Beyond the Frosted Glass

Jasper pressed his palm against the frosted glass and felt the vibration of the audience’s chant on the other side—“ONE. OF. US!”—the syllables bellowed in time with the beat that pulsed through the studio. The stage lights bled through the cracks in the set, sharp and blue-white, making his eyes ache. Tonight, he would either be voted forward or—he didn’t like to think about it. No one did, not really.

“Contestants, please line up!” boomed the unseen voice from the ceiling, syrupy and cheerful, the way a parent might call children to dinner. Around Jasper, the others shuffled nervously into their marks, each standing on one of the gleaming white circles embedded into the floor. Mina, always the first to smile, shot Jasper a tremulous grin. He tried to return it, but his lips stuck to his teeth.

The host, Dax Mercury, materialized through a puff of fog, all platinum hair and endless teeth. He wore a suit that looked poured on, cobalt under the lights, and his eyes glittered as if he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

“Friends!” he called, arms wide. “We’re down to eight! But tonight, as always, one of you will take the Fateful Walk.” He let the words hang, stretching the silence as the audience’s chant dimmed to a murmur. “Are you ready?”

No one answered. Jasper’s stomach twisted.

“Let’s review your week!” Dax flashed his teeth. On the giant oval screen, scenes from the house played: Mina burning her thumb while cooking; Greg weeping over a snapped shoelace; Jasper himself, staring at the camera as he whispered, “I want to go home.” The editors always found the worst bits.

“Time for the vote!” Dax sang. “Audience, you know what to do.”

The lights strobed. Red and gold confetti tumbled from somewhere high above, dusting their hair and shoulders. Six of them stared dead ahead, but Jasper’s gaze landed on Isla, the quietest contestant, whose eyes had gone shock-wide. She mouthed something—don’t let it be me.

The votes trickled in, numbers climbing on the screen: green for safe, red for at risk. Jasper’s name flashed green, then yellow, then green again. He held his breath. The final tally scrolled in. Isla’s name glowed blood-red, and the audience whooped.

“Isla,” Dax purred, “tonight, you have been eliminated. It’s time to take the Fateful Walk.”

Isla’s lips trembled. She looked at Jasper, then Mina, and finally Dax, who gestured toward the far end of the stage—a corridor lit from below in a pale, unnatural glow.

The eliminated never came back. The first week, everyone had expected a reunion, or a wrap party. But when Carter disappeared down the corridor, his bed was stripped bare and his possessions vanished from the house before sunrise. The producers insisted he’d been “sent home.” That was all.

Isla stepped forward. Dax placed a hand, light as a spider, on the small of her back. The audience applauded. The corridor swallowed her in light.

After, back in the dormitory, the seven remaining sat on their thin cots in silence. Someone sniffled. Mina ran her thumb over the frayed edge of her blanket, peeling it back and forth.

“They don’t let us say goodbye,” she whispered.

“Because she’s not coming back,” Greg muttered, fists balled. “None of them do.”

Jasper stared at the ceiling, tracing the hairline cracks. “You ever see them again? In the studio, on the street?” he asked.

No one answered. They all knew the rules: no contact with “eliminated contestants.” No questions. Everything was on camera, even here; microphones embedded in the lamps, in the mattress seams. Still, Mina’s eyes darted to the corner where the lens glinted, and she whispered, barely audible, “I don’t think there is a home.”

***

That night, Jasper lay awake, the red LED clock blinking 3:17. He rolled onto his side and stared at the wall, remembering Isla’s face going pale as smoke. His chest felt tight.

There had been a moment last week, after Ava was eliminated, when he’d gone to the bathroom and found a faint smudge on the mirror: a palm print, as if someone had pressed their hand against the glass from the other side. The cleaners were thorough. But he’d seen it.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom. The overhead light hummed. The mirror was spotless now, but Jasper pressed his own palm to the glass, leaving a faint foggy outline.

He looked at himself—cheeks sunken, eyes raw. “What happens to us?” he whispered.

The mirror, of course, didn’t answer.

***

The next day, a new challenge. Dax whirled them onto the set, this time a labyrinth of black panels and flashing floor tiles. “Only five will escape!” he trilled. “The last two—well, let’s hope your fans love you!”

Jasper steeled himself. They ran, ducked, leapt over obstacles, solved riddles whispered from hidden speakers. Mina caught up beside him, gasping. “We have to stick together,” she hissed.

They reached a fork—left, a corridor blinking green; right, a dead end. Distantly, someone screamed. Jasper’s pulse hammered. They bolted left.

At the finish, the crowd howled. Dax announced, with glee, that Greg and Willow were in the danger zone. The audience vote began again.

Jasper found himself in the wings, close enough to see the trapdoor at the end of the Fateful Walk. As Greg, shaking, moved toward it, Jasper noticed something: a thin wisp of smoke coiling from the edge, as if the floor itself burned beneath. He craned his head to see, but the lights washed out everything.

Willow went next. She didn’t look back.

***

In the hush of night, Jasper crept from his bed. The others slept, exhausted. He padded, silent, toward the stage. The Fateful Walk corridor loomed, humming faintly.

He slipped in, heart in his throat. The air tasted sharp, chemical. The corridor narrowed, the light turned blue, then red. At the far end, the trapdoor. He crouched, pressed his ear to the floor.

He heard voices. Faint, muffled. A whisper—his own name?

He pried with his nails. The trapdoor shifted slightly, just enough for him to peer into the darkness below. Rows of monitors glowered up, showing scenes from the house. A dozen figures hunched at consoles, pressing buttons. He squinted—were those the eliminated contestants? Isla, Carter, Ava—they wore identical gray uniforms, their eyes glazed.

A hand clamped onto Jasper’s shoulder. He whipped around. Dax stood behind him, grinning.

“Curiosity, Jasper!” he sang. “It’s what we love about you.”

Jasper tried to wrench away. Dax’s grip tightened.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your turn.”

The lights in the corridor flared white. Jasper blinked, blinded, as the floor dropped beneath him.

He fell, weightless, into the silence.

The last thing he saw was the rows of faces, watching him from the screens, waiting for the next show to begin.