Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Robin hadn’t meant to walk in. 

The building looked expensive in the kind of way that made her skin prickle—glass doors too clean, air too cool, reception desk manned by a woman who didn’t look up at her. She clutched the flyer in her hoodie pocket, crumpled and stained at the edges: Open call: ‘The Flame season 8. Amateur cooks wanted!’  

The smell of the building hit her first garlic, roasted, something citrus. Faint but real, drifting out from a hallway she wasn’t supposed to see. Her stomach curled with hunger she’d learned not to show. She hadn’t eaten today. She'd like to have blamed it on the two-hour bus ride to get here, but that did little to explain why she hadn’t eaten yesterday either. 

The receptionist finally looked up. “Name?” she sounded about as disinterested as humanly possible. 

Robin blinked. “Oh, I-I'm—”  

“You’re here to cook, aren’t you? Sign these.” She cut Robin off, sliding a clipboard across the desk. There was something final about the way the pen was attached to it. 

She signed Robin St. James in the crooked handwriting of a girl who received an orphanage education and tried not to think about how out of place she looked. The other girls and guys were waiting on a long velvet bench wearing tailored aprons, chef's coats, bold lipstick. Several had monogrammed knife cases. Robin had a backpack with a broken zipper and a knife she bought second-hand. 

The flyer had said you needed to bring your own knives, but ingredients would be provided. She was thankful, if she had to buy her ingredients she would’ve shown up with nothing but a bag of rice and the couple of expired eggs from the back of her fridge. 

A couple of contestants snickered as she sat. Was it to how she looked or how she was dressed? Either way, she tried to sink deeper into the couch she was on to avoid the glares. She just wanted to disappear.  

Ripped jeans... bought without the holes, pullover hoodie, despite it being 70 degrees outside, dusty black sneakers she’s had since she was fifteen, they were a little too small now and blistered her feet, but she’d look like an idiot wearing her work shoes here. 

A bored-looking assistant called people into the room in groups of three. “Mike-P, Rebbeca-J, and Robin—” He squinted at the handwriting seemingly unable to make out Robin’s last name. Great she wrote her last name too illegible... great first impression. 

The group was led through a set of ornate glass double doors. The audition kitchen was brighter than anything she’d ever cooked in—too white, too perfect, too clean. Steel counters gleamed like they’d never seen failure. Cameras sat in every corner of the room, blinking like insects.  

The assistant handed her a black apron, with the word flame written across it, the logo of the show below it, a giant flame embroidered in red and orange threads, they sold these at Walmart Robin was pretty sure, ‘cook like a pro in a custom ‘The Flame’ apron.’ The ads always said.  

The real ones... the ones for people that made it onto the show always had the name embroidered in the upper right-hand corner. 

Despite it being a cheap knockoff anyone could buy Robin still felt like a fraud putting it on. 

“One hour. One dish. Impress us.” The assistant said, speaking on behalf of the judges, the judging table sitting empty, a lonely black cloth draped over it. Almost revenant, knowing a better life could be just one plate of food and three judges' opinions away. 

“Everyone ready? Okay... Begin.”  

She was assigned a station with a countertop induction burner, a small oven —and a basket of ingredients already waiting. Not luxury ingredients, but curated. 

-Jasmine rice
-Eggs
-Chicken thighs 
-Scallions  
-Ginger   
-A lemon   
-Berries   
-Soy, vinegar, sugar, garlic, oil, and salt   
-A chili paste marked as HOT in bold lettering 

Everyone got the same. 

Robin’s heart kicked. She knew these ingredients. Not from school or YouTube or some homey childhood kitchen, but hunger. From instinct. 

While the others whispered about fusion concepts and rare techniques, Robin picked up the rice and ran it through her hands. Long grain. Good starch. She set a pot to boil. 

She moved fast. Not flash, not showy, no finesse, no grand knife skills or flourishes. Just what she practiced in the orphanage's kitchen and what she could gather from YouTube videos. 

Chop scallions—white and green separate

Slice ginger as thin as paper.

Chicken: Debone, cube, salt lightly, set aside.

Eggs: Beaten with a splash of soy, whisked until pale. 

Then she started her rice. 

She didn’t want to be bold; she wanted to be right. She was making congee—not a trendy plate, not a piece of art, just food that sat warm in your chest and didn’t ask questions. She didn’t want to go home kicking herself that she had tried to make something that wasn’t her.  

In the pan, she caramelized ginger and scallions' whites in oil, then stirred in chicken and let it brown. Poured in a broth they were allowed from the show’s pantry, dropped the rice in, and lowered the heat to a simmer.  

The room smelled sharper now. Someone was flambéing the berries. Another used a blowtorch to melt sugar on the chicken skin. Robin didn’t look. 

She tasted her congee instead. It needed acidity. She cut the lemon and added a drop of juice. Then the soy. Just enough. The egg she stirred in last—slowly letting it ribbon through the thickened rice like soft yellow lace. 

She plated it in a plain white bowl, scallion greens on top, a drizzle of oil around the rim like she meant to do it. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t practiced this dish in the past... She hoped it was good enough to get her through. 

The Tasting

The judging table was marble, dark as night. Three people sat behind it...She hadn’t even heard the judges come in; she was too preoccupied with removing the oil around the rim of the bowl and re-adding it. Fussing over a small detail that was in no way going to get her through. 

From right to left the judges were Chef Gary-Joseph Lane. Nicknamed ‘The Happy Chef’ by the show's online viewership. Owner of over 19 restaurants worldwide, and recipient of 11 Michelin Stars total, the tall heavy-set man’s intro line to every season was ‘Never trust a skinny chef.’ He played the decidedly ‘Good Cop’ on the show, always consoling contestants, everything was a teaching moment. 

In the middle was Chef Delmar Lopez, Los Angeles native, where the show is filmed, the second-ever youngest recipient of a Michelin star, and notably... a skinny chef. His attitude was somewhere in the middle, bring him a good dish and he’s basically the happy chef... bring him a bad dish and he can be just as scathing as the woman sitting to his right... 

The half French,100% arrogant, Sabine Moreau-Benson. Restaurant critic for over a decade for some of the country’s top publications, Known for her scathing rants and her disdain for anything less than perfection. Her reviews filled restaurants or closed them.  

Never seen not suited and booted, she wore an all-black suit, tailored to perfection like she was dressed for someone's funeral. Raven black hair that fell in smooth waves over her shoulders, black nails, blood red lipstick. Her skin pale with olive undertones, high cheekbones, sharp jawline, and expressive hooded eyes the color of dark honey. Eyes people say look through them, not at them. Her presence was like a blade kept perfectly sheathed. 

She rarely yelled at contestants, just let them know their food was overcooked with a calmness that told them, they were going home. 

“...Thank you for coming,” and Robin heard the door open and shut behind her... they had already tasted the other two’s food, and by the look of the empty room they were swiftly told no. She had zoned out staring at Sabine embarrassingly. “Your turn.” The assistant said. 

She shook her head to focus herself, unsure why she was staring at the food critic of all people. She picked up her bowl and placed it in the middle of the table in front of chef Delmar who was scrolling on his phone underneath the table. 

“Explain the dish?” The happy chef asked.  

“Congee,” Robin said. “Chicken and egg. Ginger, scallion, lemon.”  She used most of what was in the basket, it felt like a trap to try and use everything. The berries and the chili paste especially. 

Silence. As the three looked over the bowl. Slowly one at a time they put their tasting spoon in. Robin found herself looking to Sabine to see if she liked it, she wasn’t looking at the bowl however she was looking at Robin herself.  

Sabine closed her eyes. Not long. Not theatrically. Just enough.  

She opened her mouth to speak, but Delmar spoke first. “You had an hour... and you made rice porridge? Sorry, it’s a no from me.” He said returning to his phone, Bored. 

Chef Lane spoke next, “The egg is overcooked because you set it on top of hot rice and the rice actually continued to cook the egg well after you put it in the bowl. Chicken is a bit under-seasoned... I'm sorry you just aren’t ready to be on ‘The Flame.’ It's a no from me as well.”  

And that was that... it’s majority rules and you need two yeses to advance, Robin could feel herself going teary-eyed, but she didn’t want anyone to see her cry. Head down she nodded at the two chefs. 

“Thank—” Robin tried to thank them for their time, but the words died in her throat, she wanted the leftovers, but it wasn’t her bowl, nor her ingredients. She took a step back ready to cry in the stairwell... 

When she heard “It’s a yes from me.” Said almost lazily. The other two paused, shocked, surprised. 

Ms. Benson looked at Robin like she was trying to peel her apart from the inside out. It was of course too late, the majority had already ruled but she shot the food critic a thankful grin as the assistant led her out of the room thanking her for her time. 

She held it together surprisingly well, not shedding the first tear until she was almost at the door and heard a woman snicker, “What a waste of time.” She didn’t know if it was meant for her, but it felt like it was.  

It always did. 

That Night — Apartment 4C  

She only had money for the bus ticket there... not back, she walked back. 5 hours... in the blistering southern heat, the dehydration dried her tears faster than she could. 

Robin let herself into her apartment building with a shoulder shove and a prayer. A prayer she said every time she came home that the drug dealers who liked to sit on the first-floor landing weren’t there. They weren’t, she got lucky. A small boon after today’s events. 

The hallways reeked of mildew and something worse beneath it. Her key stuck, as always, in the rusted lock of apartment 4C. When the door finally creaked open, a cloud of damp air greeted her—thick with the scent of mold growing around the window frame. 

The faucet still leaked. The radiator hadn’t worked since she moved in, and a single light bulb buzzed overhead like it might finally go out for good. 

On the table, a red envelope waited—FINAL NOTICE stamped in block letters, six weeks late on her rent, she barely scrapped enough from tips to afford instant ramen and a bottle of aspirin for the headaches. 

She dropped her bookbag next to her broken couch which doubled as her bed and made her way to the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. It buzzed once before setting into its normal sickly yellow hue. 

The mirror was cracked across one corner. She turned on the tap—brown water for a second, then clear—She splashed her face, letting the cold water sting her eyes awake and hydrate her skin. She grabbed a thin towel and pressed it to her face. 

When she looked up, the mirror showed her the same tired girl she'd seen every day for years. Pale skin, too pale under the poor lighting. Light brown hair, cut short and choppy like she’d done it herself in the sink (Because she had) no taller than five-foot-two, she always looked smaller when she was exhausted.  

Her mouth was too soft to look tough, her eyes too open to hide anything. Still, she tried. She squared her shoulders, tried to look older. Meaner. 

Less empty. 

For the second time today, she didn’t succeed. 

The Next Day- Diner, 10:37 AM  

“Order up, Robin!”  

The plates slammed down. Eggs swimming in grease. Burned coffee. The only thing worse than the food was the music, some tired country song on repeat. 

The uniform was like something out of the 80’s the ugliest shade of teal you’d ever seen, the skirt way too short; waist fitted for a medieval princess that must’ve spent 16 hours a day wearing a corset. High heels that made her look more like a stripper than a waitress.  

At least strippers are tipped well.  

Her apron was crusted with two days ago soup. Her manager a man that smelled like menthols and cheap cologne watching her like a hawk, ready to dock her dismal pay for being late again. Not her fault she’d barely slept, there’d been a fight in the unit above hers, and the shouting continued until morning. 

Robin balanced the tray on one hand and fake smiled so hard her jaw ached. The two men sitting at the counter had already complained twice. First the eggs, then the toast, and now the coffee, which she didn’t even brew. She topped it off anyway and muttered something akin to an apology.  

“Keep the coffee flowin sweetheart.” They all called her that, or things like it... ‘baby, sweetheart, love’ like it was part of her name... like she wasn’t wearing a nametag that said her name on it. None of it sounded romantic or even endearing, more like a veiled threat. 

Robin walked back behind the counter, leaned on the register. She used all the bandages she had left on her feet after she got home, and her heels were killing her. 

Then the bell over the door jingled. 

And she walked in. 

Not the devil, not a god. Just a woman with her blazer draped over her shoulders and heels that didn’t belong anywhere near the stickiness of the diner's puke-green tile flooring. Hair pulled back. Lipstick darker than wine, and eyes that were looking through people like glass. 

Robin straightened up, wiped her hands on her apron. Her heart, the traitor that it was, started to thump in her chest. 

Because there was no way she was here for the food. She was here for her.  

Robin rubbed her eyes briefly, no way could Sabine Moreau-Benson be here for her... she made a bowl of rice porridge, the egg was overcooked...wasn’t it? 

She sat without asking. Didn’t order. Just stared at Robin like she was a bug under a microscope. 

“You—What are you doing here?” Robin asked, heart in her throat. 

Sabine simply looked around the diner soaking in its dull and dilapidated atmosphere. “You don’t belong in a place like this.”  

A bitter laugh came from Robin involuntarily. “You should see my apartment.” 

Sabine reached into her bag and placed a small black apron, neatly folded, the shows embroidered logo glinting in flame orange thread... The name Robin stitched into the upper right-hand corner. 

“You’re on the show.” She stated. “You’ll report to me. First elimination challenge is in three days.”  

Robin stared at it like a bad joke, looking around for the hidden camera like she was being Punk’d. “B-but I was cut. Overcooked Eggs...”  

“I overruled them. Privilege of being executive producer.” She smiled, more at her power than at Robin. “You have something they don’t understand.” 

“Which is?”  

Sabine smiled—Barely, a smile for Robin. “Hunger.”  

She didn’t reply. She reached out for the apron before she could make contact with the fabric Sabine put her hand over it in a silent show of authority.  

“Isn’t there something you should be saying to me?” Her brows furrowed slightly.  

Robin froze, she was being rude, but Sabine came in here like a whirlwind of good fortune. She could cry. Another chance at changing her life. Another chance to save her life. Salvage something, from the fucked-up hand she’d been dealt. 

“Thank you so much, Ms. Benson! You don’t know how much this means to me... I-I won’t let you down!”  

She stood, the blazer still elegantly over her shoulders. “I know you won’t. There are much more dire consequences for disappointing me than just going home.” She got to the door before adding... 

“You’re plane ticket is in the apron pocket.” 

“Don’t be late. Wildcard.”  

Chapter Text

The plane hummed steadily beneath her, but Robin’s nerves hummed louder. 

She was sat in a middle seat between what looked like a snoring businessman and a teenage girl who wouldn’t stop making TikTok's. Her tray table wouldn’t stay up, and she clutched at the strap of the duffle bag she got from her apartment building's dumpster. 

She had barely slept...Again. 

Her clothes still smelled faintly like fryer oil and mildew. The apartment hadn’t magically fixed itself overnight, and she’d left without telling her landlord anything—just stuffed what she could in her bookbag and the duffle, locked the door behind her, and disappeared. She had to win now... no choice but to win, or she was going home to no home at all and no job. 

She asked for the time off so she could participate in the competition and her manager laughed at her. Told her there was no point in her going... that she’d be the first boot so she might as well just stay here. 

So, she quit. 

No choice but to win now.  

Sabine had arranged for the flight, the car, and even the meal voucher she used in the airport's food court. Her stomach was full for the first time in days. Her stomach felt as full as her head. 

The clouds outside the window looked like snowbanks. Beautiful, distant, unreachable. 

She stared until she saw her own reflection in the plastic glass. Pale skin, hair frizzled at the ends from cheap shampoo, dry lips, bitten at the corners. She had a face for blending into a crowd... not for TV. 

Why her? 

The question had been echoing in her head ever since Sabine placed the apron down like a weapon.  

Why Her?  

Why Robin of all people? Truck-stop diner waitress Robin. Near homeless Robin. Orphan Robin. Overlooked her entire life, Robin. In her 18 years at the orphanage, nobody even came close to adopting her... not once.  

Yet somehow Sabine wanted her, Robin. Short, broke, underfed Robin. Robin who cooked with trauma, instinct, and YouTube videos. 

Maybe it was a trick, maybe Sabine’s invitation was fake. Some weird game rich people played... plucking someone off the floor, putting them on the mountaintop to see what kind of splat sound they made when they fell. 

But she hadn’t said no, she didn’t even hesitate when the offer came. 

And now she was on a plane to Los Angeles. 

Los Angeles  

By the time they touched down, the sun was setting, painting the airport in shades of gold and orange. Robin thanked ‘TikTok girl’ next to her for settling her down any time there was turbulence. It was her first time on a plane, she thought any shaking meant it was crashing... 

Robin clutched her bags as people rushed and pushed by her. She followed the arrows and sign postings like a soldier, half expecting no one to be waiting for her. 

But there was a man, dressed in all black with a cap and a tablet. 

“Robin St. James?”  

There it was—her last name. The one the orphanage gave her. Named after the orphanage itself. The name really didn’t mean anything to her, but it was better than being named ‘Robin Doe.’ 

She nodded and smiled at the man tentatively.  

He didn’t smile back. “This way.”  

She was led to a black SUV with tinted windows like the villains drive in a ‘Bond’ movie. The seats were a supple leather, cool against her skin. The city beyond the windows glittered like a promise she didn’t believe. 

She took blurry photos on her ancient phone of palm trees and just about everything else she could from the back seat. She’d never left Missouri, so everything was so foreign to her, she felt like she was in a completely different country. 

The driver didn’t speak the entire drive. 

And neither did she. 

They drove higher and higher into the hills, the homes getting more and more extravagant as they climbed. Mansions bigger than the orphanage she grew up in. Gated communities, security stations. They didn’t want the ‘rift-raft’ from below coming up here.  

The riff-raft she was undoubtedly a part of.  

The car finally pulled up to a mansion tucked in the hills. It looked like a villa from a dream. Bright lights lit the driveway. Cameras already hung from palm trees. ‘The Flame House.’ it was a 20-bedroom mansion the show used every season to house the contestants. 

The mansion looked like it belonged in a magazine. Three stories of whitewashed glass perched on the hillside. Everything gleaming and smug under the Californian sun. It even smelled rich. Chlorine, lemon polish. Somewhere a drone hovered above. 

Robin stepped out of the car slowly, her sneakers dirtier than the driveway. There were voices inside. Laughter, shouting, someone popping champagne. 

The driver took her bags and handed them to a waiting assistant with a headset on. The woman didn’t look at Robin. 

Then the doors opened, and Sabine stood there.  

She wore a deep maroon blazer, sharp-shouldered and crisp black pinstripes going down the ensemble. Her hair pinned up in a tight bun, her expression didn’t change when she saw Robin, but her eyes flared ever so slightly. 

“You’re late.” Robin didn’t know what to say to that... her plane wasn’t delayed, and she got on the flight Sabine had arranged for her—If she wanted Robin here earlier shouldn’t she have booked her an earlier flight? 

“I-I'm sorry Ms. Benson.” She decided to stammer out an apology even if she didn’t mean it. 

Sabine nodded over her shoulder, in a ‘follow’ motion and Robin did, black marble floors. Gilt-framed mirrors, a chandelier shaped like a falling star. Everything gleamed like it was trying to blind her. Multiple cameras sat in every corner of every room. It was a cooking show, but it was reality TV first and foremost, and even the cooking show couldn’t resist putting in some home and living space beef between contestants. 

Or showing the female contestants using the pool... like in season 3.  

Robin’s sneakers stuck slightly to the floor with every step...not because the floor was sticky. Because the burnt rubber soles of her shoes made them sticky. 

They entered the main room: a sunken living area, wraparound balcony, long couch like a runway. Sixteen contestants scattered around the room. Their laughter and drinking all paused when she stepped in. 

Sabine didn’t raise her voice.  

“This is Robin.” She spoke. “She’s last to arrive.” When Robin didn’t say anything, Sabine used a finger to nudge the girl forward. 

Robin nodded in agreement that her name was indeed Robin “Hi.” she said looking at no one in particular. 

“Where you from?” a woman asked—thin, tall, chewing gum, wearing a red leather long-sleeved crop top, posed like she knew exactly where the cameras were and what angles were her best. 

“Missouri,” Robin said. “I cook at home.” Not trying to give too much away as the room was clearly sizing her up. 

“You got a signature dish?” A girl in track pants asked, sprawled sideways on the couch like she owned it. 

Robin hesitated. She didn’t, not really, nothing that would be ‘The Flame’ worthy. “Uh- Tomato soup... kind of.”  

A bearded man in the corner snorted, and several others followed. “I think I know who the first boot is he said way louder than a whisper. 

“I like her,” said a girl with purple braids. “She’s honest.”  

Another woman rolled her eyes... a few more glanced at her and offered her a tense smile. A few people in the room didn’t bother. 

But one didn’t look away. 

She sat at the edge of the couch, apart from the rest. Ghostly pale skin. Sharp jaw, and her wolf cut split down the middle—one half jet black, the other icy silver. She had a notebook in her lap but wasn’t writing anything. Just watching. She didn’t smile at Robin... didn’t blink. 

Names came in trickles after that. 

Neveah, a girl with the purple braids  

Jace, a grease-stained hoodie guy, “I make ribs.” He said like it explained everything.  

Karla, quiet, some make up hiding a black eye it looked like. 

Malik, towering, and confident... made a joke about burned toast and winked. None of it landed. 

Ava, couch girl in track pants. Definite lazy girl vibes. She lounged like a cat. 

Chloe, posed girl who looked like she’d kill for a camera to finally notice her body. 

Carmilla sweet-voiced, blonde, stay-at-home mom she said. 

Isaac bearded guy that said she was probably first boot. 

Matteo, Spanish, would probably be better looking if he stopped leering 

Renee, young almost as young as Robin. Friendly. 

Josh, office worker. (That’s how he introduced himself) 

Kate, a brunette and also a stay-at-home mom 

Four others remained including Ms. Wolf cut, but they didn’t introduce themselves to Robin, didn’t find her worthy maybe? 10 girls, 7 guys. 17 contestants. One more than usual. 

After season two they dropped from 20 contestants a season to 16. But this season was 17? Because Robin was there... she felt a little reassured however, if it was just 16 it would’ve meant she took someone's spot.  

She could participate semi-guilt-free. 

Sabine watched her from the side, eyes never leaving her like she was waiting for something. 

Robin took the last seat available on the couch... Ava wouldn’t scoot over. Sabine didn’t wait long. She pulled out a small bag.  

“Phones.” She said plainly as she went down the line confiscating people's cellular devices. “No outside contact allowed.”  

It was a rule mostly to stop people from looking up recipes, Robin didn’t know how well she could do without her YouTube guides, but she didn’t have a choice. She dropped her phone in the bag. 

“But—” Chloe started but Sabine shut her down with just a glare. It was all she needed. It was non-negotiable. 

When she was finished, she handed the bag to an assistant and pulled a quarter out of her pocket. 

“We flip a coin to see who gets the top floor. Men are heads. Women are tails.” She flipped the coin and stepped out of the way, so it landed on the floor.  

...Tails! 

The women get the floor with a nicer view; the men get the floor closer to the pool itself. 

“There’s a curfew. 10:00 PM. Any violation of the rules will result in your immediate elimination from the competition.”  

“The cameras inside the house start recording at midnight.” She looked at Chloe who noticeably stopped poking out her ass at the idea that she wasn’t being recorded currently. 

Sabine didn’t smile. “Welcome to The Flame.”  

As the introductions died down, and the handlers began calling people to assign them rooms, handing out rulebooks and schedules Robin started to slip towards the back hall, trying to catch her breath, the pressure was immense already. 

She barely made it to the archway when a hand brushed her arm. Gentle but commanding. 

Sabine. 

She stood in the archway, half in shadow, half blocking anyone who would be able to see them talking. 

“Walk with me.” Sabine didn’t ask. She commanded and Robin obeyed. 

They stopped in a back corridor, lined with frosted glass. No cameras. 

“I want to be very clear, Robin.” Her voice smooth velvet over steel. “No one here knows how you got in. And it stays that way.”  

“I didn’t tell any—” 

Sabine held up a manicured finger. Shushing Robin. “I’m not asking for reassurances. I’m telling you. If anyone asks you wowed the producers, got lucky. Scrapped by on charm and a great underdog story. Let them believe that.”  

Sabine stepped forward and for one disorienting second, it felt intimate. Not sexually, not maternal, but proprietary. Like she owned Robin. 

“You don’t owe them the truth.” She said. “You owe me results.”  

Then she was gone. Just like that. 

Her heels clicking down the hall. The sweet smell of her rose-scented perfume gone with her.  

Robin stood alone in the hallway, her fingers twitching against her thigh. 

She turned back into the house proper, ready to pretend she was like everybody else. 

Robin’s Room 

The door clicked open with a soft sound. Not a groan or rattle like her apartment door back home. The room was huge. 

Cream-colored walls. A king-sized bed wrapped in layers of soft white blankets that looked untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the far end offered a perfect view of the coast. The Pacific Ocean stretched out like it never ended. Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor like honey. There was a balcony. 

A balcony. 

For a moment Robin forgot how to breathe.  

It was 100 times better than her apartment. No leaking ceilings, no moldy windows, no leaky faucets with brown water coming out. No neighbor screaming through the night. 

She shut the door and locked it, half expecting Sabine or some producer to come in and tell her there’s been a mistake, and she was off the show. 

The bathroom. God the bathroom was marble galore, the towels were soft and actually matched. The air didn’t stink of mold and depression.  

Yet the annoying thought in the back of her head whined for attention. 

She hadn’t earned any of this. 

But she was here. 

She sat on the edge of the bed. It didn’t sag or creak like her couch. It'd be her first time sleeping in a bed since she left the orphanage two years ago. 

For the first time in what felt like weeks, she let herself exhale. And then stared at the stunning vista outside her window again. 

The ocean didn’t care who she was, or how she got here. 

Neither apparently, did Sabine. 

A Few hours later  

Robin lay stretched out in the massive bed, flipping through the rulebook and schedule.  

