eyes were black holes of pure, concentrated fury.
