One last like

"Hi, everyone. I'm really nervous. But I'm here with you."

She formed a heart with her hands. Aruzhan looked calmly into the camera.

"Let's see how honest a show can be when it starts by selling us the truth."

A silence followed. She did not look away. The host stepped into the center of the set.

"Welcome to Star Week! No filters. No editing. No second takes. Just you, the camera, and the love of your viewers."

Yerlan sat at the control desk, the bloggers' faces spread across his monitors. His gaze lingered on Saya. Beside her feed, the system opened an archived photograph of Dinara on its own. It appeared for only a fraction of a second. Yerlan froze, then quickly closed the window.

The first day looked exactly like an expensive reality show: a spacious common room, mattresses, a kitchen with no food, cameras mounted on every wall. Four bottles of water and tiny portions of food waited on the table.

"Now this is what I call hunger. I got more food after filming a detox ad," Arman said.

"Shh. It's a signature diet: rich, hungry, miserable," Timson replied.

Saya picked up a bottle of water but did not open it.

"Are the viewers already watching?"

The host's voice came through the speakers.

"They're watching. And judging."

A ranking appeared on the screen.

Arman — 31% Aruzhan — 27%

Saya — 24% Timson — 18%

"Eighteen? Somebody's rigging this against me. I demand a recount of everyone who understood the jokes."

"Relax, old man. Your audience just goes to bed after nine," Arman said.

Aruzhan studied the cameras.

"That's a lot of cameras for a show that claims to be safe."

"Are you always this much fun?" Arman asked.

"Only when I sign contracts that lawyers will spend months taking apart."

Saya finally opened her water and took a small sip. In one of the black screens, she saw her reflection. For a moment, someone seemed to be standing behind her. She spun around. No one was there.

At their first dinner, tiny portions had been arranged beautifully on the table: a piece of chicken, a few lettuce leaves, water in elegant glasses. Everything looked more expensive than filling. Arman raised one hand automatically, as though photographing his plate, then stared at his empty palm.

"Phantom story syndrome. My hand keeps looking for the button."

"Me too," Saya said. "I keep thinking, I have to film this."

"Congratulations. We're in rehab for people who called their addiction a career," Timson said.

Aruzhan looked at a hidden camera in the ceiling.

"Not rehab. A zoo."

Arman raised his glass.

"To the zoo. May the prettiest animal win."

They drank. The water tasted ordinary. Saya noticed the show's motivational slogan on the wall: YOU ARE LOVED AS LONG AS YOU ARE SEEN.

"That's a strange slogan."

"An honest one," Timson said.

Aruzhan looked through the control-room glass at Yerlan. He sat perfectly still, almost like another piece of equipment.

"The technician is here again."

"Maybe he likes you," Arman said.

"He isn't looking at me."

Saya turned as though she had felt the weight of someone's gaze. Yerlan was already watching another monitor.

Yerlan sat at the control desk while the broadcast director, a young man, scrolled through a tablet beside him.

"After midnight, kill the main lights. Leave the infrared cameras running," the director said.

He paused to check the schedule.

"In the morning, the host goes in: day two, surprise breakfast."

Yerlan nodded.

"You definitely set everything up? The investors are watching the internal run-through tomorrow."

"Everything's set."

The director left to get coffee. Alone, Yerlan took out a flash drive and inserted it into the main computer. For an instant, a different interface appeared across the monitors. It was not part of the studio software. Black and minimal, it displayed the words: DINARA PROTOCOL: ACTIVATE AFTER SEDATION. Yerlan watched the bloggers' faces while their conversation came through his headphones.

"If anything goes wrong, we'll just start a scandal. A scandal gets views too," Arman said.

"Exactly," Yerlan murmured.

He pressed Enter.

The screen displayed: SEDATION: PREPARING.

In the common room, the ventilation system came on without anyone noticing.

Everyone lay on their mattresses, but no one was asleep. Saya whispered into the darkness.

"Do you ever feel like you don't know who you are without your account?"

Timson did not answer immediately.

"Without my account, I'm a man who eats sunflower seeds too loudly."

Arman snorted.

"Without our accounts, we don't exist. Let's be honest. There are thousands of perfectly normal people out there. We made it because people watch us."

"Being watched isn't the same as being seen," Aruzhan said.

"Here we go. Bedtime philosophy," Arman said.

"No, she's right," Saya said. "People watch me all the time, but somehow it still feels like nobody does."

Silence settled over the room. When Timson spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly serious.

"Then don't read the comments at night."

"I can't stop."

"You can. You're just scared," Arman said.

Saya turned toward him.

"Aren't you scared?"

Arman smiled in the darkness.

"Me? I'm the scary one."

He closed his eyes, and the smile vanished immediately. He lay motionless in the dark, his fingers gripping the edge of the mattress.

A white room. Light that was far too bright. No windows. No furniture. Four transparent boxes stood on the floor, each containing one participant's personal possession: Arman's gold chain, Timson's notebook of jokes, Saya's phone case covered with fan stickers, and Aruzhan's old voice recorder. A hatch opened in the wall. A screen beside it lit up.