WELCOME TO THE FLAME.  
The cover read all sharp fonts and fire graphics. Beneath it read:CONFIDENTIAL. FOR CONTESTANT USE ONLY.  

She flipped past the cheesy welcome letter on the first page wishing everyone luck and scanned the schedule for the week. 

Day 1: Orientation, interviews, contestant photos.   
Day 2: Mystery box 1/Elimination challenge.
Day 3: Team challenge.(Off-site location)
Day 4: Judging, Elimination Challenge 2, post-interviews.  
Day 5: Winning team reward day.(Off-site location)  
Day 6: Cooking classes.   
Day 7: Rest day.  

Her stomach twisted at the words ‘Elimination challenge’ it stared back at her like a threat. 

On the next page were the rules, most of which Sabine had already gone over. 

No outside contact.  
No Phones.  
No personal cooking tools allowed.  
No wandering beyond green-lit zones. 10:00 PM curfew.  
No discussing producers, castings, or deliberations with other contestants.               

Failure to comply with any of the following will result in your immediate disqualification.  

Robin traced that last rule with her finger. 

No discussing how you got here.  

A rule written just for her. 

She didn’t know if she felt special or caged. 

Maybe both.

The house had fallen into a hush, the kind that made every floorboard creek louder than it should. The air outside cooled, but Robin still felt flushed, like the pressure from earlier hadn’t left her skin. 

She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the bathroom, ignoring the mirror, knowing she wouldn’t like what she saw. Too skinny, always too skinny. The tile was cold, and the features were too fancy for her to touch without hesitation. 

She turned on the shower and the water thundered down on her like a rainstorm. 

For a while she just stood there, letting it drown out the world around her. The steam curled around her, softening the edges of everything. 

Her anxiety, her breath, the way her thoughts kept returning to Sabine’s voice in the hallway.  

‘You don’t owe them the truth. You owe me results.’  

She turned the knob for it to bounce to cold water. 

She didn’t want to think about why that kept replaying in her head. 

She dressed in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, still damp haired she cracked open the door and slipped into the hall, feet bare on the polished wood. 

The corridor stretched long and dim, lit only by soft scones that cast golden pools of light onto the floor. Art lined the walls. Abstract, sharp. Nothing warm. 

Everything expensive. 

She passed closed doors. The handlers had put name plates on each door, telling everyone who was staying where. 

Cameras nested in every corner; Robin wasn’t sure without her phone if it was past midnight so she couldn’t tell if they were recording. 

Robin kept walking, following the faint hum of the fridge...when she reached the kitchen only one light was on—the under-cabinet lights casting everything a silver-blue haze. Everything smelled faintly of lemon and steel. 

Robin moved quietly, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water and a pear... free food. The glass clinked softly as she shut the door. 

She turned—and stopped. Almost jumping out of her skin. 

Ms. Wolf-cut was right there. 

Leaned against the far counter, half-silhouetted long legs crossed at the ankle. She hadn’t even undressed from earlier. 

Black combat boots, cargo pants slouched low on her hips. A black tank top clung to her shoulders, revealing lean tattooed arms. One hand cradled a ceramic mug, the other tucked into her pocket. Cool, casual, like she wasn’t standing in a dark corner and hadn’t scared the shit out of Robin. 

“Didn’t figure you for much of a scaredy cat.” The woman said, voice low, rough-edged. Then she smirked. “But you move like one.” 

Robin swallowed, who wouldn’t be scared seeing some random woman stalking in the dark? She decided to change the subject. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

“Yeah? Me neither.”  

Ms. Wolf-cut stepped closer, into better light, and Robin caught the glint of her tongue piercing as she took a sip of her tea. A black curl from her hair swayed into the dyed silver half of her hair. Her green eyes unreadable. Sharp, slow burning. 

Robin clutched the water tighter, trying not to stare. "You didn’t introduce yourself to me earlier—so I've just been calling you Ms. Wolf-cut in my head.” 

She let out a low chuckle, “How much space do I occupy in your brain I wonder?” Her gaze flickered over Robin up and down not checking her out. More sizing her up, cataloging her. “Ms. Wolf-cut...I like that, it’d be a real shame to tell you my real name, and shatter whatever fantasies you’re having.”  

“I’m NOT having any fantasies!” Robin felt her face get hot at the implication. “I’ll see your name on your apron anyway. You might as well tell me.” 

Silence. It hung in the air over them like a guillotine, this closely she towered over Robin... maybe as tall as Sabine. 

Not that most people weren’t taller than Robin. 

“Finn. My name is Finn.” She nodded. “You’re Robin... right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Funny,” she said, “Before you arrived, I already counted 16 contestants.”  

Robin’s stomach dropped. 

Finn didn’t move, didn’t press, just leaned back against the island, and sipped her tea. “Now there’s 17.” She stared Daggers through Robin... “The others might not be able to count, but I can—and I know there’s only supposed to be 16 contestants per season.” 

Robin tried to keep her voice steady. “Just because I was last to arrive doesn’t mean, I was the last contestant picked. My flight was delayed.” She lied.  

‘You don’t owe them the truth.’ Playing in her head repeatedly. 

Finn tilted her head, a slow wolfish grin curling at her lips. “Maybe.” one eyebrow raised clearly amused. 

Robin took two steps back towards the exit, she needed to get away from this woman, now. “I-I should probably get some sleep.” 

“You do that,” Finn said, watching her closely. “Early morning tomorrow. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re... out of place.”  

Robin didn’t respond. She turned and walked back the way she came, pulse-pounding. 

She could feel Finn’s eyes on her until she disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. 

Chapter Text

Someone was banging on her door. 

Robin jerked upright in bed, heart hammering. For a moment, the hammering made her believe she was back in her apartment... until she felt the luxury sheets beneath her and saw the ocean view outside bathed in violet, grey dawn. 

Then the voice came: “Let’s go, people! UP and dressed in five. Orientation day.” 

A producer, Robin, didn’t know his name; he didn’t say. Just his walkie clipped to his vest and the constant buzz of his earpiece. The footsteps faded as he moved to the next room, knocking loudly again. 

Robin rolled out of bed, still in the t-shirt from the night before. Her legs shaky. Her mouth dry. She splashed water on her face in the bathroom, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a plain tee. 

Outside her door, other contestants were spilling out into the hallway in various states of confusion and disarray. Some trying to tie their aprons behind their back as they walked. Others still looking dead behind the eyes. 

Robin held her apron in her hands. Not wanting to put it on until told to do so. 

They were herded downstairs like cattle, into the massive foyer and outside through the front doors where the air was still cold and the sky just beginning to lighten. 

Black minivans waited in the driveway. Drivers stood nearby with clipboards. Cameras were already rolling. 

“Pick a car. Any car.” A different producer said, not kind, but not unkind either. “Don’t forget your mic packs, folks.” 

Robin grabbed one from the nearby table and clipped it on fumbling. 

As she slid in, she realized she was in a car with Chloe, who was dressed rather provocatively, Renee, who seemed to have fallen back asleep. And a woman who didn’t introduce herself to Robin yesterday. In fact, she was the one who rolled her eyes at seeing Robin.  

She was wearing her apron, which said ‘Tara’ on it. Nobody spoke. 

Robin looked out the window. In the van parked beside them, she caught a glimpse of Finn already seated. 

Their eyes met. 

Neither of them smiled. 

The car doors shut, engines roaring to life, slowly one by one, the vans peeled out of the driveway.  

It didn’t take long for the first argument of the season to take place. 

The van rumbled down the freeway, the sun just starting to cut through the coastal haze, Robin sat trying to breathe through the nerves clawing at her. 

Tara and Chloe sat across from one another. Both clearly not morning people. Chloe was wearing glossy heels and a skin-tight red jumpsuit. The kind of outfit that turned heads. She even found the time in this morning's chaos to do her makeup. 

Tara, dressed in a loose hoodie and sweatpants, looked Chloe up and down before scoffing. “You really came on a cooking show dressed like a whore?” 

The air in the van dropped. 

“What did you say bitch!?” Her voice way too loud for this early in the morning. 

“You heard me! This isn’t real housewives. It's food. Try respecting it.”  

“Respect doesn’t mean hiding your body like you're ashamed of it.” She shot back, “Just because you're built like a pile of laundry doesn’t mean I have to dress that way!”  

Robin froze, her eyes flickering to the front seat. The driver didn’t even flinch. Was this normal? Did this happen every season? Was this the behind-the-scenes nonsense the viewers weren’t privy to? 

“Two of the judges are men, and the thirds a fucking ‘Lezbo’ if you aren’t thinking about using your ‘assets’ to get further in this competition you may as well go home.” 

It was always a rumor among the online community that Sabine is a lesbian, mostly due to her wearing of suits and unmarried status. Which made sense pre-gay-marriage legalization, but didn’t really hold up now. 

“You’re an embarrassment to women everywhere.” 

“I’ll be an embarrassment, walking out with the prize money and the trophy.”  

Robin rubbed her temples, feeling the headache coming on... Renee had the right idea of just going back to sleep in the car. Slumped over against the window, her strawberry blonde hair falling over her face. 

“Ladies,” A handler spoke from the passenger seat, said blandly, not looking back. “Save it for the cameras.” Both women huffed, Tara muttering something that sounded like ‘Nasty skank.’ under her breath. And Chloe, completely unbothered, pulled out a small compact mirror and smiled at her reflection. 

Robin stayed silent the rest of the ride. 

The Studio Lot  

By the time the vans reached the studio lot, the sun was clawing its way over the hills. 

Robin shielded her eyes as they stepped out into a flood of pale morning light. Around them, the studio compound was comprised of a strange blend of fantasy and machinery. Palm trees beside chain-link fences, towering set walls with nothing behind them, production crews moving like ants between trailers and scaffolding. The air smelled like pavement and bug spray. 

“Contestants! Eyes up!” A wiry woman with a headset and clipboard led them through a gate into a gravel courtyard, walking backwards, she said, “NO WANDERING! NO PHONES! Find your lanyard on the table, you’ll each be pulled for cast photos, wardrobe checks, and intro interviews. Bathrooms are over there.” She pointed to a set of port-a-potties that made half a dozen people groan. 

“Water and protein bars are on the table. If you faint, we will film it. Smile like you mean it or don’t smile at all.” She concluded.  

They were led into a large holding area, an overly air-conditioned room with folding chairs, harsh lights, and a makeup station set up near a wall. A background screen had been unfurled, something white and sterile with The Flame logo in red and orange above it. 

One by one, people found their lanyard at the nearby table and took water and snacks from it.  

Robin looked down at hers.  

‘Robin, St. James #17’  

Her heart sank; she hoped Finn wasn’t around to get a view of her number. She flipped it so the back was showing.  

There was a call for anybody who didn’t have their apron on to put it on. Robin unfolded hers like it was something sacred or dangerous and slipped it over her head, tying the strings around her back. She caught her reflection in the metal panel of a lighting rig. The apron molded against her front, unfamiliar but solid, like armor. 

In the corner Chloe was already in front of the camera, one hip cocked, lips pursed posing like a runway model. Half the male contestants stood gawking. Tara stood over to the side, arms crossed, face blank, but clearly unimpressed. 

Contestants were called up one by one. They posed. Smiled. Did some sort of awkward wave for the camera. The camera flashed like it had no soul. 

When it was Robin’s turn, a makeup artist glanced at her face and said, “You’re good.” Which somehow didn’t feel like a compliment. 

The photographer barely looked up. “Stand there. Arms relaxed... chin down a little.” 

The flash hit her eyes like lightning. She flinched.  

“Again,” The man said, bored. 

Click. Click. 

Done. 

She was ushered to the next station... interviews—Pre-roll footage for confessions, character bios, and introductions. A simple room. One stool. One camera. One bright, glaring light. 

“Just say your name, your age, and why you’re here,” said a man behind a camera. “Don’t overthink it.”  

Robin sat, the mic on her chest, feeling like a boulder... this was going to be seen by people—it was just now registering, but this is a show watched by millions... the YouTube clips seen by tens of millions. Would the fans like her? Hate her? Send her online abuse? She didn’t have any control over the editing; they could pull nothing but her worst moments and make her look like a giant villain from planet Bitch... 

She shuddered. “You guys are going to be fair with the editing...?” She asked. 

The man chuckled lightly. “It’s reality TV.” That was her answer. “Now, your intro, and try not to say uh or um. It’s a pain to edit out.” 

“Robin,” she said quietly. “Twenty. I—I love to cook. And I guess I'm here because someone believed I was hungry enough to win.” 

A pause. 

“Say that again,” The man said gently. “But like you believe it.” 

Robin forced a smile, like she was at work. “I’m Robin. I’m twenty years old. I love cooking, and I’m here because someone believed I had the hunger and potential to win!”  

“Better,” he said. “What do you do for a living?”  

Robin hesitated; she didn’t need to tell anyone she was now unemployed. Or it’d come up under her name every time she got any screen time. “I’m a waitress at a diner. Mostly morning, sometimes nights.”  

“Where are you from?” The man nodded lightly, a signal for her to continue. 

“Missouri.”  

A longer pause. 

“What would winning The Flame do for your life?” 

She didn’t speak right away. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. 

“It’d give me the opportunity to live my life, instead of just surviving it.”  

There was a silence on the other end of the camera. No typing, no producer's voice. Then: “Okay,” The man said. “You’re good to go.”  

She stepped off the stool, heart pounding. Out in the waiting area again, she saw Finn being photographed. Crisp black button down on, sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing her left arm's full tattooed sleeve. The silver half of her hair catching the light like a blade. 

They weren’t making her do the unflattering poses they made Robin do. She was stood hands in her pockets. Cool as you like. They even brought in props for her to lean against. Clearly casting her as a ‘cool lone wolf character’ for this season. 

The rest of the contestants were scattered around the room.  

Ava was using 4 chairs as a makeshift bed and her apron as a blanket.  

Karla was sitting at the makeup station, apparently; they’ve been working on her eye for a long time... 

Jace, Issac, Malik, and two more men who didn’t introduce themselves to Robin yesterday sat talking about baseball. The two who didn’t introduce themselves. Aprons said, ‘Mark’ and ‘David.’  

Renee, Neveah, and Tara sat together discussing something Robin couldn’t hear. 

Kate and Carmilla sat together, not talking but seemingly enjoying time away from their children. 

Josh and Chloe were having a conversation by the protein bars. 

Groups seemed to be forming already... Robin wondered if she should join a group... Safety in numbers and all that, it’s not uncommon to forge alliances on reality TV after all. 

She sat down by herself; she wasn’t a loner or unfriendly; she just knew she didn’t have anything to talk about. 

Robin stayed still, just observing, and then she noticed someone moving toward her peripheral vision—boots, dark pants, heavy footsteps. 

Finn. 

She sat without asking. 

Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just sat in the chair beside her like it belonged to her, like she wasn’t suspicious of Robin just last night. 

Robin glanced at her, unsure of what to do. She wanted to get up and leave, but such a dramatic action would probably make them enemies. Finn didn’t look at her directly, but she did pull a protein bar from her pants pocket and offer it halfway in Robin’s direction. 

Robin blinked. 

“...No thanks.” 

Finn shrugged and unwrapped it for herself, chewing it like it was as tough as her boots. 

They sat in silence. Not comfortable, not uncomfortable. Just still.  

People disappeared and reappeared from side rooms, everyone getting their interviews took well over an hour. Finn herself left when they called her name and came back without saying anything.  

When the last contestant exited the room, everyone had shifted into a restless silence, and the ring light by the photographer's station was turned off. Robin and Finn Sat near the edge of the room, the knot of Robin’s apron slowly digging into her back. 

A junior producer entered with a clipboard and a megaphone she didn’t bother to use. “Alright, cast photo. Let’s move.”  

They were herded outside to a courtyard at the back of the production facility, where a massive The Flame banner hung against a matte black backdrop. Reflectors and crew already in place. The morning clouds pushed aside, the sun hitting everything a little too hard. 

“Tallest in the back, smallest in the front. Let’s go.”  

Robin lingered, watching others fall into place. Chloe went to the middle of the banner like she owned it, Renee stood off to the side until a producer physically moved her into frame. The guys mostly filled in across the back. Except Finn, she hung near the back, arms crossed, apron perfectly crisp, hair messy in a way that looked intentional. 

As Robin was assembled near the very front, she heard the junior producer mutter, “Wait, seventeen?”  

Another producer waved it off. “Format change. It’s fine.”  

Robin’s stomach dropped; her being there was dressed up as a format change. 

The photographer lifted the camera. “Smile or don’t. Just don’t blink.”  

A shutter. A flash. 

A cast. 

The Kitchen  

They were led back inside, down a long hall that smelled like citrus floor cleaner and fresh paint. Then the doors opened. 

The kitchen wasn’t just a set. It was a temple, an altar to cooking, a shrine in TV history. 

Polished steel counters gleamed under studio lights. Each station had identical appliances—burners, cutting boards, top-tier knives in magnetic racks. Glass shelves held shining copper pans and spice racks so perfectly symmetrical they looked like they’d been measured with a laser. A staircase that led up to a balcony, looming over everything. 

The flame-shaped insignia hung over the room in backlit crimson, casting its glow like a silent threat. 

Tomorrow, someone in this room is going home. 

“This is where the magic happens,” A showrunner announced, arms wide. “This is where one of your dreams will be born... and the rest of your dreams burned.”  

Someone let out a low whistle. Robin didn’t look to see who. A few contestants started to mill around the set instinctively before being barked at not to touch anything. 

Not yet. 

Robin allowed her eyes to drift over the layout. Seventeen stations. Not sixteen. 

They were funneled into a small side office, white walled and sterile. A paper fortress waiting at each chair: NDA’s, image releases, waivers, medical disclosures. Consent forms for everything from psychiatric episodes to wardrobe fittings. 

“Sign everything. Date everything. No nicknames.” Not said by a producer or handler, but what looked like a studio lawyer. 

Robin flipped through the stack of papers. It felt like a novel. A warning at the top of the NDA read in bold: 

You may be recorded at any time. By signing below, you waive any expectation of privacy.  

Her fingers hovered. 

Then she picked up the pen and signed. 

Everybody else was signing, seemingly unfazed. 

Finn didn’t look up at her, but her boot tapped once beneath the table—barely audible. Letting Robin know she was still there. 

After the last signatures were collected, the cast was ushered back into the kitchen. 

This time, the lights were hotter. Brighter. Camera operators hovered near the edges like vultures. 

The same show runner from before stood front and center, a wireless mic clipped to her collar and a clipboard in hand. “This is your dry run.” She said no nonsense. 

“We’ll walk through a fake challenge, so you get a feel for how this works. No actual cooking. You'll just go to your stations when we say ‘go’ open the mystery box and describe your thought process out loud for the camera.” 

Issac snorted. 

She pointed at him. “And yes, it’s weird. You'll get used to it. Or you’ll go home.”  

That shut everyone up. 

The mystery boxes were already at each station—sleek wooden crates with the show's logo etched on the sides. Robin was assigned a station towards the front, probably on account of her height. Approaching the box, she was unsure whether she was supposed to feel excited or terrified. 

Probably both. 

Finn passed her on her way to her station near the back. She didn’t say anything, but Robin felt the flick of her gaze. 

“Quiet on set!” Someone yelled from above, and cameras started rolling. 

The show runner's voice came through the speakers. “Contestants — This is your mock challenge. You’ll have ninety seconds to lift the box, inspect your ingredient's and talk through your plan. Go!”  

A beep. 

Robin lifted her box. 

Inside: a lemon, a raw chicken breast, a bunch of thyme, a stick of butter, and a single raw beet. 

She blinked. 

Don’t cook. Just talk. 

“Uhm...” She murmured, eyes flicking to the cameras. “I’d probably... do a pan-sear on the chicken, use the beet for some kind of puree or —wait, no, maybe... roast it with the thyme. Maybe if I had time...”  

Her voice sounded small under the lights. 

From the other side of the room, Tara was practically shouting her breakdown like a TED talk. Matteo, two stations down, was silent, staring at the ingredients like they insulted him. 

The crew moved like clockwork, circling the contestants with steady hands and blank faces. 

And Robin? She fumbled through her monologue, throat dry, heartbeat roaring in her ears. If she didn’t make good TV, would they find it easier to let her go? 

At the end of the ninety seconds, a timer beeped, and the show runner clapped her hands. “Good enough. Let's take a break.”  

A handler led the contestants out of the kitchen and into a sunlit room off the main hall. The tension among them hadn’t broken yet—if anything, it was getting thicker, hanging heavy like sweat.  

Everyone had seen the kitchen. Felt the anxiety of the cameras being on. It was real now. 

Lunch was waiting: a long table lined with individually packed boxes, sleek and minimal, each sealed with a strip of tape. 

A different producer, this one with a clipboard and no time for pleasantries, waved them forward. “Lunch provided by Judge Sabine,” he said. “Sent from her downtown restaurant, eat up.” 

That was it. No Sabine herself. No dramatic entrance. Just the food. 

Robin took a box without saying anything. Inside: duck confit, heirloom grain, and fig salad. Restaurant plating, even wrapped in plastic. A tiny card was stuck to the lid of each box. Sourcing notes: Duck rendered in-house. Grains from Marin County.  

Robin found an empty table at the end, away from the cliques already forming. Tara and Chloe sat together arguing again, half-hearted and loud. Neveah, Renee, Jace, and Ava all sat together admiring their duck. Carmilla and Kate, seemingly inseparable, sat together with Matteo looking like he was flirting with them both, both married women... both moms. 

Robin unfolded her box, took a careful bite. The duck was tender, perfectly seasoned, she imagined; she’d never eaten duck before. Not something you see on an orphanage's menu. 

Then: the dull thud of boots across hardwood. 

Finn dropped into the seat beside her without a word, combat boots and all. Her lunchbox was already half open. She didn’t look at Robin. Just picked up a piece of duck with her fingers and bit into it. Unbothered.  

Robin tensed, unsure why Finn’s been following her all day. Was another batch of questions coming? After last night in the kitchen, it felt possible. 

But Finn said nothing. Just chewed, swallowed, and leaned back in her chair like it was routine. 

Robin didn’t realize how naked she’d feel eating without her phone; she loved to watch YouTube while she ate. Her phone didn’t even have service, so it’s not like she could call anyone. She just liked to eat with entertainment.  

“You always sit alone?” Finn asked suddenly. Voice quiet. 

Robin blinked. “N-no, at the orphanage we sat in big groups, there wasn’t space to sit alone.” Her voice slowed. “The dining hall was small, and the tables were long. It was loud, messy, nobody really got their own space.”  

She paused, embarrassed. “I... don’t know why I'm telling you that.”  

Finn didn’t answer right away. She didn’t ask for more either. 

Finn’s mouth twitched. Maybe almost a smile. “Mm.” She added. 

They ate in silence for a while longer. 

Robin didn’t know what to call this—friendship? Maybe not, curiosity? Maybe, but Finn had chosen to sit next to her, and hadn’t said a word to anyone else about her suspicions that Robin didn’t belong. 

And that meant something. 

Even if the thought of whatever it meant made Robin’s stomach knot. 

After lunch, the contestants were guided back into a lounge connected to the kitchen for a few last bits of production housekeeping. Nothing major—just the quiet machinery of television creaking to life. 

First came a sit-down with a wardrobe assistant who checked apron sizes against names on a clipboard. 

“If your apron doesn’t fit or it’s bunching weird on your chest, say something now. We just need to make sure they sit right on camera.” The woman explained without looking up. 

Robin’s apron was snug but passable; she didn’t say anything. 

Then came a quick meeting with the show runner from before, who rattled off expectations for the week: when to be camera-ready, where to and not to stand. What areas of the set were off limits unless prompted. And most importantly, not to speak out of turn. 

They made it very clear. The judges are the stars of the show. People watch for them... to see them yell and their food expertise. Not to see some bank teller from Idaho talk over them. 

After that, a few cameras were wheeled in to film some short “about me” videos in pairs—light, off-the-cuff stuff meant for teasers and social media. 

“What’s your food philosophy?”  

“What’s your favorite guilty pleasure ingredient?” 

“Who do you think is your biggest competition?” 

Robin smiled thinly and gave safe answers. 

“Comfort food. Butter. Everyone.” 

By the time everyone was done, and they were dismissed, the sun was starting to dip below the hills. 

Later that night  

Robin lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

The sheets were crisp, the mattress too soft. Her room smelled like eucalyptus, clean linen, and someone else's money. 

She couldn’t sleep. Her heartbeat was in her throat. 

Tomorrow was the first elimination challenge. The real beginning.  

The moment everything could slip through her fingers. 

Tomorrow, she could be the first to go. She cooked for survival, not applause. She'd never used half the equipment she’d seen in the Flame kitchen. Her knife skills were slow. Her confidence was worse. 

And the truth curled in the pit of her stomach like spoiled milk: she didn’t even earn her spot here. 

She wasn’t skilled enough to make it on the show... how was she going to beat out sixteen people that were? 

Robin rolled on her side, hugging the pillow. She tried not to think about the look on Sabine’s face when she gave her the apron—that cold curiosity, like she was selecting something from a menu. 

She hadn’t seen her since their talk in the hall. 

She squeezed her eyes shut. 

She thought about the knives, the cameras, the way Finn looked at her like a jigsaw missing half its pieces. She thought of Sabine’s voice, sharp as a blade in her mind, telling her not to tell anyone how she got here. 

She didn’t belong. She never did. 

And if she failed tomorrow, she’d be on a flight back to nothing but homelessness. 

Let me make something they’ll remember.  

Let me belong.  

Chapter Text

The knocks came after sunrise. 

A sharp rap-rap-rap against her bedroom door, followed by a muffled voice: “UP! Everyone up! Challenge day! Be camera-ready in thirty!” 

