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.
On day twelve, Priya had tried to walk south to the nearest village. She'd returned four hours later, weeping, her face blank. "There's a fence," she said. "Electrified. And beyond it... nothing. Just white. Like a studio wall." But Niko had stopped believing in the edit
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. The GoPros on the trees were dead
He walked to the nearest tree—the one with the carbon-fiber heart—and began to carve. Not a cry for help. Not a message. On day twelve, Priya had tried to walk
They'd laughed. Marco had thrown a rock at the speaker.