Robin jolted upright, heart slamming like it was already mid-race. For a second, she didn’t know where she was. The bedding was too soft. The air too clean. She wasn’t waking up soaked in sweat or to the noise of her 5:00 AM alarm. 

And then she remembered— 

The show. The kitchen. 

The looming judgment of three people that could send her back to Missouri with nothing. 

She stumbled out of bed, feet cold against the hardwood, and shuffled toward the en-suite bathroom. Her hands shook as she turned on the light, casting a too-bright glare across the pristine tile and mirror. 

Her reflection looked pale, her hair stuck to one side from sleep. Her eyes wide with panic. 

The nerves hit all at once. 

Her stomach cramped. A thick wave of nausea rolled through her, and she dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, retching dryly. Nothing came up—there wasn’t anything to come up... but her body didn’t seem to care. 

Just panic, trying to claw its way out. 

When it passed, Robin flushed and sat back on the cool tile, pressing her palms against the floor. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. 

She closed her eyes. 

You’re fine. You're fine, Robin. You’re okay. Just don’t screw it up.  

After a moment, she stood. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Got dressed and pulled her apron over her clothes like armor. 

Somewhere down the hall, doors opened and closed, and footsteps pounded. Someone groaned loudly. 

But Robin didn’t speak. 

She tied her apron around her back and walked out of her room in silence. 

The sun was well over the hills by the time the vans rolled in front of the house, headlights casting long shadows across the drive. The same producers from yesterday ushering them into vans. 

Robin ended up in the second row, squashed between the window and Ava, who was already falling back asleep on Robin’s shoulder. Mostly everyone looked groggy, wrapped in misery and anxiety. No one was speaking. 

Robin pressed her forehead lightly against the cool glass, trying to breathe. 

The air inside the van felt thick. Her stomach felt hollow, like it hadn’t recovered from the bathroom this morning. The rocking motion of the drive didn’t help. 

“Hey,” came a voice from behind her. 

Robin didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She recognized the low, slightly raspy voice. 

Finn. 

“You look like you’re about to hurl,” Finn said, not unkindly. “Motion sick, or...?”  

Robin straightened, just slightly. “No. Just nerves.”  

A pause. Then the noise of someone shifting closer. 

“First challenge will do that,” Finn murmured. “But if you do hurl, aim away from me. These boots weren’t cheap.”  

It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it wasn’t cruel either. And when Robin glanced sideways, she caught the faintest twitch of a smirk on Finn’s face—more tired than smug. 

“I’ll try,” Robin whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of the LA morning traffic. Finn didn’t say anything else, but didn’t sit back in her seat either. 

And for the rest of the ride, Robin didn’t look out the window. She just stared straight ahead and tried not to think of the challenge ahead... and how much she didn’t want to disappoint the only person who’s ever believed in her, her entire life.  

Sabine. 

The Studio Lot  

The vans pulled into a quiet lot tucked behind the studio. From outside, it looked like any other warehouse—beige, windowless, anonymous. But once the van doors opened, the illusion broke. 

Production assistants were already swarming. Headsets crackled. Clipboards flashed. Cables snaked across the ground like tripwires. 

A man with a walkie waved them out of the vans. “Let’s go, let’s go! Into holding!”  

Robin followed the others through a side door into a makeshift prep area. Folding chairs, bottled water, a makeup station, and rows of backup aprons against the concert walls. The lighting was sterile and too bright. 

Almost immediately, someone stepped in front of her holding a mic pack. 

“Arms up,” the sound tech said briskly. 

Robin obeyed. They threaded the wire up under her apron, clipped the transmitter to the waistband of her jeans, and gave her a quick nod.  

“Try not to mess with it,” the tech muttered before moving on. 

The other contestants were going through the same routine: lifting hair, adjusting collars, testing audio. Getting makeup done. A sound tech was arguing with Chloe that she had to take off her earrings, because every time she moved, they clattered and threw off her sound. And she of course, argued back that they made her look hot... 

A harried producer clapped her hands. 

“Alright, listen up! We're doing your walk-in first. We'll film you coming into the kitchen set as a group. Stop in front of the room, before the judges' podium.”  

A tap on Robin’s shoulder made her flinch. 

“You’re short, you’re near the front for the walk-in—we want clean sight lines, we don’t need you getting lost behind the tall ones.” A producer smiled at her. Probably the first time she’d seen one smile. 

Robin nodded and moved up in line. Around her, others were being shuffled into a camera-friendly formation. A few groaned quietly—clearly not morning people—but most were quiet, tense. This wasn’t orientation. This was for the air. 

When everyone was lined up, the producer had one more thing to say. “This is your walk-in shot for the first episode. Yes, we know you already saw the kitchen yesterday. This isn’t about surprise—it’s about attitude. Give us something. Nerves, confidence, hunger. Walk like you’re stepping into the fight of your life. Because you are.”  

A camera operator signaled that they were ready. A sound tech adjusted someone's mic. 

Robin knew what was behind those doors. Polished steel, empty fridges. The ominous timer that hadn’t even started ticking. 

But the stakes were different now. This wasn’t a tour or a dry run. This was the recording of the first episode. Millions of people would watch this... tens of millions. 

The producer raised her hand. “And we’re rolling in five...” 

Robin inhaled slowly. 

“Four...Three...” she held up her two fingers, and then a one... 

The studio doors opened on cue. 

They walked. 

Robin stepped through first, trying to keep her pace steady. The kitchen looked the same, seventeen long cooking benches set up, but it felt different. Hotter, somehow. Brighter. The lights turned everything glossy and high stakes. 

This was the version the world would see. 

No one spoke. The sounds of their footsteps were enough. 

A long camera rail tracked their movements. A boom mic passed overhead. 

Robin looked straight ahead and didn’t flinch. Not yet. She and the rest of the group stopped in front of the podium in the front of the room, a small strip of yellow tape with the words, ‘behind this line’ written on it. 

The kitchen lights brightened, shifting towards the far end where a garage-style door began to rumble open. 

“Stand by,” A producer whispered off-camera. 

Not a dignified entrance. A sharp, ridiculous honk, followed by the unmistakable whirr and screech of rubber wheels. 

Out rolled a bright red bumper car, weaving haphazardly across the polished hardwood. Behind the wheel was a mountain of a man —tall, heavyset, grinning like a maniac, and wearing a chef’s coat that barely contained his broad shoulders. 

The contestants were left agape, and a few outright laughed. 

He skidded to a stop just shy of the front row of contestants, raised his arms theatrically, and shouted: 

“Now that’s how you make an entrance!” 

Everyone clapped instinctively, and someone whistled.  

The man climbed out with surprising agility and adjusted his navy chef’s coat. Embroidered in gold thread: Chef Gary Joseph Lane.  

“I’m not so arrogant to assume that you know who I am. For those of you that don’t know,” he said, “I’m Chef Gary Joseph Lane. I own nineteen restaurants on three continents; I've opened kitchens in cities I can’t pronounce the street names, and I've got eleven Michelin stars spread out like poker chips across the globe.” 

He winked. “But don’t worry—I'm the nice one.” 

Robin swallowed hard. Her hands curled at her sides. 

Gary’s eyes swept across the line of contestants. He smiled. 

“I’ve mentored dishwashers into executive chefs. I've made risotto that made a grown man cry. And I've seen more people crash and burn in this kitchen than I can count. But if you’ve got heart?” He tapped his chest.  

“If you’ve got soul? I’ll see it. And I'll fight for you. Because The Flame isn’t about who’s got the fanciest techniques. It's about heart. About flavor. About whether you can cook when the clocks ticking and the pressures real.” 

He dropped his tone slightly. More serious now. 

“Some of you are going to surprise me. Some of you are going to crash and burn. And one of you...might just change your life.” 

He clapped his hands once, loudly. 

“So, what do we say we meet the other judges before someone tries to steal my bumper car?” 

The contestants were still murmuring about the bumper car when the overhead lights shifted again... this time sharply upward. 

“Eyes up,” Gary stepped back with a grin. “Time for our resident show off...” 

A faint mechanical hum started above, and then from the rafters, Chef Delmar Lopez began to descend on a slow platform —no wires, no theatrics, just a clean lift rig that brought him down like a spotlighted superstar. 

He stood casually, hands tucked in the pockets of his slim-cut chef coat, dark grey with crisp red piping. The embroidered name Delmar Lopez gleamed beneath the studio lights. His black curls were cropped tight, and a silver chain winked at his collarbone. 

As the platform touched the floor, he stepped off with ease and gave the contestants a crooked grin. 

“Don’t worry, this wasn’t my idea,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “But hey—if you’re going to make an entrance, make it a good one.”  

A few chuckles ripped through the group. 

“I’m Delmar Lopez. Born and raised in East L.A. First restaurant at twenty-four. Michelin star before twenty-six. I like bold flavors, clean plating, and not being bored. Don't bore me.” His eyes flickered over Robin. 

Remembering her boring dish.  

A whole new wave of anxiety hit Robin, that both of these men, both of these chef’s didn’t want her here. And that they knew she was here as Sabine’s pet project. 

“You don’t have to impress me with caviar and foam. Just cook something real. Something with passion. Something that makes me smile when I put it in my mouth.”  

Chef Delmar smiled and threw a glance toward Gary. “Alright, fun uncle. Shall we bring her out?” 

Chef Gary grinned back. “You’re getting more dramatic every season.”  

Delmar smirked. “Just trying to keep up with the bumper cars.”  

Just as the laughter faded, a hush began to creep over the room, first subtle, then unmistakable. 

Click  

Click  

Click  

The sound of heels. Slow, precise, echoing through the polished studio floor like a metronome made of glass. 

No music. No lights. No gimmicks. 

Just presence. 

Even before she came into view, something in the air shifted. Robin felt it before she saw her—something cool and heavy brushing the nape of her neck, like instinct. 

Then Sabine Moreau-Benson appeared. 

She didn’t enter as much as she arrived. 

Tall, slim, in a bone white tailored suit that seemed to absorb light and reflect none of it. Her dark hair was swept back into a twist so clean it looked surgical. One hand in her pocket. The other was holding a sleek black folder. 

She walked the line of contestants like she already knew all their names—and all their secrets.  

She stopped in the exact center in front of them all. 

No one told the contestants to stand up straighter. But they did. 

“I’m Sabine Moreau-Benson, Food critic. Restauranter. Editor-in-chief. And if you’re still standing here at the end of today, you’ll be someone worth knowing.” 

She didn’t smile. 

Didn't need to. 

“I won’t waste your time, so don’t waste mine. I won’t be charmed by backstories, and I won’t be impressed by mediocrity. If you’re going to survive here, your food will speak for you.”  

She looked directly at Robin. 

“And I always listen.” 

Then, without fanfare, she turned on her heel and walked to the judge’s platform, every step deliberate. Controlled. 

The heels clicked again. Once. Twice. Gone. 

Robin exhaled slowly, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. 

Delmar gave a low whistle, “Eight seasons later,” he muttered. “She still scares the hell outta me.”  

Gary just chuckled. “You and everyone else.” 

As Sabine took her place at the center of the judging table, the overhead lights shifted again—this time pooling over the trio. A moment passed in charged silence. Then Gary stepped forward, arms wide, the warmth returning to his voice. 

“Over the next three months,” he began, “You’re going to sweat, bleed, and question everything you thought you knew about cooking.”  

Delmar leaned forward, grin sharp. “We’ll be throwing everything at you —grueling individual challenges, never-before-seen team challenges, and surprise twists designed to shake you down to your very core!” 

Sabine didn’t raise her voice, but her words cut cleaner than either of them. “We’re here to expose weakness. Excuses won’t save you. Talent alone won’t carry you. The only way...is trial by fire.” 

Gary nodded. “And for the one that makes it to the end? You'll walk away with 250,000 dollars!” 

Delmar held up a sleek black booklet. “A cookbook deal, backed by the industry’s best.” 

“And,” Sabine said, stepping forward with finality, “The ultimate honor.”  

A long black velvet cloth was pulled away by a crew member out of frame. Revealing a towering chrome-and-glass sculpture: a flame-shaped trophy, sharp-edged and gleaming. 

Then—whoosh.  

Behind the judges, a sudden wall of fire burst upward in a precisely timed pyrotechnic display, shooting sky high in a roar of orange and white light. The room lit up with heat and awe. Some contestants flinched. Others gasped. 

Gary’s voice boomed above the dying flames. 

“Welcome... to season eight of The Flame.”  

The fire hissed out. The room was silent, smoking slightly, stunned. 

Robin stood frozen—her skin buzzing, her stomach tight, adrenaline spiking behind her ribs. She hadn’t even started cooking, and the pressure was already giving her a headache. 

As the fire died down, the room pulsed with heat and adrenaline. But Sabine wasn’t done. 

She stepped forward again, her silhouette razor sharp under the studio lights. The murmurs among the contestants quieted on instinct. 

“There’s one more thing.” 

She let the silence stretch. 

“The astute among you may have noticed... There are seventeen of you.” 

A ripple of confusion exploded across the group, sharp this time. Heads turned. Ava even began to count under her breath. 

Sabine’s voice remained cold and exact. 

“One of you is this season’s wildcard.” 

Robin’s blood ran cold. 

“If you are the wildcard... please step forward.” 

A long pause. 

Nobody moved. 

Robin felt sick. Was she really expected to move forward? The nausea from this morning returned. She felt a pair of eyes trace the back of her head... and just as she was about to step— 

Sabine’s crimson-painted lips curved, just barely. 

“...It was smart of you not to step forward, wildcard.” 

“The wildcard was selected at the discretion of the judging panel. They are a variable. A disruption. They are not here because of their audition, but because they caught our eye.” 

Gasps. A few sideways glances. 

Delmar crossed his arms, watching the group with amusement. Chef Gary gave nothing away. 

Sabine continued, calm and cool. 

“This individual will compete alongside you. They are not immune from elimination. They will cook. They will fight. And if they make it to the top ten... then so be it.” 

She paused, just enough for the tension to thicken in the room. 

“But if the wildcard is eliminated before the top ten...” 

The words were hanging in the air like a guillotine. 

“The prize money doubles.”  

Half a million dollars. 

For eliminating Robin... She had the biggest invisible target on her back in TV history. 

Robin stood frozen in place. Her stomach churning violently. 

She could already hear some of the guys murmuring in the back about who it could be. The room shifted. Until the top ten, this season would be a cluster of chaos, nobody trusting anyone. 

And just like that, the room turned on itself. 

Budding friendships became budding rivals.  

Nobody was looking at her yet. 

But they would. 

A beat of silence lingered in the air, thick and uneasy. 

Then— 

“CUT!” a voice shouted from off camera. One of the junior producers waved her clipboard in the air like a flag. 

Instantly, the spell shattered. Studio lights shifted. Crew members flooded the set with the precision of a pit crew. 

“Contestants! Let’s move, let’s move!” Barked another assistant, motioning towards a side hallway. “Back to holding. We need a clean set for the first challenge setup.” 

They needed to clean up the bumper car and rigging, take out the pyrotechnics, and put out the mystery boxes, Robin fathomed.  

The contestants began to shuffle, some groaning, most whispering. A few lingering glimpses at one another. Half suspicion, half strategy. 

Robin followed silently, her shoes scuffing slightly across the floor, and she didn’t look back. 

She didn’t have to. 

She could feel the shift. The calculations. Sixteen other minds scanning each other's faces for a tell, a signal, a crack. 

Wildcard. 

The word rang out in her ears like a threat. 

Back in the holding room, the energy was completely different what it had been earlier. 

The chairs were the same, bottles of water and protein bars were left untouched, but now the room buzzed—like a fuse lit on a slow burn. 

Groups gathered, whispers resumed, this time sharper, directed. Nobody said the words aloud, but Robin could feel the tension building. 

Who is it?  

Why are they here?  

What did they do to get in?  

And then it spilled over. 

“Whoever it is should just come out.” Jace said, gesturing around the room. 

A few people nodded, and Tara came out in support of the idea. “Whoever it is,” came her dry voice, “Should probably just out themselves now. It would be the Honorable thing to do.” 

A few people laughed. Unfriendly laughter. 

“You hear that?” Malik said, his eyes scanning the room. “Wildcard’s keeping quiet. Fucking coward.”  

“Bet it’s one of the quiet ones,” Chloe muttered near the water table. “Always is.” 

“Hell, I hope they get cut first round,” Issac muttered, scratching his dark beard. “Half a million dollars? I’d gut someone for that!” 

That got a chuckle, then a chorus of 'Seriously' and 'No jokes.'

Nobody said her name. 

But she felt them looking. Not directly. Just past her. Around her. 

She didn’t notice Finn until she was there again. Tall, unreadable, dropping silently into the chair beside her. Not joining in with the gossip, but not defending either. 

Robin kept her eyes forward, trying to remember how to breathe. Her stomach was still churning. 

Wildcard. 

You’re fine.  

You're fine, Robin.  

You’re okay.  

She told herself for the second time today. 

It hadn’t even been thirty minutes since Sabine’s announcement, and everyone was turning on ghosts. 

A tap on the shoulder. 

“Robin?” A junior producer tapped her on the shoulder, giving her a fake smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We need you for a quick interview. This way.” 

She followed without question. Anywhere was better than being shut in a small space, with people who, sarcastically or not, said they would kill her for the doubled prize money. 

“You can sit. We just want to get some quick impressions from people before we start filming again.” She said after leading Robin to a small room with a camera set up and a single stool. 

The ring light made Robin’s eyes water a little. 

The junior producer looked at her notes, then met her gaze. “Who do you think the wildcard is?”  

Robin swallowed hard, and her heart thudded in her chest. 

“...The wildcard?” She blinked. 

“Yeah,” the producer said, breezy like asking about the weather. “You’ve been in the holding room. Who stands out to you? Who looks like they don’t belong?”

Robin tucked her hands under her thighs; it was all she could do to stop herself from fidgeting. 

“I—I don’t know,” she said carefully. “We haven’t known each other that long.”  

“But if you had to guess?”  

She glanced at the lens, then away. “No one really talks to me, so I'm not sure.” 

A pause. The woman smiled. “Well, if you come up with anything, come here for an interview.”  

Robin nodded, but it didn’t dislodge the knot in her throat. 

“You’re good to go,” she said. “I’ll walk you back.” 

The woman led her back to the room, and slowly, two or three more people trickled out for interviews. 

When the door to the kitchen slammed open again, the same clipboard-wielding producer cut through the noise. 

“Mystery boxes are locked in. Let’s go, people, back to set!” 

Robin stood, legs a little unsteady. She didn’t speak. Only moved. 

 Mystery Box 1: Roots  

The studio lights flared back to life. Seventeen contestants stood behind their stations, each topped with a large, wooden box. Cameras coasted along mounted rails. Mic packs already tested. Aprons already tied.  

Robin’s hands trembled slightly as she gripped near the edge of her stainless-steel countertop. From her place near the front, she could see the judge's platform clearly. 

A single pair of heels echoed across the floor. 

Sabine emerged, her expression unreadable. She stopped center stage and looked out over them like inspecting a chessboard. 

“Welcome to your first challenge,” she said, voice smooth and utterly controlled. “Today, we’re starting with a classic.” 

Chef Gary walked in next, smiling warmly. “A mystery box,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. Excited. 

Chef Delmar appeared last. Arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You’ll have limited time. No second chances. Make it personal. Make it bold.” 

Sabine nodded to a producer off-camera. A timer appeared on the wall behind them. 

“Forty minutes,” she said. “You may use the flame pantry, but what’s under the box must be the star of the dish.” 

“All right, home cooks.” Said Chef Gary. “On our count.” 

“Three...” Sabine’s voice rang out. 

“Two...” 

Robin’s heartbeat so loudly it drowned out everything else, as she reached for her box. 

“One. Lift!’ 

The room filled with the sound of all seventeen contestants revealing their ingredients with perfect unison. 

Robin blinked. 

Beets, carrots—orange and purple. A lone turnip. Ginger root. Yukon gold potatoes. One sweet potato among other earthy vegetables. 

“Mystery box challenge: Root vegetables,” Chef Delmar said. “Make it personal. Tell us about your roots, using these ones.”  

“You may supplement your dish with things from the pantry. But if your dish doesn’t highlight the root vegetables, it’s dead on arrival.” Sabine added, scanning the room. 

Gary smiled wide. “The creator of the best dish will be safe from this afternoon’s elimination round. AND a little extra something.”  

“Your forty minutes,” Sabine said, taking a step back. “Starts now!” 

The kitchen exploded into motion. 

Robin moved slower than the rest. Watching people surge toward the pantry. Finn, already there was grabbing a slab of pork shoulder. Tara and stay-at-home mom Kate grabbed for the same tub of duck fat. The sounds of clanging pans and quick footsteps filled the room. 

Robin turned back to her station. Beets. Potatoes. Ginger. 

She could do this. 

Even if everyone else in that room secretly wanted her to fail. 

The woman staring at her from her podium didn’t. 

And that meant something. 

Robin stared at the root vegetable spread in front of her. No instructions. No recipe. Just an assortment of vegetables and forty minutes to figure out what the hell she was doing. 

She let the noise fade around her. Let the bright lights and the cameras blur. 

Soup. That’s what came to her. Not because it was flashy, but because it was the only thing she knew how to make a thousand different ways with almost nothing. It was survival food. It was care. It was something she’s made five hundred times in a battered steel pot back in St. James’ orphanage kitchen, after she became old enough for the nuns to put her to work and tell her to make do with the potatoes and tomatoes the city donated and pretend it was enough. 

But today...today, it could be more than enough. 

She peeled the parsnips first—sharp, sweet, earthy. Carrots for sweetness. Turnips for bitterness. No beets, too dominant. She reached for the yellow potatoes, the kind that melt into gold if you treat them right. 

She tossed the peelings in a bowl like she’d done her whole life. Waste nothing. 

A pat of butter went into the bottom of her pot, then onions. She let them sweat down slowly, watching them turn translucent, patient even with the clock ticking down. Garlic next. Not minced, smashed. Ginger sliced thin, it burned inside her nose a little. 

She needed depth. Warmth. Something for the stock. 

She dipped into the show's pantry and grabbed broth and added just enough to cover the roots. A pinch of thyme. A handful of white beans to add body. And a whisper of apple cider vinegar—she’d seen a chef do on YouTube. 

As it simmered, she stole glances at what the others were doing. Purees, ragouts, roasts, and steaks...  

She felt quietly confident that she saw people not making the vegetables the star, but a backup dancer. 

The kitchen buzzed with controlled chaos. Steam hissed toward the rafters. Pans hissed. The judges made their way down the line, trailed by a camera crew and a single producer out of frame. Chef Gary led, loudly laughing. Chef Delmar followed, quiet, sharp-eyed. Sabine came last. Silent, composed, predatory. 

Robin kept working as she heard them inspecting dishes behind her. Her soup was nearly finished. When she heard Chef Gary behind her at Ava’s station. “A beetroot risotto? Bold choice for day one, kid!”  

Nervous replies. Laughter. It was all she had. Almost all of them had. 

They were getting closer. 

Robin ladled a small amount of her soup into a small ramekin and tasted it. Good. Round. Warm. But still missing something. 

“Just a soup?” Came chef Delmar’s voice as he stopped beside her station, his brow arched. Skeptical. 

“Yes, chef,” Robin replied, not sure what to do. 

Delmar gave a small grunt but moved on without another word. 

Chef Gary arrived seconds later, peering curiously into the pot. “Now this smells like my grandmother's kitchen... can’t wait to taste it.” He smiled and moved on. 

And then Sabine stepped forward. She said nothing at first — just looked down at the pot, then at Robin. The air between them thickening. 

“What’s it supposed to taste like?” She asked finally. 

A beat passed. One where Robin squashed the sarcastic part of her brain that wanted to say, ‘vegetables.’ 

“Comfort...it should taste like comfort.” 

Sabine studied her, unreadable. Her eyes dropped to the broth. She reached forward without asking and picked up a small tasting spoon. 

Robin held her breath. 

Sabine tasted it. Her lips parted slightly, then closed. A long pause. 

“Needs salt.” 

Robin nodded, pulse hammering. 

Sabine lingered for a moment, eyes flickering between Robin and her broth. Something unreadable on her face. A glimmer of interest? Amusement? 

Then she was gone, heels tapping off to the next station. 

Robin turned back to her station. Hands trembling just enough to pour the salt. 

The Tasting

The contestants stood behind their stations, hands clasped in front of them, as the final camera found the correct angle. Their dishes had been plated and pushed forward, and the silence now had an electric charge. 

 Immunity from elimination is on the line, and everyone wants it.  

The kitchen’s overhead light dimmed just slightly, casting a dramatic glow over the chef’s judging table. 

Chef Gary stepped forward, clapping his hands once. “Alright, folks, you know the deal. Some of you are about to soar. Some of you are going to learn what rock bottom in this kitchen feels like. First up—Chloe.” 

Chloe, tall and cocky, in a leather dress so tight it looked painted on swaggered to the front. “I made roasted purple carrots over couscous with a spiced yogurt drizzle.” She said, setting down her plate. 

“Looks pretty,” Chef Gary said. “Let’s see if it eats the same.” 

All three took a bite. 

Delmar chewed slowly. “This tastes like you read the recipe... and then gave up halfway.” 

Sabine set down her fork. “It’s fine. That's all it is. Is fine.” 

Chloe’s face tightened, and Robin swore she heard Tara snicker behind her. But she offered a humble nod and returned to her station. 

The next few dishes passed with little fanfare. Lukewarm approval, faint grimaces. David served raw potatoes; Kate followed him up with a root vegetable tart so dry that all three judges spat it out. 

“This tastes like sand and regret,” Delmar said. 

Then came Robin’s turn. 

She walked her bowl to the front with both hands. The soup simmered faintly with oil and steam. A chunk of warm bread sat beside it. 

Robin stepped back as the judges leaned in. 

“How old are you, Robin?” Chef Delmar asked. Examining the plate. 

“Twenty...Chef.” Robin said, puzzled. 

“So, why do you drizzle oil around the rim of every plate you do like it’s 1997?” 

Robin’s stomach dropped, and she heard Issac snicker behind her again. “Told you, first boot.” 

“I—I-I thought it looked cleaner, chef.” Not sure if she was defending herself or just flailing. 

He scoffed lightly through his nose. “You did this with your audition plate, too. It’s not clean. It’s lazy. It's cosmetics without understanding. Presentation is an art form, a way for an artist to communicate. Oil around the rim says you don’t believe you're good enough to be here, and ‘oh shoot, let me add something extra to make it look fancy.’ Be confident enough in what you cook to let it stand alone.”  

Robin bit the inside of her cheek. The comment stung. Especially because he saw her audition plate and didn’t vote her through. He knew she didn’t belong here, and he just tore her to shreds. 

He tasted it and nodded, tilting his head. ‘That being said... It’s a tasty soup. You've got something real in that broth, don’t hide it behind what you think looks fancy.” 

Chef Gary stepped up next, his demeanor the usual contrast to Delmar's. Lighter, but no less sharp. He dipped his spoon, took a sip, and raised his brows. 

“Well, first of all,” he said, “I liked the 90s. Good music, terrible jeans, and a hell of a lot of olive oil.” 

A few contestants laughed. Delmar rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. 

“But this—” Gary said, tapping the spoon on the edge of the bowl. “—This is no joke. This is something I’d be happy to serve in any of my restaurants, deep flavors, not over-reduced. Balanced. Warm. Where’d such a young girl learn to make a soup like this?”  

Robin blinked.. . it’s good? Serve in his restaurant's?  

The room got quieter, even the cameras were leaning in.  

She hesitated, then said. “I grew up in an orphanage outside of St. Louis. We didn’t have much. The nuns roped me into helping cook the soups. We made soup a lot... big batches, stretched it out all week, to feed sixty girls. I guess I started to build my flavors there, from nothing.” 

Gary nodded slowly, his expression softening. 

Sabine was beside him, watching. Her arms folded, one hand grazing her mouth as she listened. The moment Robin said the word orphanage, Sabine's expression shifted—just barely. A subtle narrowing of her eyes. Not sympathy. Not shock. Something colder.  

Calculating. 

As if a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. 

There was a faint glint behind her gaze, like the tightening of a net around a fish that hadn’t realized it was swimming in a trap. 

Sabine stepped forward now, heels clicking softly on the studio floor. The other judges had their say, but no one truly exhales until she tastes. 

Robin watched her closely. The others did too. Sabine had that effect, like gravity. Even chef Delmar gave a slight deferential nod as she passed. 

Sabine didn’t speak. She took the spoon, dipped it cleanly, and lifted it to her lips. 

Robin tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. She really hoped she liked it for some reason. So much so that her heart was pounding in her chest. 

Sabine tasted. Just one sip. Her expression was impassive. But the stillness of her lingered after the spoon was set down, as if she was considering more than the flavor. 

“You learned how to make something like this in an orphanage?” 

Robin nodded. “Yes, Ms. Benson.” 

Sabine stepped closer, until the only thing separating them was the tasting table. Her voice lowered not for secrecy, but intimacy. A precision weapon just for her. 

“You learned this because you had to. Because you were hungry. And no one taught you the rules, so you broke them. And made something better.” 

Robin’s lips parted, but she didn’t respond. Couldn't. These words weren’t praise. They were something darker. 

Sabine turned to the other judges, the look in her eye only being described as ‘told you so.’ 

“She didn’t learn this in culinary school or some internet tutorial. She learned this the real way. The old-fashioned way. When food is the only thing standing between you and the ache.” 

Then she turned back to Robin. Her gaze lingering. Unblinking. “There’s no one else like you in this room.”  

And then she walked away, her silence louder than applause. 

Robin didn’t know what to do with herself... she couldn’t stop smiling. She didn’t know what to do with the heat in her chest either. Not pride. Not exactly. 

For the first time in her life, she felt... 

Seen.  

Chapter Text

The silence after Sabine spoke was deafening.  

Not the awkward kind. Not the dead air of someone who forgot their lines.  

It was the silence of a room recalibrating its hierarchy.  

Because Sabine never spoke like that. Not on camera. Her praise was rare, measured in ounces, if ever given at all. And what she just said to Robin wasn’t a compliment. It was a coronation.  

Finn lowered her eyes, jaw tight. She didn’t look angry... more like she’d just realized her most interesting rival was now her biggest threat. The ember of curiosity she had in Robin before? Now it was a five-alarm fire.  

Next came Finn. She brought up a roasted root hash with smoked pork shoulder and a parsnip cream. It didn’t look fancy, just honest, dense food.  

Gary grinned as soon as he tasted it. “Now this I’d order.”  

Delmar licked sauce off his fork. “Confident, no fluff,” he said, looking over Finn’s shoulder at Robin. “I like it.”  

Sabine, chewing, gave a rare nod. “Intentional. Masculine plating. Balanced salt, good instincts.”   

Finn didn’t react much, maybe unhappy that she got less praise than Robin. But Robin did notice the twitch of her pierced tongue against her teeth.  

The last standout dish came from someone Robin had barely registered even existed.  

Lucia, tiny, quiet, and never spoke to not only Robin, but she’d never seen her speak to anyone else either.  

She made a warm beet and bone marrow broth with shaved radish.   

Lopez actually whispered damn under his breath.  

“She’s a sleeper,” Chef Gary said to Sabine.  

“Presentation is a little clunky, but we don’t expect restaurant plating at this stage. Nice work.” Sabine added.  

When the judging ended, Delmar stepped forward and said, “We saw some great dishes... and some not-so-great dishes, allow us time to deliberate and come up with the one dish that’s earned its creator immunity.”  

A producer waved them back into holding, where they waited for ten minutes while the judges made their decision.  

Robin hoped, hoped against hope, she won. She couldn’t go home, not now, not after she sacrificed everything.  

Everything was riding on this.  

She looked around the room; all these people had jobs. Careers, to go back to if this went wrong, loving families, safety blankets.  

They didn’t need this, not like she did.  

A stagehand with a headset poked his head in the room. “Contestants, we’re ready for you. Back to your stations.”   

Robin stood with the others and filed back into the hot, bright lights of the kitchen. Her palms were slick with sweat, the soup had come out well... but had it won the day?   

The judges were already in place.  

Chef Gary clapped his hands once. “Alright, moment of truth. We've tasted every dish, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it; some of you choked under the pressure. Some of you didn’t try as hard as we would’ve liked. But three of you cooked like you belong here.”  

Robin’s heart hammered.   

Delmar stepped forward. “If we call your name, please step forward. First up, Lucia.”  

A few heads turned. The quiet girl in the pale blue headband blinked, almost unsure they’d said her name. But she stepped forward, shoulders squared.  

“Second...” Gary grinned. “Finn!”  

Finn exhaled, slow and deliberate. She adjusted her apron as her heavy boots walked to the front.  

Robin’s chest was tight; maybe she hadn’t done enough, maybe the oil around the rim ruined it.  

Stupid!  

Stupid!  

She blamed herself in her head for the oil.  

“And finally,” Sabine said, her voice sharp. “Robin.”   

Robin didn’t move at first.   

Finn glanced back and whispered, “ You deaf or something? ”  

Robin walked forward on legs that didn’t feel like hers. Now, she stood between Finn and Lucia; she could smell Finn’s cologne of vanilla and oakwood. Three women in black aprons, all eyes on them.  

Delmar said, “You three produced by far the three best dishes today, give yourselves a small pat on the back.” He grinned, “But. Only one of you is safe from today’s elimination challenge; the other two? Sorry, there’s no prize for second place here.”  

Robin stared straight ahead, her fingers crossed behind her back. She didn’t know her heritage; maybe she was Irish, maybe she’d be lucky. She wanted this so badly. She didn’t even look at Sabine, even though she could feel the woman's gaze on her like fire.  

Sabine’s voice was the one to break the silence. “This was a strong start. But only one of you made something that surprised all three of us.”  

A beat.  

“Finn!”  

Robin hung her head in defeat and despair. Swallowing a string of disappointment.  

“You’re safe.” Gary said, “Take your apron off and go up to the balcony.”   

“Nice,” Finn said, starting up the steps, her boots thudding against the metal staircase, her tongue piercing glinted as she flashed a brief smile, looking over everything. “Nice view from up here, too.”  

“And one more thing,” Sabine added, “You don’t just get immunity, you get power too, you get to pick one contestant to join you up in the balcony. They will also be completely safe from elimination today.”   

Every contestant looked up at Finn, Robin included. She was going to pick her right? She’d spent all day yesterday glued to her hip.  

Finn leaned with her arms on the railing, carefully surveying everyone, deciding who to spare, a strange glint in her eye.  

Finn’s eyes landed on Robin.   

Pick me 
Pick me 
Pick me! 

Robin’s heart kicked.   

“Karla.” Finn said.  

Karla blinked. She was one of the weakest cooks... her mystery box dish had been an overcooked mess of carrots.  

“Seriously?” Someone hissed behind them.  

A producer waved Karla up the stairs, and she eagerly went.  

Delmar raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice, mind telling us why?”   

Finn grinned, slow and cocky. “Sure. I picked her because she’s bad; I can knock her out easier later.” Karla didn’t seem to mind the slightest and stood there next to Finn, just happy for the immunity.  

Robin just felt sick. It wasn’t mercy, it was strategy. Not only did Finn not pick her, but she also picked someone just so she could survive over them if it came to it.  

Sabine, seemingly unbothered by a cold-blooded bitch kept the momentum going. “Contestants, please return to your stations.”   

Robin obeyed, her hands frozen.  

Sabine walked a line like a general.   

“This elimination challenge is simple.” She said, “Risotto.”   

Half the room groaned.  

Robin had seen cooking shows before; she knew the curse of risotto. She cursed under her breath; she’d never cooked it before. Not something on an orphanage's menu.  

“Risotto is simple,” Sabine continued. “Which means there’s nowhere to hide. This is a challenge to see if you have mastered the basics you need to stay in this competition.”  

Then she added, cool as steel, “No room for errors, we expect perfection, you won’t be able to hide behind hope that someone else's will be worse... the stakes are the highest they’ve ever been.”  

The camera crew shifted, getting close-ups of several faces as Sabine dropped the stomach-churning news.  

“The creators of the three worst risottos will be going home.”  

A collective gasp.  

Robin’s stomach plummeted; she was going to throw up again.  

“Not one . Not two . But three of you will be leaving this kitchen today.” She repeated.  

“You’ll find your arborio rice at your stations.” Delmar said, picking up the baton. “You have just thirty minutes. No excuses.”   

A producer lifted her hand out of frame.  

“Contestants, ready...”  

“Go!”   

Thirty minutes, three going home. Nowhere to hide.   

The kitchen exploded into motion. Pans clanged, blenders whirled, feet scrambled. The pantry was a war zone of subtle elbows being thrown and dirty looks.  

Robin grabbed butter, garlic, and a hunk of Parmesan. She darted back to her station, heart racing.  

28:56  

She set her pan down too hard, and a bit of oil splashed into the burner; it hissed at her like a stray cat.  

She didn’t know what she was doing... not really. She was losing valuable time looking up at others to see what they were putting in and how high their heat was.  

She copied Ava, who she saw throwing in diced onions and garlic. Too fast. And too her pan too hot. They browned much quicker than she would’ve liked. She hissed and pulled the pan back to try and save it with a knob of butter.  

She didn’t measure her rice; it hit the pan with a dry clatter. She stirred anyway, letting grains toast while she heard people panic behind her.  

25:41 

Finn was up on the balcony, leaning forward, arms on the railing, watching people cook, like it was a gladiator match. She didn’t smile when she locked eyes with Robin.  

Robin grabbed her ladle and added stock.  

Too much. Too fast.  

Her pan was still too hot, and the liquid boiled off instead of absorbing into the rice. She blinked through the steam coming up at her and stirred furiously, trying to get it to maintain the correct texture.  

Breathe.  

“Turn down your flame,” Karla said from the balcony to her... Finn turned and gave Karla a look of disappointment, unhappy that she was shouting advice.  

Robin thanked her and turned it down, adding another ladle of broth with shaking hands.  

21:19 

Jace was sauteing mushrooms, Tara was pouring white wine in hers by the glug.  

Robin still hadn't chosen her flavor profile yet.  

She opened the fridge drawer built into her station and found a handful of spinach, a wedge of goat's cheese. Maybe that could save it.  

She dropped the spinach in too early. It wilted and turned gray, bleeding into the rice before the starch had time to settle.  

Shit.  

Her risotto wasn’t creamy. It was sticky. Crunchy. Terrible.  

14:54 

Sabine passed behind her without stopping, but Robin felt it, the cold look of disappointment in her eye.  

Chef Delmar shouted from the front: “If you aren’t tasting as you go, you might as well go home now!”  

Robin tasted hers.  

Briefly.  

She spit it out.  

It was flat in some places, salty in one bite, and bland the next. The rice was mostly overcooked and grainy.  

A camera hovered over her shoulder, watching her overcooked, clumpy mess of a risotto.   

It's not savable.  

But there was still twelve minutes left. She could get something up. Maybe not something good, but something,  

She yanked the pan off the burner and dumped the entire thing in the trash, and reached for a clean pan.  

Start again.  

No time to cry.  
No time to panic.  
Just move. 

Butter. Onions. Garlic. Rice. Broth.  

This time she slowed down, steadied her hand, stirred evenly. Let the grains roast properly. No spinach this time, she didn’t have time to balance it.  

She grabbed frozen peas. They'd cook fast, and she could add some goat's cheese at the end for creaminess. Salt and pepper as she went. Taste, adjust, and taste again.  

It wasn’t art.  It wasn’t even that good.  

But it wasn’t a trainwreck.  

She finished plating it with 15 seconds to go. The rice was a little firm. The texture is a little dry. But it looked like a risotto. Smelled like something edible.  

All in all, she was proud of herself for this being just her second attempt ever at cooking the cursed food.  

“Hands up!” Chef Gary shouted, just as the buzzer blared.  

Pans clattered. A few contestants groaned. Someone dropped a spoon and cursed under their breath.  

Sabine stepped into the center of the kitchen. “Before we begin judging,” she said, “Finn, your immunity comes with a second advantage.”  

Up on the balcony, Finn leaned forward, raising her eyebrows. “Oh?”  

“You get to save one more person,” Sabine said smoothly. “Whomever you choose will not have their dish tasted. They'll be safe to join you and Karla on the balcony.”  

The room went dead silent.  

Robin’s breath caught in her throat.  

Surely, she’d pick her this time... right?  

Right?  

Finn scanned the room slowly.  

For a moment, a singular moment, her gaze flickered over Robin.  

A Robin that was pleading with her eyes more than anything. More than she ever had when a couple came to the orphanage to adopt.  

Then Finn looked past her.  

“Kate,” she called out.  

The room exploded into noise again.  

Robin turned around to look at Kate’s dish...  

It was empty...  

She hadn’t gotten anything up in time.  

Just an empty plate of a woman who was going home if Finn hadn’t ‘saved’ her. Of course, knowing how Finn rolled about these things she didn’t save Kate at all, she saw her as someone weak that she could knock out later.  

Kate made her way to the balcony, ducking her head. Finn gave her a lazy high five as she reached her.  

Robin didn’t move... she didn’t know why, but she felt betrayed. Finn had followed her around all of yesterday like some lost puppy, even heard something private Robin hadn’t meant to share about her life growing up in the orphanage.  

The first pick was excusable... maybe , she didn’t know she was going to get a second, but not taking Robin with her second pick to save someone felt like a purposeful slap in the face.  

Sabine let the chaos settle. Then she gestured to the judging table.  

“Let’s begin.”  

The tasting 

The contestants lined up behind their plated risottos, nerves stretched taut. Camera crews reposition as the judges step forward.  

First dish: Issac 
“Undercooked,” Chef Delmar said, frowning at the chalky rice. “Crunchy is not a flavor.”  

Second dish: Carmilla 
Chef Gary spat it out into his napkin. “It’s closer to grainy soup than a risotto.” he said, wiping his mouth. 

Third dish: Tara 
“Creamy, balanced, thoughtful,” Sabine said with a nod. “I think we both know you aren’t going home today.”  

Fourth dish: Chloe 
Chef Gary raised his eyebrows. “Well damn, I’d eat this again...where was this hiding during the first round?” Chloe smiled, rather annoyingly, at Tara. 

Sixth dish: Robin  
Robin stepped forward. Her hands were cold and wet against the curve of the plate. The risotto looked passable... by her standards, but she wasn’t an award-winning chef nor a world-famous food critic.  

Soft peas, a rough dollop of goat's cheese, a too-hurried garnish of chives she’d barely had time to chop.  

Delmar took the first bite. His face remained unreadable. He looked at the plate again. “Inconsistent. Some bites are almost right. Some taste like glue.”  

Robin’s stomach dropped, but she said nothing.  

Chef Gary’s fork clinked against the dish next. He chewed, then exhaled. “You started this over again, didn’t you?”  

She nodded. “Yes, chef.”  

“Well... it tastes like you made it in a hurry. But it also shows that you knew the first one wasn’t right. That counts for something.”  

Finally, Sabine.  

Her expression didn’t change. She took a small bite, set her fork down delicately.  

“Texture is off,” she said, “And the flavor never arrived. Like the idea of risotto, rather than a risotto.”  

Delmar’s comments had made her stomach drop, but these words made her heart plummet. She could only nod in response to the comments, but even that felt wrong.  

She couldn’t focus on anybody else's review after hers; she could only hear her heart thundering in her ears, her eyes going misty. The idea that she could be going home...  

She was scared.  

More than anything.  

More than when the drug dealers that sat on the first-floor landing of her apartment building asked her if she wanted to ‘have a good time.’  

More scared than waking in the middle of the night to gunshots and sirens outside.  

This was her one opportunity to right the ship that was her life, and it was slipping through her fingers.  

She only snapped back into reality when the tasting had finished, and Chef Gary stepped forward.  

“We’ve tasted your food, please allow us five minutes to come to an agreement about which three of you will be going home.”  

The contestants were ushered back to their stations to clean the messes that they had all made while cooking for their place. While the judges disappeared to a back room...  

Five minutes later...  

Robin stood behind her station as the three judges strolled back in. The cameras had stopped rolling while they cleaned, but they were on now. Ready to catch the tears and despair of whoever it was going home.  

“If we call your name, please step to the front,” Delmar said, his voice cutting through the silence.  

“Carmilla.” Sabine stepped forward.  

“David.” Chef Delmar said.  

“Issac.” Chef Gary said.  

Robin exhaled. Surely, that was it... those three would be going home, and she had dodged a bullet —  

“Robin,” Sabine said, shifting her gaze to the girl now paralyzed in surprise and fear.  

What...b-but they called three people.  

Her mind raced a million thoughts a minute as she made her way forward on shaky legs.  

Her legs moved before her brain could even give the order. 
Step 
Step 
Step 
Each one felt heavier than the last. 

She stood beside the others, her mouth dry, jaw tight, trying not to blink too quickly in case the tears welled up again.  

“Malik” Delmar said, as they seemingly finished calling names.  

“You five let yourselves down, but we are only sending three people home.” Delmar’s voice rang out again, low and final. “Carmilla, please remove your apron and leave the flame kitchen.”  

She didn’t protest. Didn't beg for a second chance. Just gave a hollow nod, untied her apron, and folded it in half before placing it on the station. She turned, walking stiffly toward the exit, chin held up but eyes wet.  

“David, it just wasn’t your day. Please remove your apron and exit the flame kitchen.” Chef Gary said.  

His jaw clenched, and he let out a long breath. He peeled off his apron, less careful than Carmilla, letting the ties drag behind him, before snatching it off and putting it on his station. He walked out without a backwards glance.  

Robin’s hands gripped the edge of her apron, hard. Two people down, one more to go... she hated seeing people’s dreams end, but they didn’t need this, not like she did. Three people were left standing there, just one more person going home. She felt not hopeful, but she liked her odds.  

Sabine’s eyes met Robin’s. That crushed any flicker of hope.  

She felt it before the words even came out.  

“Robin,” Sabine said. “Please remove your apron.”  

The breath felt like it was punched from her lungs.  

That was it. She'd be back on a plane to Missouri, back into oblivion... maybe if she got on her hands and knees, she could beg for her job back.  

The blood drained from her face. The noise of the room dulled, like she was underwater. Her fingers fumbled at the knot behind her back. Her apron came loose, fabric trembling in her grip.  

Then Sabine continued: “Please remove your apron and join the others... on the balcony.”  

Robin blinked.  

“What?”  

“You’re safe,” Chef Gary said. “Barely. You live to fight another day.”  

“You’re a rollercoaster, just make sure we see more of your highs than your lows,” Delmar said.  

Robin looked up, still a little in shock. She held her apron in her hands like it wasn’t hers anymore.  

Sabine gave the smallest of nods. “You survived. Don't make us regret it.”  

Robin stepped back slowly, legs unsteady, and then moved up the balcony, her knees almost buckling. She gripped the railing, eyes burning.  

When she reached the top, a group of five or six contestants hugged her, told her good job, it didn’t really feel earned, and it was a little uncomfortable hugging strangers, and she was certain someone touched her butt, which made her break off the hug.  

But she was safe. 
Safe. 

The word felt thinner on her lips than it should have...  

She never wanted to be in that situation again.  

She watched on with the others as Delmar eliminated Malik. He wasn’t very happy about it and left with his pride dragging as much as his apron.  

The remaining contestants stood on the balcony, the cool air washing over their still-raw nerves. Below, the judges turned back to the cameras.  

Delmar stepped forward again, tone neutral, but not unkind.  

“Congratulations to those of you who survived today’s elimination. Tomorrow's your first team challenge. Get some rest, you’ll need it.”  

The cameras panned slowly across the relieved, exhausted faces of the contestants.  

“CUT!” Someone yelled from behind a camera.  

Crew members began moving like clockwork, lights dimming, cables coiling, and a production assistant motioned everyone off the balcony.  

“Sorry, folks, interviews before you get to go home.  

A chorus of groans followed.  

Robin peeled herself off the railing and followed the others down, still dizzy from the emotional whiplash of the day. She expected to be led toward the usual black-curtained or green-screened interview stalls they had set up. But instead, the PA guiding her took a different route.  

“Wait, this isn’t—”  

“Yeah, no. You're wanted in office two.”  

Robin’s steps slowed. “Why?”  

The PA shrugged. “I don’t know, I'm not paid enough to know.”  

They stopped outside the nondescript door. It was slightly ajar.  

Inside, seated at a folding table with a water bottle and a half-eaten protein bar, was Sabine.  

Sabine didn’t look up from her phone. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”  

Robin obeyed, her heartbeat spiking all over again. She stood awkwardly in front of the table, unsure if she was allowed to speak or not.  

Sabine finally looked up; her expression was unreadable, but not cold.  

“I just wanted to clear something up...” She spoke. “You actually won the first challenge.”  

“I—WHAT?!”  

“The root vegetable challenge, the soup you made. It won the challenge.”  

Robin felt her brows furrow. “Then why didn’t I get the immunity?”  

Sabine leaned back. “Because you didn’t earn your way onto the show the way everyone else did.”  

Robin stiffened. “B-but that’s not fair—”  

“Fair?” Sabine laughed. “Robin, you aren’t even supposed to be here. It's not ‘fair’ that you’re even cooking next to any of them.”  

“We decided it would be in poor taste for the girl who wasn’t supposed to be here to get immunity in the first challenge. Call it earning your spot.”  

Robin’s mouth went dry. “So I never had a chance at safety?”  

“You had a chance at proving you deserve to be here, and you did that, even if your risotto was rough. Be proud of that.” Sabine paused, her voice softened if just a little. “You’re not the worst cook here. But you’re not the best either . Not yet”  

Robin looked down at the office carpet. “Was it your decision to stop me from getting immunity today?”  

“No. The other two were unconvinced. But you did me proud, at least in the first half of the day.”  

Robin felt a little happy, she had to admit, that the soup made her proud.  

Sabine continued. “You have real potential, Robin. Good instincts. But it’s not enough to survive long-term. You'll have to push harder.”  

Robin finally met her eyes. “I won’t let you down.”  

Sabine stood. “Good girl. That’s all, do your interview, go home, get some rest.”  

Robin turned to leave. Opening the door and walking out, fists clenched at her side, an odd feeling in her belly at Sabine calling her a good girl.  

Chapter Text

Home

The house felt heavy that night.  

The night before, people had stayed up late at night practicing in the kitchen, drinking on balconies, and chatting in the kitchen until exhaustion drove them to their rooms. 

Tonight, there was nothing. Just the low hum of the fridge and the muffled creak of floorboards above as people settled in for the night.  

Three contestants gone in one challenge. It was sinking in for everyone... this is real. Only one person can win, and all it takes is one bad thirty minutes to get sent packing. 

Robin sat on the edge of the couch, arms locked in a hug around a throw pillow, eyes unfocused on whatever movie the TV screen was displaying. Her mind wouldn’t leave the sound of Sabine’s voice. “Robin, please remove your apron...” The words still rang in her skull. That pause before they told her to join the others on the balcony... it had almost broken her. 

And Finn had just watched. Cold. Detached. Like Robin’s near elimination hadn’t mattered at all. 

Like she hadn’t followed Robin around all of orientation day. 

Which pissed Robin off tenfold that she was in the room now, watching the movie on TV with great interest. 

Across the room, Finn was sprawled out in one of the armchairs, a half-smile playing at her lips, like she had already won the entire competition. A glass of water dangled from her hand, the ice long melted.  

She didn’t look rattled. 

Not. One. Bit. 

Robin's stomach knotted. Heat flushed her face. 

Enough. Finn sitting here right after not saving her was a mockery. 

She pushed off the couch and strode across the room before her nerves could stop her. 

“Why?” Her voice cut sharper than she meant it to, but she didn’t back down. She stood over Finn now, arms stiff at her sides. “You had two chances to save someone. Two! And you didn’t pick me either time!” 

Finn looked up at her lazily, half focused on the movie, half looking like she expected this conversation ten minutes ago. She swirled the water in her glass, then set it aside with deliberate calm.  

“Because,” Finn said, tilting her head, her mismatched hair catching the low lamp light, “I don’t hand out lifelines to good cooks. If you want a handout, find a soup kitchen. You should be thanking me.” 

Robin scoffed at the idea. “Thanking you?! I almost went home today because of you!” 

“No. You almost went home today because of you.” Finn said bluntly. “I didn’t put a gun to your head and make you cook terrible risotto. That was all you, princess.”  

Robin’s chest rose and fell, sharp, uneven. The ‘princess’ jab landed like a slap. 

“You—” Her voice cracked, she clinched her fists tighter, “You spent all of orientation following me around like some lost dog, and you don’t even care if I stay or go!” 

Finn leaned forward in her chair, slow, deliberate, her eyes glinting like she’d been waiting for Robin to snap. “You’re right. I don’t give a damn whether you stay or go. I don’t know if you’ve caught on yet, but only one person wins the prize money. If you go home today, tomorrow, or four weeks from now makes little difference to me, just that you go home and that I walk out with the money.”  

For a moment, the only sound was the drone of the TV and Robin’s pulse hammering in her ears, while her blood boiled inside her. “Screw you!” Robin shot back, her voice rising even though most in the house were probably sleeping. 

“I imagine you’d like to.” Finn chuckled darkly, standing up, reminding Robin of her towering height advantage over her. “You spend all day staring at me, you apparently think about me... and now you think that having lunch with me once makes us inseparable allies? It's like being on a show with my ex-girlfriend.”  

“Wha—” Robin cut herself off, taking two steps back. “I-I’m not G-gay.” She whispered the word gay as if it were a swear word. 

Finn’s laugh was low and rough, like she was enjoying a private joke at Robin’s expense. She leaned down just enough for Robin to catch a faint whiff of her cologne, her voice dropping to a near whisper that still managed to sting. 

“Yeah, you totally aren’t gay,” Finn murmured in mock sincerity. “I see the way you stare at me, like you wanna see how far down these tattoos go. You admitted that you think about me. You overthink everything I do, like we’re dating in the sixth grade. That's completely straight behavior. Sure.” 

Robin felt warmth shoot hot to her cheeks. “I-I don’t—I'm not—” The words fumbled out, weak, broken. Her denial only seemed to amuse Finn more, who smirked like she knew something about Robin that Robin didn’t even know about herself. 

“I’m not gay! I was raised in a catholic orphanage for God’s sake! I’m not gay!” Robin repeated, this time louder, firmer, but it only made Finn’s smile sharpen. 

Robin’s fists tightened at her sides. She couldn’t stand here anymore, couldn’t stand here as Finn laughed at her. Heat, humiliation, and weird emotions she couldn’t name coiled inside her chest until she had no choice but to run. 

“Whatever. I'm done talking to you,” Robin snapped, spinning on her heel before Finn could even reply. She hurried up the stairs, her pulse a jackhammer in her ears, and slammed her bedroom door hard enough that her room neighbor pounded on the wall.  

Inside, in the dark, she pressed her back to the door, face burning. She told herself Finn was wrong. She doesn’t look at Finn in any way. 

And she doesn’t think about her that much at all. 

Stupid tattooed jerk, I think about Sabine WAYYYYY more than I think about you.  

...  

...  

No! That doesn't make me gay either! She's a mentor. A MENTOR!  

She plopped herself face-first into bed with a groan that was drowned out by the expensive sheets. She wasn’t gay; she could prove it; she lay there face down in the bed trying to recall every man she ever thought was attractive.  

Well, there weren’t any boys at the orphanage...it was all-girls, and her boss smelled like cigarettes and cheap after shave, and her landlord... was well, her landlord, the man was little more than a slumlord, renting out moldy, leaky rooms.  

And his looks matched his ethics... 

She searched and searched her memory for anyone, a customer from the diner, a man on the bus to work.  

Anyone. 

All she found was a restless sleep, after exhaustion eventually wrestled her into a thin, unsatisfying slumber. 

The van hummed along the freeway, the city already well awake and traffic already slowing to a crawl in places. Robin sat slouched against the seat, hoodie pulled tight around her, eyes half-lidded from the restless night.  

She rubbed her temples, trying to shake the fog of too little sleep, too much adrenaline, and Finn’s words still buzzing in her ears. 

Renee, sitting across from her, glanced sideways. “You okay?” She asked quietly, her tone gentle but tinged with curiosity. 

Robin forced a small shrug, trying to keep her face neutral. “Yeah... just didn’t sleep too well.” She muttered, not meeting Renee’s eyes. 

Renee nodded slowly, looking a little unconvinced. “Yeah, who knows what they’ll have us do for a team challenge?" She said in passing. Silence settled over the van again, broken by the occasional whir of the engine or honk of a car in traffic. 

Robin stared out the window, the city blurring past, her thoughts drifting between yesterday’s elimination chaos and Finn’s mockery. She chewed her lip, trying to calm the storm in her chest. 

Eventually, Robin noticed the van wasn’t on route to the studio lot as Robin expected. Instead, the GPS chimed quietly, drawing a route in the opposite direction. 

Robin frowned. “Wait...where are we going?” 

The driver didn’t answer. Renee glanced at her, shrugging slightly. “Guess we’ll find out soon.” 

Robin’s stomach churned. Something about the shift in route felt like the calm before another storm. Another challenge, another test. Her hands tightened around the edge of her hoodie pocket as she tried to summon focus, willing the exhaustion and nervousness to go away. 

The van rolled onward, its tires humming against the asphalt. Robin took a deep breath. Whatever was coming next, whatever ridiculous team challenge, she reminded herself she could face it.  

If she could stand up to the pressure yesterday, she could do anything. She just hoped she wasn’t on Finn’s team. 

The Plaza

The vans pulled up to a wide, empty plaza hemmed in by tall glass towers and palm trees swaying in the downtown breeze.  

The contestants shuffled out, squinting against the glare. A production crew was already busy, with camera operators on rolling rigs, sound technicians adjusting microphones, and PAs guiding them into position.  

At the center of the plaza stood Chef Delmar, Chef Gary, and Sabine, poised like generals waiting for their troops. 

“Alright, everyone, in your places,” a producer barked. A few minutes of audio checks, mic taps, hand waves, Sabine whispering into her earpiece, and then someone called “Rolling!” 

Delmar’s voice cut across the plaza, smooth but commanding. “Welcome to the site of your first team challenge. Downtown Los Angeles.” 

The contestants straightened, nerves buzzing. Robin tucked her hands into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie, despite the rising heat, trying to read Delmar’s expression. 

“Today,” Delmar continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “You’re going to be running something near and dear to my heart.” 

The words barely landed before a low rumble echoed from the far end of the plaza. Tires on asphalt, engines grinding. The contestants turned, using their hands to shade their eyes. 

Two trucks rolled into view, bright against the gray concrete, one glossy crimson red, the other a cool cobalt blue. They came to a stop side by side, hissing as their brakes released. 

Robin’s pulse spiked. 

Delmar gestured proudly. “I got my start in my cousin's food truck, serving over 1000 people in a single day. And I'll tell you this: the most popular lunchtime restaurant in downtown LA isn’t a restaurant at all. It's the food truck.” 

Gasps and murmurs ran through the contestants. Robin chewed her lip; this wasn’t going to be easy. 

Sabine stepped forward, her heels clicking against the pavement. “We’re going to split you into two teams. The red team in the red food truck... and the blue in the blue. Obviously.” 

The tension prickled immediately, contestants glancing at one another, sizing up who they’d want on their team and who they didn’t. 

Chef Gary chimed in, checking his watch, brisk and no-nonsense: “You’ll have just two hours to design a menu and prep your truck for the lunch rush. When service begins, every diner will be given a vote to cast. They'll cast that vote for whichever food they liked best. The team with the most votes wins... and avoids the dreaded elimination test.” 

“Not only that,” Sabine said, stepping forward again. “The winning team will be going on a reward... you’d much rather be on the winning team, so give this everything.”  

The words hung heavy in the plaza. Someone behind Robin swore under their breath. 

Robin’s stomach flipped. A food truck lunch rush. Downtown LA. Hundreds of strangers tasting her cooking and judging, all with Finn just a few feet away, smiling in her peripheral vision. 

Sabine’s voice carried across the plaza, crisp and commanding. “Finn, for winning the last challenge, you have more advantages coming your way. Firstly, you are captain of the red team.” 

She held out a scarlet apron embroidered with the word captain. Finn stepped forward and took it with a little flourish, bowing her head slightly as if she were being crowned. 

“Next, two more advantages,” Sabine added, eyes narrowing as though she knew what Finn would do with it. “You get first pick, and you get to choose who the opposing team captain will be.” 

The group murmured, a ripple of unease breaking through the morning air. Everyone turned to look at Finn...Except Robin, who pointed her gaze at the pavement, she didn’t want to be on Finn’s team, nor did she want to be picked as the opposing captain. 

Finn let the silence hang, her fingers idly twisting the strap of her apron. Then she smiled low and cutting, saying a name without even looking through the crowd. “Karla,” she said, the name dropping like a stone. 

Gasps. Even Karla blinked in confusion, almost looking behind her to make sure Finn had truly meant her. 

“You’ll be leading the blue team,” Sabine said to her, holding out the blue captain’s apron. 

Karla’s hand trembled as she accepted her apron. She gave Finn a bewildered smile that never reached her eyes. Everyone else shifted uncomfortably. Finn had just purposefully sabotaged the blue team with a poor leader. 

Sabine gave a small nod, lips twitching with something akin to disapproval, but she didn’t interfere. 

“Now, Finn,” Sabine continued. “Your first pick.” 

Robin felt her stomach knot instantly. She could feel Finn’s gaze before she even looked up, that sharp, green-eyed stare burning through her. 

Don't you dare! 
Don’t pick me! 
Don’t pick me! 

Robin tried her best to blend into the crowd, hoping she’d melt into the floor. 

“Robin,” Finn said smoothly. 

Robin’s head snapped up. Finn was smiling. Hyena-like, devilish, deliberate. The kind of smile that said she knew she was getting under Robin’s skin. 

For a heartbeat, Robin didn’t move, caught between mortification and anger. The rest of the contestants glanced at her, confused as to why she wasn’t moving, unaware of their conversation the night before. 

Sabine gestured. “Robin, step forward and join your captain.”  

With her pulse hammering, Robin did. Every step across the plaza was agonizing, though she kept her head down; she could still feel Finn’s smile on her like the sun’s heat. 

And the worst part was, her face was burning red. 

Shortly thereafter, the teams were all selected. Finn also picked up: Neveah, Jace, Ava, Chloe, and Issac.” 

Karla, incredibly flustered, picked: Matto, Renee, Josh, Kate, Lucia, and Tara. 

It was a numerically fair matchup, seven vs. seven, but the gulf in talent between the two teams was vast. Karla’s team having both her and Kate on it seemed unfair. They were probably two of the worst performers in yesterday's challenges.  

Chef Gary checked his watch, then looked between the two lines of contestants. “You’ve got two hours to plan a menu and prep enough to serve the 250 people coming for lunch. Your time starts...now!” 

The plaza exploded into motion. Both teams bolted toward their trucks, red aprons flashing one way, blue aprons the other. Robin hurried after her team, who all had much longer legs than her and made it to the truck much faster. 

The food truck loomed larger the closer she got, with stainless steel counters and cramped space, every inch needing to be used smartly. Neveah was already pulling cabinets open, shouting, “Stock’s in here.” While Jace was at a freezer pulling out and listing proteins. 

Finn slapped a hand on the prep counter, silencing her team's scrambling. She didn’t look stressed at all. “Listen...we’re not just cooking. We're winning. Keep it simple, keep it quick, and keep it clean. Three dishes max, we can’t afford to get caught up on something stupid.” 

Finn tossed Robin a marker and nodded to the whiteboard behind her. “Write this stuff down, princess .”  

Her face flushed, and the rest of the team looked between them like they had something ‘going on.’ before Robin blurted out: “Inside joke.”  

Finn leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smiling about the ‘so-called’ inside joke when she got serious again. “We need food that moves fast. Nothing that takes more than two minutes from ordering to the window.” 

“Burgers,” Jace said immediately. “Classic. Everyone loves them, we can pre-cook them to certain temperatures and take them off before they’re done.” 

“Hot dogs,” Ava added, already pulling open a pantry to see that they had buns. “Easy,” she said lazily. 

“Tacos,” Neveah threw in. “This is Los Angeles, I think they’ll hang you if you run a food truck that doesn’t sell tacos.”  

Finn nodded slowly, lips curling, having done none of the work. “Alright. Tacos, burgers, and hot dogs. Three heavy hitters, done quickly .”  

Everyone agreed, voices overlapping as people split up jobs. Who'd handle prepping each dish, who’d be on the grill, and who’d assemble? Robin scribbled it all down on the whiteboard bolted to the wall. 

But as she looked at the words, three heavy dishes, on such a hot day...something gnawed at her. 

She hesitated, biting the cap of her marker, then finally spoke. “Wait,” 

The noise in the cramped truck faded. Robin swallowed. Everyone was now looking at her. “It’s summertime in L.A. Let's do a drink; they’re going to be dying for something cold and refreshing. If we do something like...lemonade, it’ll sell out.” 

For a moment, no one answered. Then Chloe lit up, nodding hard, “She’s right, drinks sell fast.”  

“If we’re the only truck selling a drink? That’s a huge edge.” Issac chipped in.  

Finn’s eyes flickered to Robin, unreadable for a beat, before she gave a sly smile. “Lemonade, fine. But it better be the best damn lemonade they’ve ever tasted.” 

Robin felt heat crawl up her neck. Still unsure about being on Finn’s team, or anywhere near her, but forced a nod, already jotting down ‘lemonade’ in bold on the whiteboard. 

The team roared back into motion, everyone getting to their assigned stations, the decisions made. Two hours. Four items. 250 people coming for lunch. 

At least Robin wasn’t stuck on a hot grill in this heat. 

Finn clapped her hands, and everyone got to work. Knives hitting cutting boards, wrappers ripped open, burners hissed to life. 

“Meat first,” Finn barked. “Tacos and burgers. Neveah, Jace, and Ava, you’re grinding and cooking on the grill. Chloe and Issac, you’re prepping toppings. Get to it.” 

Robin raised her hand and quickly lowered it after it made her feel like a schoolgirl. “What about the lemonade? We’ll need—”  

Finn cut her a sharp look. Answering her as if she had read her mind. “Inside only. I don’t want the other team knowing we’re making a drink until it's too late for them to copy us.” 

Robin blinked. “But there’s more space outside, and—” 

“No.” Finn’s tone snapped like a bear trap. “Do it here.” 

Defeated, Robin set up in a tiny corner by the sink, a crate of lemons beside her, a cheap plastic juicer squeaking under her grip. One after another, she twisted the fruit down until her palms ached, juice running sticky down her fingers. The hoodie she had on clung to her like a wet rag, heat pressing in from all sides, the stove, the grill, the sun hammering through the truck's open windows.  

Her head swam slightly from the citrus fumes and stirring air, but she kept moving. 

Behind her, the soundscape was a chorus of violence: Knives pounding rhythm, meat sizzling on grills, Chloe yelling for more onions. Finn moved from station to station observing like a commander. 

By the time Robin had stacked three pitchers of lemonade, her arms felt like jelly. She rolled her sore wrists, sweat dripping into her eyes, when one of the show's assistant producers swung up the truck's side steps. 

“Robin?” The woman chirped, headset glinting. “You, Ava, Issac, come with me. Quick interviews.” 

Robin wiped her hands on her hoodie uselessly, following them out into the blast of sunlight, although she was grateful... it was much cooler out here. The camera snapped on, and the interviewer began immediately. 

“So Robin,” she began, “How did it feel to be first pick?”  

Robin blinked directly into the lens, still a little dazed from the heat of the van...How did she feel about being first pick? Undeserved? Robin is fairly certain Finn chose her to mock her about their argument yesterday. 

“Uh, it’s a great honor, of course,” she lied through her teeth. “To be picked first means everyone respects your cooking ability.”  

“And your captain? How much confidence does Finn inspire in you?”  

Robin hesitated. God, only if these people knew what they had argued about yesterday... Robin would be free to scream, ‘A big fat zero!’  

But she racked her brain to think of something Finn said that made her believe in her leadership more. Eventually, Finn’s voice rang in her ear. ‘ Do it here. I don’t want the other team knowing we’re making a drink until it's too late for them to copy us .’  

While it had her sweating half to death in the van, she had to admit... it was an intelligent strategy. She forced a small smile. “Finn... she knows what she’s doing. She’s... savvy.” 

“Perfect,” the assistant said. “You can go back now.”  

Robin groaned, all but staggering back inside, grabbing the juicer again as if she had never left. The citrus sting returned instantly, burning her raw hands. 

An hour in, the door slammed open again. This time, it wasn’t a crew member; it was Chef Delmar, flanked by two cameramen, who made the space so cramped it was difficult to breathe. 

They prowled the cramped truck, peering at sizzling patties and the half-assembled toppings. His eyes landing on the whiteboard.  

TACOS, BURGERS, HOT DOGS, LEMONADE.  

All written in bold black marker. 

“Four items?” Delmar raised a brow. “Stretching yourselves pretty thin, aren’t you? How are you going to pull that off for 250 people arriving in...” He checked his watch, feigning ignorance. “45 minutes?” 

No one spoke at first. The only sound was the angry squeak of Robin grinding another lemon flat. 

“We’ll be ready.” Finn smiled, not missing a beat. 

Service

The timer ticked all the way down to fifteen minutes when Chef Gary’s voice rang across the plaza. 

“Teams! Menus on the boards, front and center! Diners want to know what they’re ordering the moment they arrive. Fifteen minutes to get your house in order and all set up for service!” 

The announcement sent a ripple of fear through the entire team. Finn didn’t flinch, just started delegating tasks.  

“Ava, grab the chalk. And write our menu on the board, list it clearly. Don't try to sound super fancy or anything.” She snapped her fingers, looking over at Robin. “And you, set up the lemonade. Out front, a folding table next to the van. Really push it to people.” 

Robin took a step back. “Out front?” 

Finn was already moving again, tasting the sauce for the tacos. “Yeah. Right by the counter. Putting a pretty face out front is always good for business.” She smirked, looking back briefly before getting asked for help by Issac and moving on. 

Robin’s jaw dropped a little at Finn’s last line. 
Pretty face? 

She thought the truck couldn’t get any warmer, but she felt the heat on her face. Why did Finn choose now, of all times, to mess with her? 

She wanted to snap back, to tell Finn to stop playing around, but there wasn’t time, and Finn was already on the other side of the truck helping Jace with the grill. 

So, Robin found one of the folding tables outside, and the thin metal legs squeaked as she wrestled it into place beside the serving window. The pitchers were in the freezer, cooling until needed. She wiped the sweat from her brow after dragging the table into place and tried not to think about the smirk on Finn’s face when she called her pretty. 

The plaza was pure noise now. Shouting inside both trucks, blades hammering against cutting boards, pans clattering, oven doors slamming. The production crew was also busy, moving tables and chairs into the plaza to accommodate 250 people. On the blue side, Renee was out front, crouched down, writing their menu on the chalkboard. 

Robin walked over, peering over Renee’s shoulder. Not like a spy, or anything, Renee was probably the person she’d talked to the most since she got here. She got the vibe she wouldn’t get super prissy about her looking at their menu. 

Their menu wasn’t half bad... in fact, it looked pretty good, if they could pull it off.  
Two different choices: taco, chicken, or steak. 
Like Finn’s team, they were also making a burger, but instead of topping it with traditional toppings, Karla’s team had opted for a fried egg on top.  
And a side of street corn. 

It was...impressive.  

But Robin still had their ace in the hole of being the only team serving a drink.  

Renee leaned back from the chalkboard, brushing chalk dust off her hands. She blinked when she noticed Robin hovering just behind her shoulder. 

“Uh... hey. What are you doing?” 

Robin froze, caught like a thief; she didn’t think she’d care. “I...Uh, I was...looking.” She admitted quickly, hands half raised in surrender. “Just...curiosity, you know?” 

Renee’s brows arched, but instead of bristling, she chuckled softly, standing to stretch her legs. “Relax. It's just a menu on a board, not the nuclear codes.”  

Robin’s shoulders loosened a bit, just a little. A question weighing on her mind. “So... Karla. How's she doing as captain?” 

Renee hesitated, as though she weighed how much she should reveal, then smiled. “Good. She's good. We're all... pitching in where we can, backing her up. It's a team effort.” 

Robin blinked. “A team effort?”  

“Yeah,” Renee shrugged, east, unbothered. “We’ve got each other's backs. Nobody's letting anyone sink.” 

Robin forced a tight smile, but her chest constricted. The words dug deep. Finn had deliberately thrown Karla into the captain’s seat, expecting her to sink. And yet, here Renee was talking about the power of friendship, or something that lifts each other up. 

Her pulse spiked. What if Finn’s big brain move backfired? It would make the past two hours of juicing lemons meaningless, and worse, throw her right into an elimination challenge. 

Robin imagined Finn’s face if they lost. Worse, she imagined Sabine’s disappointed eyes. 

“Hey,” Renee said suddenly, cutting into her spiral. “Who do you think the wildcard is?” 

Robin’s mouth went dry. “What?” 

“The wildcard,” Renee repeated, leaning against the van. “You remember the person we all want gone, so the prize money doubles? I haven’t asked you yet who you think it is. Most people seem to think it's Finn.” 

“Finn?” Robin echoed, startled. 

“Yeah. Makes sense, right? They announce this big wildcard twist, and then Finn wins the first challenge, can’t get sent home, and racks up a buttload of advantages...” Renee shrugged. “Feels obvious.”  

Robin’s throat tightened, unsure what to do; she could pile on... that was the smart thing to do. “Uh... maybe,” she stammered out instead, fumbling to try and remain neutral. “I mean, it could be anyone, right? You never know...” 

Renee tilted her head, studying her. “Soooo... you think it's Finn, or somebody else?” 

Robin opened her mouth, flustered, but no answer came fast enough. 

“Well,” a smooth voice cut in behind them, “With five minutes until serving time, I never thought I'd see two people from two different teams having enough free time to mingle.” 

Robin nearly jumped out of her skin. Sabine stood there, arms crossed, gaze sharp as glass. 

Renee straightened immediately, stammering. “We were just—” 

“Just wasting precious time gossiping.” Sabine’s smile was all teeth. “Back to your stations. I'm sure your teams could need help with something.”  

Robin swallowed hard and bolted back to her metal table. She could feel Sabine’s eyes still on her. Was she mad? Disappointed that Robin was wasting time? She decided to get back to work, setting up. 

Robin yanked the pitchers of lemonade from the freezer, the cold stinging her raw hands. She set them down on the folding table and tried to steady her breath. 

The plaza was alive now, with the production crew scurrying. The 250 people here for lunch were being ushered into calm and orderly lines, and cameras were locking back into place. 

The rumble of voices grew louder by the second as passersby stood at the barricades, taking pictures of the trucks. 

Her pulse climbed with the noise. 

She smoothed her hair with clammy palms, straightened her apron, then stacked the sweating pitchers in a row. Cups stacked neatly beside them. It looked fine, maybe a little like she was running a lemonade stand, but that’s more or less what she’s doing...right? 

Then Chef Gary’s voice boomed through the plaza like a starter's pistol. “Teams! Three minutes until service!” 

Both trucks roared into a final frenzy. Fryer's sputtering, grills hissed, the smell of seared meat and onions spilling into the plaza air. Someone cursed inside the red truck, followed by Finn’s voice snapping. “Focus, we’re almost there.” 

Robin glanced across the plaza; she could hear the blue team giggling and laughing, having a good time. For a moment, Robin envied the lightness of their energy, as if they were a real team.  

Not just one person barking orders. 

“Two Minutes!” Chef Delmar updated. 

Robin gripped the handle of the lemonade pitcher and set it back down again. Her hands were shaking. She forced herself to breathe. 

In 
Out 
In again. Ignoring the camera that seemed to be following her, anxiety. 

“One minute!” Gary barked, walking up to the crowd. “Are you guys hungry?!”  

The murmur of the crowd just outside became a deafening roar. Robin swore she could feel their hunger already, their judgment before they’d even taken a bite. 

Sabine’s heels clicked across the pavement, her voice crisp, merciless. “30 seconds, teams, take your positions.”  

The contestants scrambled, and Chloe leaned out of the red truck's window, preparing to take orders. Finn was telling the truth; she really did want pretty faces up front, greeting the customers. Robin’s face went a deeper shade of scarlet than before at Finn thinking she was actually cute and not just messing with her. 

Robin swallowed hard, planted her feet behind her lemonade table, and tucked a strand of brown curly hair behind her ear. 

“Service begins in...” Delmar raised his voice like a referee. “Three...two...one...” The crowd counted down with him as he swung his arm down, and the lunch rush hit like a tidal wave. 

The plaza erupted in motion. The first customers surged forward, curious eyes darting between chalkboard menus and the contestants leaning out of the food truck windows. 

Robin’s throat was dry, but she forced a smile as a middle-aged woman in sunglasses approached the lemonade table. 

“Would you like to start with a drink?” Robin asked, lifting the chilled pitcher. Condensation dripping down her wrist as she poured a cup. 

The woman accepted it gratefully. “Oh, thank you, honey. This heat is brutal.” She took a long sip, smiled, and gave Robin a little thumbs-up before drifting toward Chloe at the window to order food. 

Robin's chest loosened. One happy customer down. 

Then came another. And another. Soon, a line had formed, cups stacking, hands reaching. A pair of college girls around Robin’s age. A dad with a stroller and two kids running in circles around him waved for “Three lemonades quick!” A teen boy gulped his down right in front of her, then came back for seconds. 

Robin's arms were already sticky with sugar and lemon pulp, but she barely noticed. Each new face blurred into the next. Pour, pass, smile, repeat. 

Across the plaza, she caught a glimpse of Tara and Renee at the blue team truck. Renee's head snapped toward the lemonade stand, eyes widening at the cups changing hands so fast. 

“Are you kidding me?” Tara hissed, loud enough for her team to hear. “They’ve got drinks?!”  

Matteo peered over, his jaw tightening. “That’s actually smart.”  

“They’re handing them out like crazy!” Renee muttered, wiping sweat from her brow.  

The frustration on their faces was a small spark of victory Robin clung to. Their plan was working, even if her muscles screamed. 

Because the crowd wasn’t slowing. 

The first fifty customers became a hundred. Then more. The plaza filled with clatter and footsteps, the sharp smell of grilled meat and fried tortillas mixing with the scent of citrus. Cameramen weaved between the lines, catching every frantic handoff, every smile, every spill. 

Robin could barely breathe. Her wrist ached from lifting the heavy pitcher again and again. The stack of clean cups was shrinking faster than she expected; her apron was damp, and her hoodie was sticking to her skin. 

But no one was complaining; people sipped and smiled, refreshing sighs breaking into laughs as some got their food and sat down, while others joined the lines waiting. 

It was chaos, sweaty, deafening, relentless chaos. 

And for once, Robin felt confident. With every cup she handed out, it was proof that she had devised an idea that could win the challenge for her team. 

At first, it was smooth, almost fun, the rhythm of serving, it was like being at work again, minus her shithead boss. But forty minutes in, Robin felt the shift. 

The cups were going faster than she could stack them, her pitchers emptying faster than she could swap out new ones. She glanced down at the cooler at her feet, only one left.  

Her stomach dropped. 

She poured it, anyway, telling herself it would hold her until they ran out of customers. 

It didn’t. 

The line of people doubled back on itself, voices overlapping into a dull noise Robin could barely make out. Customers were sweating, fanning themselves. Somewhere behind her, her team was shouting at one another in the truck. 

The crowd pressed closer. Someone asked if they could get two at once. Another demanded she ‘hurry it up.’  

And then the inevitable happened: the cooler was empty. Robin tilted the pitcher; nothing was left. She eyed the line; it was still 30 or 40 people long. She imagined her team not getting any of their votes because they hadn’t received lemonade... 

Her throat closed. “Uh, Sorry...Out of lemonade for now! Just a minute!” 

The woman waiting at the front frowned. “Seriously? You ran out?” 

Robin forced her customer service smile from work. “We’ll have more in a moment.” She had no idea if that was true.  

Behind her, things weren’t faring much better. Chef Delmar walked to their window, a burger in hand, and a smaller woman trailing her. “This burger is RAW in the middle! Come on, guys! You can’t serve people this shit!”  

Robin could hear Jace swear from here. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m rushing. I apologize.” 

The rhythm was breaking. Customers had been leaving happy mere minutes ago, but now it felt like everything was crumbling down. 

Robin’s chest squeezed. She felt useless. 

Then the truck door banged open. 

Finn appeared, flushed from the heat, her silver and black hair frizzing at the edges. In her hands, she carried a tall glass pitcher, condensation rolling down its sides. 

“Move,” She whispered, sliding behind Robin. She poured the woman waiting a cup while apologizing to her for the wait. 

Finn’s eyes flickered to her, calm even under the chaos. “ You owe me, princess.” She murmured before hopping back in the van. 

The line began to move again, Robin stumbling to serve people, when Finn had shown up like a hero smelling of citrus, and vanished back to bossing people around in the van. 

It wasn’t perfect; the blue team was catching up, and they had another burger returned because it was raw. But for a moment, the panic inside her reduced. 

Robin wasn’t alone.  

After

When the final customer walked away, tray in hand, the air seemed to collapse in on itself. Robin’s arms felt like sandbags, her hoodie stuck to her spine, the damp ends of her hair clinging to her neck. 

Chef Gary’s voice cut over the crowd, summoning attention. “That’s it, 250 guests served! You've all worked your hearts out. Now it's time for the diners to vote on which team deserves to win.” 

Applause rose from the guests, mixed with murmurs and cheers. Staff ushered people toward ballot tables. 

But there was no pause for the contestants. No time to catch their breath, no real time to pat themselves on the back. 

“Clean down your trucks!” Shouted a producer from behind the cameras. 

The illusion of glamour shattered instantly.  

Inside the truck looked like a bomb had gone off. Pans crusted with burnt food, spatulas stuck with char, the grills filthy with leftover meats. Sticky countertops where Robin had made her lemonade. The air was so thick with smoke and meat fat that breathing felt like chewing. 

“Jesus Christ,” murmured Ava, yanking out the trash bin, grease dripping down her arm. “Don’t they have cleaning crews for this or something?” 

Neveah was scrapping at the grill with ferocity, Issac carried a sloshing tub of dishes to the wash station, nearly spilling it on his shoes. 

Robin wiped down the counter with a rag that only seemed to be spreading the stickiness around. Her shoulders trembled with fatigue, but there was no slowing down. The producers were outside pacing with clipboards, reminding them they’d be penalized if they didn’t clean their trucks properly. 

The truck eventually started to smell more like soap than grease. Most of the team had drifted outside to eat at the tables that weren’t dismantled yet, but Robin stayed behind (She had seen a wasp and got scared}  

She sat on an overturned crate with a plate balanced on her knees, a hamburger they’d had left over from the rush. She'd like to say she was alone, BUT... 

Finn slid down beside her, two paper cups of water in her hands. She passed one over without a word. 

Robin gulped it down, like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.  

For a moment, neither spoke. Just the muffled sound of their chewing and the people outside.  

Then Finn tilted her head, almost casual. “You wanna get some ice cream after this?” 

Robin blinked. “Ice...cream?” 

“Yeah,” Finn said, smirking. “Like the cold dessert? You put it in your mouth, it normally comes in flavors.” 

Robin’s eyes narrowed. “I know what ice cream is. It’s just... yesterday you said you didn’t care if I went home, that you wanted me gone. Now you wanna grab ice cream with me?” 

Finn leaned back against the truck wall, unbothered. “I do want you gone. Just like you want me gone. Just like everyone here wants to be the last person standing, it's not personal. You must know to win that everyone else needs to go home, right?” 

Robin shifted on the crate, suddenly very aware of how close Finn was, of how much detail she could see in her tattoos. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense, but I didn’t bring money for ice cream.”  

Finn’s smile sharpened into something devilish. “Guess I'm paying then. But that’s a second one you owe me.” 

Robin opened her mouth, then closed it. Unsure of what she even wanted to say, she just stuffed another bite of burger in her mouth. Somehow, it tasted better with Finn sitting there than before. 

The door to the truck opened with a bang, and Sabine’s voice cut through the oddly tense moment. “What’s going on here?” She inquired. 

Finn tilted her head. “Oh, nothing, just a team meeting.”  

Sabine’s eyes narrowed like she didn’t believe her. Why would she? Who has a team meeting with two people? 

“Both teams are supposed to be in the plaza. Now.” She said calmly. 

The contestants filed out to the most open part of the plaza, exhausted and still streaked with flour and grease, lining up in front of the waiting crowd. Chef Gary and Chef Delmar stood with the clipboards in hand, Sabine at their side, staring a hole through Robin for some reason she didn’t know. 

“The customers have eaten,” Chef Delmar announced, his voice carrying. “And every one of them has cast a vote for whose food was better.” 

Chef Gary nodded, his arms folded. “We’ve tallied the votes. One team earned high praise for their flavor and fun atmosphere. The other, their brains to think to serve a drink on a hot day.” 

The plaza went quiet. Sabine's eyes gleamed as she held up an envelope. “By a margin of just six votes...” She let the pause hang long enough for Robin’s stomach to knot over the fact that it was only six votes separating them.  

“...The winning team is...” Sabine looked to Finn, then Karla, who had her fingers crossed hard behind her back. “The red team!”  

The plaza erupted in cheers from the crowd, but the sound was drowned out by the deafening roar of the red team themselves. 

Robin barely had a second to process before she was swept into a tangle of arms. The team piled together in a messy, sweaty hug. The kind born from exhaustion and adrenaline, food stains and all. 

And in the middle of it, she found herself pressed tight against Finn. 

Robin froze, breath catching as Finn’s mismatched hair brushed against her cheek. For one fleeting moment, Finn’s arm was around her back, pulling her closer with the same careless ease she put into everything. Then the hug broke apart, and Robin stumbled back, face burning like she’d stepped into an oven. 

Finn caught her eye across the dispersing group. She gave her a knowing look. 

Robin looked away so fast her neck cracked. She busied herself brushing crumbs from her apron, pretending she hadn’t just felt her heart hammer in her chest loud enough for the entire plaza to hear. 

Sabine’s voice pulled them all back to reality. “Blue team, you fought hard, but it wasn’t your day. Prepare for tomorrow's elimination test. Red team, enjoy your victory, you’ll be joining me for some much-needed R&R.”  

But Robin wasn’t thinking about eliminations or rewards anymore. She was thinking about the ghost of Finn’s arm around her, and how stupid it was that something so small as a group hug had her blushing like she’d lost control of her body. 

Chapter Text

Finn materialized beside her as the crowd began to thin. “You look like you’re about to pass out,” she remarked, her voice low. “Ice cream. Now. Before you melt into a puddle of anxiety and lemon pulp.” 

Robin didn’t argue. The heat still pulsed in her cheeks from the hug, and the thought of something cold was irresistible. Finn led her across the street, away from the chaos of the plaza, to a small, vintage-looking ice cream parlor tucked between a bookstore and a florist.

A bell jingled softly as they pushed through the door, unleashing a wave of sugary, chilled air that felt like salvation. 

“Welcome back, trouble,” called the woman behind the counter, her eyes crinkling at Finn. Robin blinked in surprise as Finn grinned, leaning casually against the glass display case.

“Grew up three blocks that way,” Finn explained, nodding toward the window. “Used to skip school and load up on double scoops.” She gestured at the colorful tubs. 

Robin scanned the options: mint chip, strawberry swirl, cookies and cream, but Finn didn’t give her time to choose. “She’ll take the salted caramel pretzel crunch,” Finn announced, pointing decisively. “In a waffle cone. Extra caramel drizzle.” Robin opened her mouth to protest, but Finn cut her off. “Trust me.” 

The woman behind the counter chuckled, scooping generous swirls into a crisp cone. Finn ordered herself a double espresso affogato, bitter and sharp. As they waited, Robin fidgeted, hyper-aware of Finn’s proximity in the quiet shop. The tension from the plaza still hummed between them, the hug, the lemonade rescue, the way Finn’s smirk seemed permanently etched into Robin’s thoughts. 

They slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat cool against Robin’s skin. Finn took a deliberate bite of her affogato, the dark espresso soaking into the vanilla ice cream.

She watched Robin’s tentative lick of the salted caramel. “Well?” Finn prodded, her eyes glinting. “Worth owing me for?” 

Robin swallowed, the sweet-savory crunch hitting her tongue. “It’s… really good,” she admitted, avoiding Finn’s gaze. The orphanage didn’t have ice cream...well, unless it was a girl's birthday, and only then did the birthday girl get vanilla or chocolate ice cream. 

Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air between them. The silence felt strangely comfortable, charged with the leftover buzz of the challenge. 

Finn leaned back, stirring her affogato. “So, Robin,” she started, her voice casual but eyes sharp. “What do you do when you’re not dodging elimination or squeezing lemons?” 

Robin licked a drip of caramel from her cone, stalling. “I’m a waitress.” The lie felt heavy on her tongue. She didn’t add that she’d quit her soul-crushing job at The Rusty Spoon to come here, burning through savings for this shot. Admitting that felt like showing a weakness, Finn would file away. 

Finn raised an eyebrow, swirling her espresso spoon. “Huh. Explains the reflexes with the lemonade pitcher.”

She rolled up her sleeves, revealing intricate ink winding up her forearms, geometric patterns blending into a snarling wolf near her elbow. “I stab people for a living. Tattoo artist.” 

Robin’s gaze traced the clean lines. “These are incredible. How long did the wolf take?” 

“Six hours,” Finn said, flexing her wrist. “Almost tapped out halfway. Had to finish through, nobody likes halfway done art.” She paused, studying Robin’s expression. “You look like you wanna ask something.” 

Robin hesitated, her thumb tracing the condensation on her cone. The wolf’s eyes seemed to follow her in the afternoon light. “Can I touch?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft, almost swallowed by the ice cream shop’s quiet hum. 

Finn’s gaze snapped to hers, sharp and assessing. For a heartbeat, Robin thought she’d crossed some invisible line. Then Finn extended her forearm across the chipped Formica table without a word.

Her skin was warm beneath Robin’s tentative fingertips, the ink smooth as river stone. Robin traced the wolf’s muzzle, the geometric shards framing it like broken glass.  

A shiver raced up her spine, part awe, part something else entirely. Finn didn’t flinch, but Robin felt the subtle shift in her breathing, the way her muscles tensed ever so slightly under the touch. 

“It’s… alive,” Robin breathed, pulling her hand back as if burned. The caramel on her cone dripped onto her knuckle, sticky and sweet. She sucked it off, too late realizing Finn’s eyes tracked the movement. Heat flooded her cheeks again.  

God, stop blushing. I'm not gay. 

Finn flexed her wrist, the wolf seeming to ripple under the shop’s fluorescent lights. “Ink’s just pigment under skin, princess. Nothing mystical about it.” But her voice lacked its usual bite. She pushed her empty affogato cup aside. “Though watching you jump when you touched it? Priceless.” 

Robin wiped sticky fingers on a napkin, avoiding Finn’s amused stare. She focused instead on the defined curve of Finn’s forearm resting on the table, the subtle ridges of muscle beneath the tattoos. It wasn’t just art; it was strength, honed and practical.

“Do you lift?” Robin blurted out, then cringed at how abrupt it sounded. “I mean... your arms. They’re... solid. For tattooing, I guess?” 

Finn chuckled, a low rumble. “Boxing,” she said simply, tapping her knuckles against the Formica. “Three times a week. Helps with the precision work.” She flexed, the wolf seeming to coil. “And yeah, stops clients from squirming too much.” Her gaze sharpened. “Why? You looking for a workout partner?” 

Robin choked on a bite of waffle cone.  

God, why do you have to say stuff like that?  

The thought screamed in her head, loud and panicked. Finn’s words, casual and loaded, felt like a trapdoor opening beneath her. One minute she was admiring ink, the next Finn was implying… what? Partnership? Proximity? Robin’s pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the stupid, traitorous flutter in her stomach. 

“I—uh, I mostly just walk,” she stammered, wiping caramel from her chin. “To clear my head. Not… boxing.” Her voice sounded thin, unconvincing even to herself. She stared resolutely at the melting swirls in her cone, the vibrant colors blurring.  

Finn’s low chuckle vibrated through the booth seat. Robin didn’t dare look up. The air thickened, charged with unspoken things, the lingering phantom pressure of Finn’s arm around her waist in the plaza hug, the startling intimacy of tracing her tattoo, the way Finn watched her lick caramel off her knuckle. 

The bell above the parlor door jingled violently, shattering the fragile tension. Both women flinched. 

A harried producer, clipboard clutched like a shield, burst inside, scanning the room. His eyes landed on them. "Finn! Robin! There you are!" He wiped sweat from his brow. "Vans are idling outside now. Sabine’s doing her nut in. Move it!" 

The abrupt intrusion snapped the charged atmosphere. Finn slid out of the booth with practiced ease, leaving her empty cup behind. Robin scrambled after her, abandoning her half-eaten cone, the sweet relief replaced by a fresh wave of dread. Sabine’s doing her nut in.  

That couldn’t be good. 

Outside, the plaza buzzed with crew wrangling contestants into the waiting black vans. Robin spotted Sabine standing off to the side, headset askew, arms crossed so tight they looked ready to snap.  

Her eyes, cold and calculating, found Robin instantly. For a second too long, Sabine didn’t blink, didn’t look away, just drilled into her with a look sharp enough to cut. 

Robin’s stomach twisted. She ducked her head into the van before Finn could notice the way she was trembling.  

One question on her mind. 

Why is Sabine so angry with me? 

 Home

Back at the house, the atmosphere split into two. On one side, the losing blue team festered like an open wound, raised voices bouncing off the kitchen walls, blame tossed back and forth like a volleyball. 

Pots clanged louder than necessary, chairs scraped, and someone slammed a door so hard the entire mansion seemed to shake. 

The red team was the opposite. Music thumped faintly from portable speakers, glasses of champagne clinked, and laughter spilled across the balconies.  

Neveah and Chloe even stripped down to their swimsuits, splashing and cannonballing in the pool. Chloe signaled with a single finger for Jace to join her. The warm glow of victory and cheap champagne seemed to follow every red team member around the house.  

Robin lingered near the edge of it all, not quite feeling at home in her own victory camp, made somewhat immensely uncomfortable by Jace and Chloe’s making out in the pool.  

She watched as Finn leaned against the railing above, a bottle dangling lazily from her fingers. Even from a distance, she radiated a relaxed confidence that made Robin feel something indescribable.  

Finn caught her watching her and crooked a finger, beckoning. “C’mon, Robin,” she called, voice carrying over the music. “We won! We’ve got bubbles and bad decisions. Pool's warm champagne’s cold. Perfect ratio.” 

Robin shifted awkwardly, heat crawling up her face. “I’m not old enough to drink,” she admitted, words small compared to the chaos going on around her. She forced a shrug. “I think I'm just going to head to my room.”  

For the first time all day, Finn didn’t smirk. She studied Robin for a long time, unreadable. Then, with a shrug of her own, she tipped the bottle back and drained the last mouthful.  

“Suit yourself, princess.”  

Robin nodded stiffly, pretending not to notice the flicker of disappointment, or was it apathy? Before she turned back to the revelry of the rest of the red team's celebrations. 

Slipping inside, Robin climbed the stairs two at a time, the muffled thud of bass fading behind her. By the time she closed her bedroom door, the house’s chaos felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. 

She pressed her back against the cool wood, exhaling slowly. In need of a shower and a long rest... her mind still raging at the face Sabine made at her when she saw her emerge from the ice cream shop with Finn. 

Robin awoke to a sharp rap on her door. She blinked blearily at the slats of light spilling through the closed curtains on her balcony door. 

“Up, let’s go!” A voice called. A stagehand, brisk and impatient. “Everyone in the vans, we’re needed at the studio.”  

Robin shoved herself upright, scrubbing sleep from her eyes. Her first thought was confusion. Wasn't today supposed to be the red team’s reward day?  

Her stomach growled as she pulled on her jeans and sneakers, nerves tangling in her chest. Something felt off. 

The house buzzed with movement as contestants shuffled out, some still half-asleep. Robin slipped into the nearest van, settling into a seat near the back. Finn was nowhere in sight. 

Instead, Renee slid in beside her, yawning as she tied her hair back tight. She fished something out of her jeans pocket, smoothing it across her lap. Robin glanced down, frowning at the printed schedule. 

Day 1: Orientation, interviews, contestant photos.
Day 2: Mystery box 1/Elimination challenge 1.       
Day 3: Team challenge (Off-site location.)                     
Day 4: Judging, Elimination challenge 2, post-interviews.                     
Day 5: Winning team reward day. (Off-site location)        
Day 6: Cooking classes.      
Day 7: Rest day. 

“You lose your schedule or something?” Renee muttered, tapping on the days with chipped nails. “Today’s the elimination challenge for the red team, tomorrow’s reward day for the red.” 

Robin blinked. “Wait, what? Sabine said...” 

“She said that to the cameras,” Renne cut in dryly. “It probably looks better in the edit if they splice it together. Viewers see the blue team's elimination challenge, boom, cut hard to you guys doing whatever you’re doing tomorrow... frankly, I'm jealous.” She shrugged, tucking the paper back in her jeans. 

“So yeah, no yacht with Sabine today, just sitting pretty while we fight for our lives.”  

“Are you nervous?” Robin inquired sheepishly. 

“Of course, if I don’t win this competition, my parents are going to send me to law school...to be some lifeless snake of a lawyer like them. I want to be a chef; law isn't my passion.” Her hands tightened around her knees, and Robin, a little unsure of what to do, rubbed her hand across her back slightly. 

“It’ll be okay, you’re a good cook, I'm sure, whatever the challenge is, you’ll be fine,” Robin said, questioning her own motives for being here... Did she want to be a chef? She liked food, but she kind of just wanted the prize money, so she could have a life, so she could start a life that wasn’t a moldy apartment. 

It was hard to think about passion, about what she wanted to do with her life, when she couldn’t make her rent. 

Robin stared out the window as it rumbled to life, the city passing in a blur. She should be feeling relieved at the fact that she wasn’t cooking today, no risk. No chance of her going home. 

One step closer to being named champion. 

But all she could think about was someone’s dream ending today. The way they’d be corralled into watching the blue team fight for their lives. 

And somewhere in the back of her mind, the memory of Sabine staring still lingered... 

The vans pulled up to the studio lot, and as soon as the contestants stepped out, they were ushered briskly through the heavy double doors. A stagehand hissed at them to stay quiet. “We’re already rolling.” 

Inside, the cavernous studio was lit like a battlefield. Cameras swung on cranes, spotlights gleamed off stainless steel counters, and the judging table loomed at the far end. Robin’s pulse quickened as they were funneled into formation: Red team to the left, blue team to the right, shoulder to shoulder under the hot lights. 

Chef Delmar stood at the center of the table, posture straight, voice resonant. 

“Yesterday we had our food truck challenge,” he began, eyes sweeping the lines of contestants. “The Red team emerged victorious. So, you are safe from today’s elimination challenge. Please head up to the balcony. You will not be cooking today.” 

The Red team broke into smiles, a few claps of relief. Robin felt Finn’s shoulder brush hers as they turned, the group making their way up the metal staircase to the viewing balcony. From above, the studio floor stretched wide and cold, every counter gleaming, every camera poised. 

Below, the blue team shifted uneasily, the weight of the spotlight falling squarely on them. Sabine stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete. 

“Yesterday,” she said, “you lost by just six votes. A soul-crushingly close loss. But a loss is a loss, and today you will undertake an elimination challenge.”  

Her eyes lingered on each of them before stopping on their captain. “But first. Karla. As team captain, you have a choice. You may save one person. It can be a friend, the one you believe performed best, or…” her lips curved faintly, “…yourself.” 

The room held its breath. Karla’s jaw tightened. She didn’t look at her teammates, not once. 

“Myself,” she said. 

A ripple of disappointment swept across the blue team. Kate’s shoulders slumped, and Matteo muttered something under his breath. But the judges nodded. 

“Very well,” Chef Delmar said. “Karla, you are safe. Please join the red team on the balcony.” 

Karla’s sneakers echoed as she ascended the staircase, her head high though her teammates glared daggers into her back. She slid into place beside Robin, exhaling sharply, arms crossed. 

On the floor, six contestants remained: Matteo, Renee, Josh, Kate, Lucia, and Tara. The ones left to fight for survival. 

The balcony felt suddenly smaller, tension crackling in the air as the judges turned their full attention on the six below. 

Chef Gary stepped forward, his expression stern but not unkind. In front of him, a gleaming silver dome rested on a raised pedestal. The cameras zoomed in as he placed one hand on top. 

“For today’s elimination challenge,” he said, “you’ll be tackling one of the most difficult skills in the culinary world... replication.” 

With a practiced flourish, he lifted the dome. Beneath it sat a single plate, steam rising in delicate wisps. The dish was striking golden-brown protein, a vibrant smear of sauce, finely diced vegetables glistening with oil, and a garnish perched just so. 

“This,” Gary continued, “is my dish. Every bite is carefully balanced, every element chosen for a reason. Your challenge is to replicate it as closely as possible. But remember...taste is king.” 

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “But before you cook, you’ll each get one chance to taste.” 

A production assistant swept forward with six small tasting spoons. One by one, Matteo, Renee, Josh, Kate, Lucia, and Tara stepped up to the pedestal. The cameras caught every flicker of reaction, Matteo’s furrowed brow, Renee’s eyes narrowing in concentration, Kate biting her lip as she chewed slowly, Tara nodding faintly as if committing flavors to memory. 

Sabine’s voice cut through the silence. “Now that you’ve tasted, you will write down what ingredients you believe are in Chef Gary’s dish. Proteins, sauces, spices, everything. Then you will have ninety minutes to recreate the dish as best you can.” 

She folded her arms, her gaze like a hawk. “Any mistake, any oversight, could be the difference between safety and going home.” 

Above, Robin leaned forward against the balcony railing, heart pounding. Even from here, she could smell the dish, rich and tantalizing, though she couldn’t place the flavors. Chicken maybe? Her stomach twisted, half in sympathy, half in dread at the thought of standing down there herself. 

On the floor, the six scribbled furiously on clipboards, brows knitted with focus. Chef Delmar watched them, expression unreadable. 

“Your time starts,” he said, voice deep as a drumbeat, “now.” 

The studio erupted in movement, contestants sprinting to the pantry, carts squeaking, knives clattering as they grabbed proteins and herbs in a desperate bid to trust their instincts. 

The timer blared, echoing through the studio like a war horn. Ninety minutes. 

Matteo lunged for the chicken station, muttering under his breath as he grabbed thighs instead of breasts. Renee, eyes wide, clutched an armful of herbs and spices, half of them unnecessary.  

Josh veered straight toward the fish counter, convinced the protein wasn’t poultry at all. Kate froze in the pantry doorway, scanning frantically, before snatching up lamb chops like they were the last lifeboat off a sinking ship. 

Lucia calmly lifted a bundle of asparagus, but her measured pace broke when she realized someone had already taken the last jar of saffron threads. Tara, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled, stacked vegetables in her basket like bricks, her notes crumpled in her fist. 

From the balcony, the red team leaned forward, murmuring commentary like sports analysts. 

“She’s overthinking it,” Ava whispered, watching Renee throw three kinds of vinegar on her station. 

“Kate’s definitely wrong,” Neveah said bluntly, arms crossed. “That’s not lamb. She’s done.” 

Finn, leaning against the railing, smirked down at the frenzy, looking at Josh. “I can smell from here that’s chicken...how do you pick up trout?”  

Robin tried not to react, but she couldn’t stop tracking every movement below. The clang of pans, the hiss of oil hitting steel, the sharp metallic slap of knives on cutting boards, it was all too familiar. Her chest tightened at the thought of being down there, lost in the noise. 

She was so focused she didn’t notice the shift in air until a faint perfume, something cool, clean, and just slightly citrus, drifted into her awareness. Sabine had come up to the balcony. 

The judge didn’t speak, didn’t announce herself, just stepped to the railing beside Robin. Her tailored jacket brushed against Robin’s arm as she leaned forward, watching the chaos below with a hawk’s stillness. Robin stiffened but didn’t dare move away. Sabine’s silence was somehow louder than the clamor in the kitchen. 

Down on the floor, disasters brewed. 

Matteo dropped an entire pan of sauce, crimson liquid splattering across the tile. He cursed under his breath, grabbing towels as precious seconds ticked away. 

“Dead,” Finn muttered. 

Renee’s station looked like a spice bomb had gone off: paprika, cumin, coriander, all scattered in uneven piles. Her sauce thickened into a gritty sludge that clung to her spoon. 

Josh stared at his fillets, brow furrowed, realization dawning that maybe just maybe, this wasn’t a fish dish at all. But it was too late. He’d committed. 

Kate’s lamb sizzled beautifully in her pan, but the smell wafting upward was unmistakable. Burnt rosemary. She fanned the air like it might undo the damage. 

Lucia, the quietest of the bunch, worked methodically, her knife cuts clean, her pan movements precise. If anyone had a chance, it was her. 

Tara, meanwhile, looked like a storm bottled into a person. She diced too quickly, uneven pieces scattering across the board, and nearly nicked her thumb in the process. Her broth boiled over, steam fogging her glasses. 

Kate and Josh picked the wrong protein completely, while Matteo had grabbed chicken thigh instead of breast. 

“Forty-five minutes remaining!” Chef Delmar’s voice thundered. 

Robin gripped the balcony railing tighter. Below, she saw Tara wipe sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, the movement desperate, frantic. A pang of sympathy twisted in her chest. She knew that feeling, when the clock became louder than your heartbeat. 

Next to her, Sabine finally shifted. Not a word, just a sidelong glance, her sharp profile catching the overhead light. Robin couldn’t tell if the look was meant for her or just the floor below. Either way, it made her pulse spike. 

Back in the kitchen, Matteo recovered enough to throw together a last-minute sauce, but the texture was watery. Renee abandoned one pot entirely, rushing to start another, panic etched on her face.  

Josh plated too early, leaving his fish cooling on the pass. Kate sliced her lamb, only to see it still raw in the center. She shoved the pieces back into the pan with a hiss. 

Lucia adjusted her seasoning with a calm hand, tasting and correcting, her plate steadily coming together. Tara burned her first batch of vegetables and had to start again, time bleeding away. 

“Five minutes remaining!” 

The balcony roared with anticipation. Neveah whistled, Ava covered her eyes, and Isaac shook his head. Finn leaned so far over the railing that Robin worried she might actually fall, her grin sharp as a knife. 

“God, I love this part,” Finn muttered. “It’s like watching animals fight over scraps.” 

Robin opened her mouth to reply, but the weight of Sabine’s presence beside her kept her silent. She swallowed hard, eyes locked on the chaos below, where the difference between safety and going home boiled down to these last frantic minutes. 

That was when she noticed it, Sabine smelled heavenly. That crisp, citrus perfume lingered in the air, layered over something warmer, faintly floral. And beneath it, subtle but undeniable, was the faint heat of her body radiating through the immaculate lines of her suit.  

It pressed against Robin’s senses, more distracting than the clang of pans below, more unnerving than the countdown clock overhead. 

Robin stood with her arms folded on the railing, trying to follow the frantic rhythm of pots slamming and burners roaring below. Next to her, Sabine remained silent, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the metallic tang of the kitchen air. The warmth radiating from her tall frame brushed against Robin’s skin, making her pulse a little faster. 

Finally, Robin forced herself to lean in slightly and whisper, “Are you… angry at me?” 

Sabine didn’t turn her head. Her eyes stayed fixed on the chaos unfolding below, her tone calm but edged with steel. “No. But do remember, this is not a dating show.”  

Her gaze flicked toward Finn, laughing with another red teammate across the balcony. “And if it were, you could do much better than that hooligan.” 

Robin’s breath caught. She opened her mouth, ready to blurt out that the ice cream yesterday hadn’t meant anything, that she wasn’t even interested in women. 

But Sabine was already gliding away, heels clicking softly against the floor. She descended the stairs with unhurried grace, moving between the stations as though she belonged more to the kitchen than anyone competing in it.  

Without another glance back, she dipped her spoon into a bubbling sauce, tasting, nodding, making notes. 

Robin stayed frozen at the railing, words unsaid burning on her tongue. 

The countdown clock on the wall ticked mercilessly toward zero. Down below, the blue team scrambled to plate their replicas. Matto was frantically shaving truffles, sweat dripping onto his cutting board. Renee cursed under her breath as her sauce split and she tried desperately to whisk it back together.  

Kate’s hands shook as she spooned purée into a quenelle, collapsing it twice before finally managing a shape that resembled something professional. 

Lucia worked with surgical precision, lips pressed tight, while Tara barked at Josh to move before he spilled his jus across her station. 

The last seconds evaporated. Six dishes slid forward onto the judging table, some neat, some visibly rushed. 

Chef Delmar clasped his hands. “We asked you to replicate Chef Gary’s pan-roasted chicken breast with pomme purée, asparagus, and a tarragon cream sauce. Let’s see how you did.” 

Josh stepped up first. His plate looked colorful, the fish skin glistening. Delmar’s brow furrowed. “You cooked trout?” 

Josh nodded weakly. “Yeah, I thought—” 

Gary leaned forward, incredulous. “You thought chicken breast tasted like trout? What do you brush your teeth with in the morning, cigarettes?”

A ripple of laughter and groans came from the balcony. “Seriously, son, if you can’t tell fish from poultry, you’re in the wrong kitchen.” 

Kate came next. Her plate looked rustic but tidy until Gary sliced into the meat. His knife dragged through slick, ruby-red flesh. He pulled the lamb apart with his fork, and the center was raw. 

“Lamb?” Delmar demanded. 

Kate swallowed hard. “Yes, chef. I thought maybe—” 

“No, no, no,” Chef Delmar cut her off, tossing his fork down. “Not only did you ignore the brief, but you also served raw lamb. This isn’t a butcher shop, it’s a kitchen. If I wanted to chew through sinew and blood, I’d bite my own thumb.” He shoved the plate aside. 

Matteo placed his dish down. “Chicken thigh, chef.” 

Sabine leaned forward, lips twitching in restrained irritation. “Chicken thigh is not chicken breast.” 

“It’s… close?” Matteo offered hopefully. 

“Close?” Sabine arched a brow. “In this kitchen, there is no ‘close.’ There is correct. And there is wrong.” She tasted it regardless, then sighed. “At least you seasoned properly.” 

Renee’s plate followed. From a distance, it looked promising, but the sauce betrayed her. The cream had split, streaking the purée with oily rivulets. Gary jabbed a finger toward it. “This is a sauce, not a science experiment. If you can’t stabilize cream, you’re not ready for this competition.” 

Tara’s dish arrived next. Chicken breast, asparagus, and sauce intact. But when Delmar cut, the knife squeaked down the fibers of overcooked meat. He chewed slowly, his jaw tightening. “Dry. You wrung the life out of it. Chicken breast is already a risk; cook it like this and it’s nothing but sawdust.” 

Finally, Lucia presented hers. Even from the balcony, the red team leaned in. The chicken was golden, the purée smooth, the sauce glossy. Delmar sliced through and nodded slowly. “Moist, well-cooked, seasoned beautifully. The closest we’ve seen today.” 

The six lined up again, shoulders tense, faces drawn. 

Chef Delmar spoke first. “Lucia, you nailed the brief. Head upstairs. You are safe.” 

Relief washed across her face as she hurried to the balcony, her team cheering softly. 

Delmar’s gaze swept the others. “The rest of you… disastrous mistakes. Trout. Raw lamb. The wrong cut of chicken. Broken sauce. Dry protein. We told you this was about replication, not reinvention. Some of you ignored that completely.” 

The judges leaned together, whispering. From the balcony, Robin bit her lip, eyes flicking toward Finn, then down toward the line. Sabine, still standing near the table, glanced once at Robin before returning to the contestants. 

Finally, Delmar turned back. “One of you is going home tonight.” 

Chef Delmar finally straightened, his voice cutting through the room. “Lucia’s already safe.... Tara, Renee, Matteo… join her upstairs.” 

“You all made mistakes, but when it came down to the nuts and bolts of the dish, it was close to what we wanted.” Chef Gary stated.  

The three exhaled in unison, relief flooding their faces. They climbed the stairs quickly, greeted at the top by a chorus of high fives and claps on the back from the red team. Matteo pulled Neveah into a rough hug, and Ava clapped Tara on the shoulders, grinning. 

When Renee reached Robin, she didn’t even hesitate; she wrapped her in a quick, tight hug. Robin stiffened, caught off guard, but patted her back awkwardly before Renee pulled away, beaming with relief. 

As Renee moved on to celebrate with the others, Robin glanced up and froze. Finn was watching her from where she leaned against the railing, arms folded. Not smirking. Not gloating. Just steady, direct, and far too intense for Robin’s comfort. 

Robin tore her eyes away, only to make the mistake of looking down at the judging table. Sabine was watching her too, chin lifted, gaze sharp and unreadable. It felt like being caught between fire and ice, two very different kinds of pressure, both aimed squarely at her. 

Robin’s stomach fluttered treacherously. She quickly dropped her gaze to her shoes, pretending to fuss with her shoestrings, her face heating under the weight of their attention. 

Down below, the mood was entirely different. Only Josh and Kate remained under the harsh studio lights, standing behind their stations with plates that had been pushed aside in disappointment. 

The balcony quieted, everyone leaning against the railing, watching. Even Finn’s usual sharpness softened into something cooler, unreadable as she kept her focus fixed below. 

Delmar’s gaze swung between the two cooks. “Josh. You gave us trout, mistaking it for chicken breast. An unforgivable error in any kitchen.” 

Josh’s head dropped, his hands locked tight behind his back. 

“Kate,” Sabine continued, her voice clipped. “You ignored the brief and gave us lamb. Worse, raw lamb. Not only inedible but dangerous.” 

Kate’s face flushed red as she shifted from foot to foot, biting her lip hard. 

Chef Gary folded his arms. “Both of you disrespected the dish. One of you is going home for it.” 

On the balcony, Robin clutched the railing, pulse pounding. The entire set seemed to shrink around those two stations, the silence heavy enough to smother. 

Delmar took one final breath. “The person leaving the competition tonight is…” 

“Kate,” Delmar said, his voice cutting sharply across the silence of the kitchen, “picking the wrong protein is bad enough. But to serve it raw… that’s a mistake we can’t overlook. You know how serious that is.” 

Chef Gary sighed, shaking his head. “It’s dangerous. You don’t come back from that.” 

The weight of it sank over the room. Kate’s lips pressed into a thin line, her chin dipping as if she might argue, but she didn’t. She only nodded once, eyes shimmering. 

Delmar softened slightly, though his words were still final. “Please take off your apron… and leave the Flame Kitchen.” 

For a moment, Kate didn’t move. Then, carefully, she pulled the black apron from her waist, folding it in half with trembling hands. She set it down on the station, her chest rising as if she were holding her breath against breaking. 

When she finally turned toward the balcony, her face was composed but pale, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She lifted a hand and gave a wavering little wave to the contestants above. A murmur of encouragement and claps came down from the railing, but Kate just kept her smile tight, swallowing hard, refusing to let the tears fall here, in front of everyone. 

Without another word, she walked to the door, pushed it open, and stepped out of the kitchen. The heavy sound of it closing behind her left the room in a hush. 

Josh stood frozen, pale, knowing he had just barely survived. The balcony, still reeling, fell into whispers as the judges reset their expressions, ready to continue. 

The door had barely swung shut behind Kate when Delmar straightened at the table, his voice pulling the room back to order. 

“But we aren’t done,” he said firmly, glancing at Chef Gary before turning his gaze up to the balcony. “Everyone, come downstairs. All of you.” 

A ripple of confusion swept through the contestants on the balcony. Whispers, raised brows, hesitant glances at each other. Still, one by one, they descended the stairs, gathering at the floor level, shoulder to shoulder in front of the judges’ table. 

Sabine stepped forward, tall and composed, her presence enough to silence the room without effort. She let her gaze sweep across the remaining contestants, the weight of it heavy, measured. 

“Listen closely,” she said, her voice low and precise.  

“Four people have now been eliminated. That means the wildcard is still in play. Only three more people will leave this kitchen before the wildcard survives into the top ten. And the rest of you lose the double prize money.”  

The contestants stiffened, a few of them visibly calculating. The wildcard. The shadow hanging over the competition since day one. 

Sabine gestured, and an assistant brought forward a small black box, setting it on the judges’ table. She placed a hand on it, her long fingers resting lightly over the lid. 

“Today,” she continued, “we’re going to test your instincts. Each of you will be given a slip of paper. On it, you will write down who you think the wildcard is. Fold it once, and place it inside this box. At the end…”  

She paused, a faint, cool smile ghosting her lips, “…I will reveal if the person with the most votes is the wildcard or not.” 

The room was silent save for the sound of shuffled breaths. Robin felt her pulse jump, the words slamming into her like a drumbeat. Around her, faces twitched some wary, some defiant, some pale with the sudden realization of what this meant. 

Delmar clapped his hands sharply. “Papers out. Think hard, write fast.” 

The kitchen was filled with the frantic scratch of pens. 

Robin’s palms were slick as she gripped the stubby pen. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the shuffling of papers and whispered breaths around her. She stared at the blank scrap in her hand, every nerve screaming. 

She was the wildcard. She knew it. And yet the idea of lying... of scribbling someone else’s name, clawed at her chest. 

Her throat tight, she bent over and wrote her own name. Robin. Just five letters, but her hand shook like she was signing her death warrant. She folded the paper once, quick and sharp, then walked stiffly to the box. Her pulse pounded as she dropped it in with a hollow thud. 

When the last slip was collected, the judges huddled briefly, unfolding and tallying. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. 

Finally, Sabine stepped forward with the box in hand. Her face was unreadable as she glanced over the stack. “The votes,” she said. “Nine of you named Finn.” 

Robin’s head whipped toward Finn, who stood a little taller, jaw tightening, but her expression gave nothing away. 

“Two votes for Lucia.” 

Lucia’s eyes widened, darting around nervously. 

“One for Jace.” 

A shrug from Jace, trying to look unbothered. 

Sabine paused then, her eyes flicking down before she continued. “…And one for Robin.” 

Robin’s stomach dropped, heat rushing into her face. She felt the prickle of eyes on her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, biting the inside of her cheek. 

“And now,” Sabine said smoothly, her voice cutting through the tension, “I will tell you this: Finn is not the wildcard.” 

The room erupted, gasps, groans, whispers firing like sparks in every direction. Robin swallowed hard, her knees threatening to buckle. The weight of the secret pressed heavier than ever, and she prayed no one noticed how pale she’d gone. 

“Of course it wasn’t me,” Finn said, her voice cool but edged with a flare of pride. She folded her arms loosely across her chest, chin lifted just a little higher than usual. 

The murmurs rippled louder as the group shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting from one face to another. Some looked suspiciously at Lucia, others at Jace, a few at Robin, though Robin refused to raise her gaze from the floor, her cheeks hot, her chest tight. 

The hunt for a new target had begun. 

Chapter Text

After the wildcard reveal, everyone had been shuffled through individual interviews with producers. Robin’s turn came, the bright lights hot on her skin as the unseen voice behind the camera asked, “Whose name did you write down?” 

Her heart jumped into her throat. She hesitated, then forced out the lie. 
“Finn,” she said, voice thinner than she wanted. 

The producer paused for a beat, as if measuring her, then simply said, “Thank you.” 

By the time she got back to the house, Robin only wanted to disappear into her room. But just as she reached for her door handle, she heard her name. 
“Robin! Living room. Everyone’s here.” 

Her stomach sank. 

When she stepped into the living room, all thirteen contestants were gathered. The energy was tight, restless; nobody slouched or joked, everyone sitting forward or standing with arms crossed. Tara, leaning against the wall with her arms folded, had clearly decided to take charge. 

“Look, guys,” Tara started, her voice sharp, “this wildcard thing? It’s messing with everybody’s heads. So I’ve got an idea. We test the numbers. We all say who we voted for, and if the math doesn’t line up, we’ll know somebody’s lying.” 

A murmur rolled through the room. Finn sat on the arm of the couch, flipping her half-black, half-silver hair over her shoulder, unbothered as always. “Fine by me,” she said coolly. “Go ahead.” 

“Alright.” Tara pushed off the wall. “Let’s start with Finn. If you voted for Finn, go stand by the couch.” 

There was a shuffle of feet, hesitant at first, then more decisive as people moved. One by one, bodies collected around the couch: Neveah, Jace, Ava, Chloe, Isaac, Matteo, Renee, Josh, Kate, and Finn herself. 

Robin’s palms went clammy. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She forced her legs to move, dragging herself to stand beside them. She could feel Finn’s presence right next to her, radiating a confidence that made Robin feel like her lie was branded across her forehead. 

When the shifting stopped, Tara looked around the room. Slowly, she counted. “One… two… three…” Her eyes narrowed as she ticked off each person by the couch. “…Ten.” 

“Wait, Finn, you voted for yourself?” Tara inquired. 

Finn nodded her head once. “Everyone was going to vote for me, I didn’t wanna feel left out.” 

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy. 

“Ten people,” Tara repeated, scanning their faces. “But at the studio, Sabine said Finn only got nine votes.” 

The group exchanged uneasy glances. Neveah muttered, “So one of us is lying.” 

The words seemed to echo. 

Renee hugged her arms around herself. “Why would anyone lie about their vote? It’s just a vote.” 

“Because maybe the wildcard doesn’t want us to know who they really voted for,” Matteo said grimly. 

That sent another ripple through the group. 

Robin swallowed hard, keeping her eyes on the floor, praying no one was watching her too closely. She could feel the weight of suspicion floating in the room, circling like a vulture, waiting to land. 

Tara tapped on her bottom lip like a crime detective in a mystery novel. Robin’s eyes stayed fixed on the carpet. Every sound in the room felt too sharp: the shuffle of feet, the whisper of breath. She could feel suspicion hovering, weightless but dangerous, circling closer. 

Tara began pacing. “Okay. Two votes for Lucia, one for Jace, one for Robin. Right?” 

Ava nodded. “That’s what Sabine said.” 

“Alright,” Tara said briskly. “If you voted for Lucia, stand by the lamp.” 

Karla and Tara crossed the room, standing by the lamp. 

“And if you voted for Jace or Robin,” she continued, “stand by the TV.” 

Lucia stepped toward the TV alone. 

Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Lucia, who’d you vote for?” 

“Jace,” Lucia said flatly. 

The room went still. 

Robin could feel sweat running down her back, cold and slow. In less than five minutes, they had cornered the truth: whoever had voted for Robin was lying. 

That she was lying. 

The room held its breath. 

“But why would the person who voted for Robin lie about their vote?” Tara asked finally, voice low and cutting through the tension. 

All eyes turned. 

Robin felt the weight of twelve stares hit her at once. Her throat went dry; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. There was no reason, no excuse she could possibly give. 

Her mind screamed for something, anything, to say, but all she could think was, God, why did I try to do the right thing and write my own damned name? 

All these people... I could’ve just come up with a name at random! Or just followed the crowd and wrote Finn, it’s not like it would’ve hurt her feelings!  

No, why do I care about her feelings at all? This is for my LIFE. I'm going home to no home at all if I don’t win. 

The silence stretched, brittle and unbearable. 

Finn’s eyes lingered on her a second too long, curious, like she was watching a spark about to catch. 

The silence lingered until Tara spoke again. 
“Do you know why someone would write your name, Robin?” 

Her voice wasn’t accusatory, not yet, but every word carried weight. 

Robin’s heart slammed against her ribs. She could feel the dozen eyes still on her, waiting for something, an explanation, a confession, anything. Her mind blanked. 

“I… I don’t know,” she said, barely managing to steady her voice. “Maybe someone thought I was quiet, or… or that I’m hiding something.” 

“Are you?” Finn asked suddenly. 

Robin looked up. Finn was sitting on the arm of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, her gaze sharp but unreadable. 

Robin’s throat tightened. “No.” 

The room didn’t feel convinced. 

“Come on,” Matteo said. “It’s not random. Why would someone pick you?” 

“I don’t know!” she said again, too fast. 

Renee crossed her arms. “It’s weird, though. You were off all day. Everyone saw it.” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“Yes, you were,” Tara cut in. “You barely talked to anyone, and you looked guilty the whole time. If someone’s lying, we deserve to know.” 

Robin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The room felt smaller by the second, air thick and hot, the lights overhead suddenly too bright. 

She wanted to say something, anything, but all that echoed in her skull was her own mistake. You wrote your own name. You idiot. 

Her pulse climbed higher, sweat prickling the back of her neck. They were closing in, a circle of suspicion tightening like a noose. 

Twelve pairs of eyes. Everyone of them was looking straight at her. 

And then— 

Finn stood up. 

She moved with that same easy swagger she always had, brushing her silver-and-black hair back and sauntering toward the TV. 

“Yeah,” Finn said lazily, voice carrying over the tense quiet, “I didn’t actually vote for myself.” 

The whole room went still. 

Finn leaned one hand against the wall beside the TV, smirking faintly. “I voted for Robin. Just wanted to fuck around. Thought it’d make good TV.” 

The room exploded with noise, groans, laughter, and exasperation. 

“Are you serious?” Tara demanded. “You almost gave her a heart attack!” 

Finn just shrugged. “Maybe don’t take it so seriously next time.” 

Renee shoved her shoulder on the way past. “You’re unbelievable.” 

Robin couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her body was still frozen where she’d been standing, her mind racing in circles. 

Because Finn hadn’t voted for her. She had written her own name. 

Finn was lying. To protect her. 

Robin’s heart hammered so loud she was sure someone could hear it. 

Finn’s gaze flicked up from the corner of her eye, catching Robin’s across the room. Calm. Knowing. 

That small, crooked smile curved her lips again. “Relax, princess,” she said softly. “You’re safe.” 

Robin nodded faintly, though her hands trembled. 

Because now she knew two things for certain 
Finn had just saved her. 
And Finn knew exactly what she was. 

Robin had tried everything to quiet her thoughts. She’d unpacked and repacked her duffel bag twice, folded the same shirt four times, even sat on the edge of her bed just breathing, trying to will the tension out of her shoulders. But none of it worked. 

Finn knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. The way she’d said Relax, like she wasn’t talking to the group, but straight to her, like she knew. 

Robin rubbed her temples, heart pounding again. The house had settled into its usual nighttime rhythm. A TV laugh track somewhere down the hall, muffled music from the balcony where Renee and Jace were talking. She could smell garlic and butter from the kitchen; someone was stress-cooking again. 

But her room was quiet. Too calm. 

She pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them, staring at the blank wall across from her bed. The longer she sat, the worse it got. What if Finn told the others? What if she wanted something in return for keeping quiet?  

Her thoughts were interrupted by three sharp raps on her door. 

She froze. 

No one ever came to her room.  

A pause. Then another lighter tap, more deliberate. 

Robin’s throat went dry. “Who is it?” she asked, barely loud enough for anyone to hear. 

There was no answer. Just the faint creak of someone shifting their weight outside the door. 

Her pulse hammered in her ears. She stood slowly, every sound amplified, the soft drag of her socks on the floor, the faint click of her doorknob as she hesitated, fingers trembling just slightly. 

Robin’s fingers hovered over the handle for a moment longer, her heart thudding in her chest. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she turned it and pulled the door open a few inches. 

Finn filled the doorway. 

She wasn’t smiling. 

The hall light was low, but it caught every line of her in sharp relief, the black sleeveless ribbed tank clinging to her shoulders and chest, tattoos alive in the shifting shadows, veins and muscle shifting beneath the ink when she moved. Her silver-and-black hair was a little messy, damp like she’d just showered, and her eyes, those cool, cutting green eyes, were fixed squarely on Robin. 

“Hey,” Finn said softly, but the weight behind it made Robin’s pulse trip. 

Robin blinked up at her, gripping the edge of the door like a shield. “What do you want?” 

Finn didn’t answer right away. She leaned one hand against the doorframe, the muscles in her arm flexing with the movement, and stepped just close enough that Robin could smell her, faint soap, and something darker, like warm spice. 

The difference in height, in presence, felt suffocating. Finn wasn’t just taller; she loomed, deliberate and unhurried, like a predator deciding how much space to take. 

Finn’s tone softened slightly, but her eyes didn’t. “Can I come in?” 

It wasn’t really a question. 

Finn didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed the door open with her palm and stepped inside, slow and deliberate, until Robin had no choice but to backpedal. The air in the room seemed to shrink around them. 

Robin hit the edge of her bed, heart hammering. Finn stopped just short of her, close enough that Robin could see the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the curve of her tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric of her shirt. 

“Close the door,” Finn said quietly. 

Robin hesitated, but Finn’s gaze didn’t waver. Her voice wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. There was something in her tone that made Robin move automatically, hand trembling as she shut the door. 

When she turned back, Finn was standing there, still watching. 

“I know it’s you,” Finn said. 

Robin blinked. “What?” Her voice came out small, defensive. 

“The wildcard.” Finn’s tone was flat, certain. She crossed her arms, the movement making the ink along her biceps flex. “Don’t bother denying it.” 

Robin’s breath hitched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You don’t know that.” 

Finn took a step closer. “You think I don’t pay attention? You panic every time someone says the word wildcard. You couldn’t even look at anyone in that room tonight. And we both know I didn’t vote for you. Which means, the Robin voter is still unaccounted for.” 

Robin’s lips parted, but no sound came. Finn’s height, her calm, her absolute certainty, it was too much. The pressure built inside her chest, sharp and hot. 

Finn’s voice softened, but it wasn’t kind. “You shouldn’t lie to me, Robin. Not after I just saved your ass in front of everyone.” 

The air felt thick, heavy. Robin’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her like water from a cracked cup. She stared at the floor, at Finn’s completely out-of-character cutesy slippers planted firmly on the floor.  

What was the point? Denying it now felt useless, exhausting. Finn had seen right through her panic, her trembling hands, the way she’d frozen under Tara’s scrutiny. She’d known all along. 

Robin lifted her head slowly, meeting Finn’s unwavering green gaze. The question came out flat, resigned. "What do you want?" 

Finn didn’t flinch. "Why?" Her voice was low, intense. "Why write your own name? That’s stupid." 

Robin swallowed. The truth felt jagged. "Because... I didn’t want to lie about someone else." She glanced away. "It felt wrong." 

Finn’s laugh was short, sharp. "Wrong? This is reality TV. Everyone lies." 

Robin flinched. "Not like that. Not... that way." She hugged her arms tight. "I didn’t think there’d be a witch hunt once we got home." Her voice cracked. "I thought it’d just... float there. Like static. Not turn into this... interrogation." 

Finn tilted her head, studying her like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. "Static?" Her tone was dry. "You thought writing your own name wouldn’t get noticed?" 

Robin’s cheeks burned. "I didn’t expect Sabine to announce it!" 

Finn raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You’re naive." She took another step forward, forcing Robin to crane her neck. "But naive doesn’t explain why you’re still standing. You’re out of your depth. Why risk exposure?" 

Robin clenched her fists, knuckles pressing against her thighs. "I don’t appreciate you coming to my room to call me stupid." The words came out sharper than she intended, fueled by days of bottled-up panic. "You barged in here like you own the place. I’m not some charity case you can intimidate." 

Finn didn’t retreat. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips. "Intimidate?" She leaned in, invading Robin’s space until the scent of soap and spice overwhelmed the sterile air. "If I wanted to intimidate you, princess, you’d be crying already. I came to see if you were actually the wildcard, or just spectacularly bad at lying."  

Her gaze dropped to Robin’s trembling fists. "Guess we know now." 

Robin flinched. "So you’re not going to tell everyone?" 

Finn snorted softly. "What good would that do me?" She stepped back, putting a foot of space between them, but her gaze remained locked onto Robin. "Outing you as the wildcard does nothing for me currently, not with so many others still in the game. Your secret’s safe... for now." 

Robin’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but her fingers curled into the hem of her shirt. "For now?" 

Finn shrugged, the movement fluid as poured ink. "For now." She turned toward the door, slippers silent on the hardwood. "And Robin?" Her hand paused on the knob. "Don’t write your own name again. Next time, I won’t clean it up." The door clicked shut behind her. 

Robin stood frozen, the imprint of Finn’s stare lingering like a brand. The silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating.  

She slid down the edge of the bed until she hit the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest.  

For now.  

The words coiled around her ribs. A threat? A promise? She pressed her forehead against her knees, breathing in the faint detergent smell of her sweatpants. Sleep felt impossible. Every creak in the hallway sounded like footsteps returning. 

Morning arrived abruptly. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, harsh and unforgiving. Robin blinked, stiff and aching from the floor.  

She’d drifted off eventually, dreams fragmented and anxious, Sabine’s cold eyes, Finn’s smirk, Tara’s accusation. The house buzzed with pre-dawn energy: muffled voices, running water, the clatter of pans downstairs. 

A producer’s fist hammered on her door. “Red team! Reward day! Assemble downstairs in ten!” The footsteps retreated sharply. 

Robin scrambled up. Reward day?  

She had completely forgotten, with everything that happened yesterday. 

She splashed cold water on her face, the shock jolting her awake. Yesterday’s interrogation and Finn’s midnight visit felt like bruises beneath her skin.  

Pulling on jeans and a tee, she grabbed her apron.  

Outside, the hallway was a blur of crimson aprons, hers included, hurrying toward the stairs. Groups had formed overnight: Karla and Ava whispering fiercely, Renee laughing with Jace, Tara pointedly ignoring Chloe.  

Robin saw Finn leaning against the banister, already dressed, her own red apron crisp. 

Their eyes met. Finn gave a slow, deliberate blink, stay quiet, before turning away. 

Downstairs, Sabine stood near the grand fireplace, flanked by producers. Her gaze swept the assembled contestants like a hawk scanning prey. "Congratulations, Red Team," she announced, crisp voice cutting through the murmurs. "Your victory in the team challenge has earned you this." 

A junior producer stepped forward, holding aloft laminated cards. Robin squinted: Golden Ticket Amusement Park. The name shimmered under the chandelier lights like cheap tinsel. 

"Private rental," Sabine added. Her smile didn't touch her eyes. "Consider it... decompression. Before the flames rise higher." 

The minivans rolled through Golden Ticket's deserted gates. No cheerful music blared. No popcorn scent drifted. Just empty pathways snaking past silent rollercoasters, their towering loops skeletal against the pale sky.  

Crew members scurried ahead, placing cameras discreetly behind churro carts and beneath giant, grinning cartoon character statues. Robin pressed her forehead to the cool van window. An entire kingdom of fun, hollow without its subjects.  

Finn sat diagonally across, one boot propped on the seat beside Chloe, who was meticulously reapplying lip gloss. 

"Private rental," Jace scoffed, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Means no lines... and no escape from each other.”  

The van doors slid open, releasing them into the unnerving quiet. Robin stepped onto cracked pavement, the scent of stale cotton candy and grease hanging thick in the still air.  

Finn brushed past her shoulder, close enough that Robin caught the low murmur: "Speak for yourself." Finn didn't pause, didn't look back. "We can be on opposite sides of this park, riding completely different rides." 

Sabine stood before the ornate wrought-iron entrance archway, flanked by producers. Her smile was a practiced curve, devoid of warmth.  

"Welcome to Golden Ticket," she announced, her crisp voice echoing slightly in the emptiness. "Your reward for yesterday's performance." Her gaze lingered momentarily on Robin, a flicker of assessment, before sweeping the group.  

"Two hours. Free rein. Ride anything. Eat anything from the food court." She gestured vaguely toward the central plaza dominated by garish signs hawking funnel cakes and corn dogs.  

"But," she paused, letting the word land heavily, "be back here, precisely at noon. Not a minute late." Her smile tightened. "Consider it... motivation. Enjoy."  

Chloe and Neveah took off toward the roller coaster, screaming something about calling the front seats; Jace was already halfway to the basketball booth, dragging Isaac along; Ava wandered toward a vendor selling fried ice cream. 

That left Robin standing alone near the map kiosk, her hands shoved in her pockets, staring at the flashing rides and bright chaos like she’d stumbled into another planet. 

Sabine was beside her, calm as ever, hands clasped behind her back, eyes following the others with quiet amusement. “You’re not going?” she asked. 

Robin hesitated. “I… don’t know what to do.” 

Sabine’s gaze shifted toward her. “Don’t know what to do?” 

“I’ve never been to one of these before,” Robin said, the words tumbling out faster than she meant. “I don’t really get how it works. Everyone just… ran.” 

Sabine studied her, the corner of her mouth tilting upward in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then it seems we’re both stranded. I don’t do rides.” 

Robin blinked. “You don’t?” 

“I like to keep my feet where they belong, on solid ground.” Sabine turned toward the midway. “Come. We’ll walk.” 

Robin followed, half a step behind. The park glowed with moving color, arcade lights flashing, metal grinding against metal as a ride lifted into the sky, the smell of butter and frying sugar thick in the air. Sabine’s pace was unhurried, her posture immaculate even among the noise and chaos. 

Robin tried not to look awkward beside her, but she was acutely aware of how small she felt. She glanced around; Finn was nowhere in sight, which somehow made her even more nervous. 

They stopped near a small shooting gallery booth, where rows of plastic ducks floated past painted scenery.  

Sabine handed the attendant a few tickets without asking Robin if she wanted to play. “Go on,” she said, nodding toward the rifle. “Try it.” 

Robin blinked. “I’ve never done anything like this.” 

“Good,” Sabine replied. “That makes it fair.” 

Robin picked up the rifle, its plastic barrel slightly sticky from too many hands. The first two shots went wide. The third clipped the corner of a duck, and the fourth hit dead center. The bell chimed softly. 

Robin smiled before she could stop herself. “Got one.” 

Sabine’s expression didn’t change much, but her tone carried warmth. “Beginner’s luck.” She gestured to the small prizes, a lineup of cheap plush toys. “Pick one.” 

Robin grabbed a tiny stuffed seal, absurdly soft, with a crooked embroidered smile. “Feels rigged,” she said. 

“It usually is,” Sabine replied. “But sometimes you still win.” 

They walked again, through a stretch of carnival games and past a snack stand where the others were still somewhere in the distance, Isaac’s laughter cutting through the noise, Chloe yelling something about beating Finn at darts.  

Robin found herself relaxing in small increments. 

Now and then, Sabine would ask a question about Robin’s hometown, her first memory of cooking, the first dish she ever ruined. None of it felt like an interrogation, though it could’ve been.  

Sabine’s presence carried an ease Robin hadn’t expected; for someone so famously sharp, she seemed content just to walk and listen. 

After a while, Robin said quietly, “You ever just… forget where you are? For a few seconds?” 

Sabine’s eyes flicked toward her. “In what sense?” 

“Like… everything’s so loud and bright it stops feeling real. Like your head’s still back in the real world, waiting for something bad to happen.” 

Sabine didn’t respond right away. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft but clear. “Yes.” 

Robin looked at her, surprised. 

“It’s hard to stand still when you’ve built your life on always being ready to move.” Sabine glanced at the bright sprawl of the park, the laughter, the hum of machines.  

Robin didn’t know what to say to that. The words sat heavy in her chest, too close to something she didn’t want to name. 

So she just nodded, clutching the little seal tighter, and kept walking beside her. 

They stopped at the edge of the pier, where the lights from the Ferris wheel shimmered across the water like a broken mirror. The noise of the crowd dulled here, fading into laughter and music in the distance. Sabine leaned her elbows against the railing, calm as ever, watching the reflections ripple below. 

Robin hesitated beside her, chewing the inside of her cheek. She’d been turning the words over and over, trying to find a way to say them without sounding paranoid. But they burned too much to hold in any longer. 

“Finn knows I’m the wildcard,” she said quietly. 

Sabine didn’t look surprised. She didn’t even turn her head. She just hummed softly, as if Robin had said the weather might change. “So?” 

Robin blinked. “So?” 

Sabine finally looked at her, eyes steady and unreadable under the flashing lights. “It’s not something that was going to stay hidden forever,” she said simply. 

Robin stared at her, struggling to make sense of the calm. “You’re not… worried?” 

“Should I be?” Sabine asked, tone mild. 

“She...Finn’s not the kind of person you want knowing things about you,” Robin muttered, gripping the rail tighter. “If she tells anyone—” 

Sabine cut her off gently. “Then she tells them. And the game changes.” Her gaze drifted back to the water. “You adapt. Or you go home. It wasn’t meant to be a secret forever.” 

The words landed like a quiet slap. Robin’s mouth opened, then shut again. It was so blunt, so Sabine, no comfort, no sugar, just truth. 

“I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter,” Robin said finally, her voice low. “If she tells them, they’ll turn on me. I’m barely holding on as it is.” 

“Why do you care if they turn on you?” Sabine said, turning her back to the railing. “You have to beat them all to win anyway.”  

Robin looked down at the tiny plush seal still clutched in her hand. “You make it sound easy.” 

“It isn’t, but you don't have a choice, do you?” 

They stood there for a long moment, the sounds of the park washing over them. Finn’s laugh echoed faintly somewhere behind them, sharp and wild. Robin felt it like a spark against her skin. 

Sabine straightened, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. 

Sabine glanced sideways, eyes catching the shifting gold and blue of the lights. “Come on,” she said finally. “You’ve never been to an amusement park. You should at least ride the Ferris wheel.” 

Robin exhaled, shaky but genuine. “Does that not count as a ride?” 

Sabine’s lips curved faintly. “I’m making an exception.” 

The Ferris wheel creaked as their car lifted from the platform, slow and steady, the metal frame groaning faintly against the wind.  

Robin sat across from Sabine, hands gripping the cool bar that cut across her lap. Below them, the empty amusement park stretched out like a pastel diorama, the faded reds of the merry-go-round, the cracked blue lanes of the water ride, the long shadow of the rollercoaster reaching all the way toward the sea. 

It was quieter up here.  

Robin leaned toward the glass, breath fogging faintly as she stared out. “Wow,” she murmured.  

The ocean stretched endlessly, sun catching on its surface like liquid glass. Gulls drifted in the distance, their cries carried thin by the wind. “It’s… beautiful.” 

Sabine didn’t respond right away. She was sitting with one leg crossed neatly over the other, fingers resting lightly on her knee.  

Her reflection in the window looked almost unreal, precise, still, framed by light. 

“It is,” Sabine said softly, finally. “Though I suppose you don’t notice beauty until you stop and look.” 

Robin turned toward her. Sabine’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, her profile lit by the bright afternoon glare.  

There was something different about her up here, away from the cameras and her sharp tone, her posture loosened, her voice gentler. 

“Can I ask you something?” Robin said. 

Sabine inclined her head. “You can ask.” 

Robin hesitated, her pulse fluttering against her wrist. “Do you ever… feel sorry for us? For what you put us through?” 

A faint smile touched Sabine’s lips, though her eyes didn’t change. “You think I put you through this?” 

Robin frowned. “You’re the one running the show.” 

“I facilitate it,” Sabine corrected. “You’re the ones who choose how to survive it.” 

The car shifted higher, the city shrinking behind them.  

Robin fell quiet again. Sabine’s calm wasn’t cold; it was something steadier, deeper, like she’d already made peace with every ugly truth about show business. 

Robin found herself watching her more than the view.  

The sharp line of her jaw, the faint furrow in her brow, the way her eyes softened when she wasn’t being watched. She’d never noticed before how beautiful Sabine was, not in the camera-ready way, but in the composed, deliberate way of someone who never lost control. 

And for the first time since entering the show, Robin realized she felt safe. 

Not happy, not at ease, but safe. 

It hit her like warmth after a storm.  

That even if everything else burned down, she could trust Sabine not to lie to her. Sabine didn’t comfort, didn’t coddle, but she didn’t lie. 

Their car reached the top of the wheel. The wind was stronger here, carrying the scent of salt and oil from the pier. Robin pressed her palm to the glass, tracing the horizon line. 

“I used to think I’d never see the ocean,” she said quietly. 

Sabine turned her head. “Why?” 

“You saw where I’m from. The closest thing to water is a retention pond behind a Walmart,” Robin said with a small, self-deprecating laugh. 

Sabine’s eyes softened again, barely perceptible. “Then I suppose this was worth the trouble,” she said. 

Robin smiled faintly. “Yeah. Maybe it was.” 

When the Ferris wheel finally descended, the ground seemed louder, the colors brighter. The park looked alive again, even though it wasn’t. Sabine stepped out first, waiting for Robin to follow. 

“Now,” Sabine said, straightening her jacket, “I believe amusement parks traditionally require something deep-fried.” 

Robin blinked. “You eat fried food?” 

“Just because I'm a food critic doesn’t mean I have to be a snob. Let’s grab a corndog.”  

Robin laughed under her breath. “You don’t strike me as a corn dog person.” 

Sabine’s mouth quirked. “I probably don’t strike you as many things.” 

They walked side by side down the cracked midway until they reached the only open food stall, a faded red stand with a flickering sign that read ‘Corn Heaven.’ The crew had reactivated the fryer just for them, oil popping and hissing. 

Sabine accepted the corn dog like it was an artifact, studied it, then took a small, decisive bite. 

“Well?” Robin asked, grinning. 

Sabine dabbed her lip with a napkin. “Greasy. Unbalanced. Terribly unhealthy.” She took another bite. “It’s excellent.” 

Robin laughed fully this time, the sound carrying over the hum of the rides and the distant ocean.  

For a fleeting second, the tension of the house, of the votes, of Finn, all of it vanished. Just her and Sabine, the sea, and the taste of something warm and ridiculous between them. 

And for once, Robin let herself enjoy it. 

Chapter Text

By the time the two hours were up, the sun hung high and bright above the ocean, glaring off the chrome rides and vendor carts as the red team made their way back toward the park’s main courtyard.  

Robin was still smiling faintly from the Ferris wheel.  

Something about the quiet up there, the breeze, and Sabine’s steady presence beside her had made the world feel less harsh for once. 

Finn, Neveah, Jace, Ava, Chloe, and Isaac were already gathered near the fountain when Sabine rejoined them.  

The group looked relaxed for once. Neveah had a cup of lemonade, Jace was teasing Ava about her stuffed animal prize, and Finn sat half on the edge of the fountain, sunglasses hiding her eyes.  

Everyone seemed to assume the vans would be waiting beyond the gates to take them back to the house. 

But there were no vans. 

Instead, a row of folding tables had been set up under the shade of a wide white canopy. Coolers, utensils, cutting boards, and covered trays gleamed in the sunlight. A few producers and kitchen assistants stood nearby, watching quietly. 

Sabine stopped in front of them, a faint smile curving her lips. “Your reward day isn’t over yet.” 

The chatter died instantly. Even Finn straightened a little, her sunglasses sliding down just enough to glance at Sabine. 

“Normally, we’d be heading back,” Sabine continued, “but I thought… why not make the most of the day? You’re chefs, or at least trying to be. So instead of sitting in traffic, you’re going to cook. Not for points, not for immunity. Just to learn.” 

Robin blinked. “Learn?” 

Sabine nodded once, then turned toward the restaurant across the courtyard, a sleek glass-walled building overlooking the water. “Come out,” she called. 

The doors opened, and out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties wearing a crisp white coat and an easy, practiced smile. His name was stitched neatly across the pocket: Chef Adrien Deveau. Robin recognized it instantly.  

He was the mind behind L’Olivier Bleu in San Francisco, a place she’d only ever read about, where the tasting menu cost more than her rent. 

“This,” Sabine said, “is Chef Deveau. He’s joining us for a special one-day service. You’ll be preparing a full lunch menu for the park’s restaurant guests. No eliminations, no pressure, no sabotage. Just good food and good company.” 

“Wait, we’re actually cooking in there?” Neveah asked, eyes wide. 

“Oui,” Chef Deveau said with a warm grin. “I have already prepped stations for you. Think of it as a professional kitchen experience, minus the yelling.” 

“That’s disappointing,” Finn muttered, smirking. 

Chef Deveau chuckled. “We’ll see how long it stays that way.” 

Sabine clasped her hands. “This is a reward, not a test. So relax, have fun, and maybe learn something worth keeping.” 

The group began filing toward the restaurant, still half in disbelief. Robin lingered a moment behind the others, her stomach fluttering with a strange mix of nerves and anticipation.  

Cooking in a real kitchen under someone like Deveau felt unreal, like something that didn’t happen to people like her. 

Sabine noticed her hesitation and slowed her stride. “You look nervous,” she observed. 

“I just didn’t think we’d be doing this,” Robin said. “He’s kind of a big deal.” 

Sabine glanced at her. “Then watch him closely. People like him have already made every mistake you’re afraid of.” 

That made Robin smile. 

Inside, the restaurant was cool and modern, full of steel, glass, and sunlight filtering through the wide windows overlooking the rides and the ocean beyond.  

The kitchen was pristine and gleaming, every surface spotless. It smelled faintly of citrus and fresh herbs. 

Finn let out a low whistle. “Damn. This is way better than that set kitchen.” 

“Try not to break anything,” Ava said under her breath, tying on an apron. 

Chef Deveau moved with easy confidence, showing them the menu for the day: citrus-glazed salmon, rosemary focaccia, and a chilled fennel soup. Each dish sounded simple, but the way he described them made Robin’s palms itch to work. 

“You’ll each handle a component,” he said. “Robin, you take the salmon. Finn, the bread. Isaac, the soup base. The rest of you, sides, and garnish. We’ll plate together.” 

Robin nodded, heart beating faster. There was no scoreboard, no timer, no looming elimination. But somehow it still mattered, maybe even more than usual. 

As the others got to work, Sabine lingered by the kitchen door, watching quietly, her expression softer than Robin had ever seen it.  

When their eyes met, Sabine gave her a small nod, like telling her. You can do this. 

Robin turned back to her station, knife steadying in her hand. 

For the first time since the wildcard vote, she wasn’t thinking about secrets or lies or Finn’s stare from across the room. She was just cooking, and for the first time in a week, it felt like enough. 

The air in the park restaurant was warm and bright, sunlight spilling across stainless steel counters and gleaming pots. The kitchen smelled of butter, herbs, and fresh citrus. Robin stood at her assigned station, a pan already heating too fast beneath her shaking hand. 

Chef Deveau moved through the kitchen like a quiet storm, his French accent soft but his eyes sharp as he observed the red team spread out at their stations. He stopped beside Robin, studying the fillets of salmon she was preparing. 

“Tell me,” he said, “how hot should your pan be before you lay the fish down?” 

Robin hesitated, then admitted, “Hot enough that it sizzles?” 

“Non. Hot enough that it whispers,” he corrected, lowering the flame. “Too hot, and you burn the flesh before it cooks through. Try again.” 

She nodded quickly, cheeks flushed, adjusting the temperature as he moved on to the next station.  

Sabine lingered nearby, watching Robin from across the room with an expression that was part concern, part pride. 

The first few fillets came out uneven.  

One was overdone, another still raw in the center. The oil popped and hissed, spraying onto her apron. Robin muttered under her breath, trying to keep up as ticket orders came in.  

Every mistake built on the last, but she refused to step back. 

“Slow down,” Chef Deveau told her on his next pass. “You are not racing the others. You are racing your own panic.” 

She took a deep breath and nodded again. Her next attempt came out better. Still not perfect, but closer. 

Sabine leaned against the counter as she passed by to check the plating station. “How’s it going, rookie?” 

“I think I’ve destroyed at least three expensive pieces of fish,” Robin said, wincing as she flipped another fillet too early. 

“Then you’re learning,” Sabine replied. “You’re not supposed to get it perfect. You’re supposed to get it right the next time.” 

Hours stretched by. Robin’s movements grew more confident.  

She stopped second-guessing herself with every flip. When the skin crisped just the way Chef Deveau had shown her, she smiled despite the sweat on her forehead. 

By the time service ended, she was exhausted but proud.  

Plates of salmon with lemon beurre blanc left the pass one by one. The dining room was filled with laughter from park visitors, unaware of the chaos behind the kitchen doors. 

Chef Deveau approached her as the team began cleaning up. “You improved,” he said. “You listened. That is what makes a cook.” 

Robin looked at him, still clutching a towel in her hands. “I thought I was terrible.” 

He gave a small shrug. “All great cooks are terrible at first. What matters is that you stayed kind to yourself in the fire.” 

Sabine joined them, resting a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Told you she’d make it through service.” 

Robin laughed weakly, relief flooding her. “Barely.” 

“But you did,” Sabine said. “That’s the part that counts.” 

As the team left the kitchen, sunlight filtering through the tall windows, Robin caught one last look at the clean counters and the cooling stoves.  

For the first time since arriving on the show, she felt like she had learned something real, something that might stay with her long after the cameras stopped rolling. 

After the lunch service ended, the kitchen was quiet again. The scent of roasted garlic and seared salmon still lingered, but the rush had faded into the slow hum of cleanup. The red team stood in a neat line along the pass, tired but glowing with the satisfaction of having survived something new. Sabine and Chef Deveau stood opposite them, conferring quietly before Sabine called for everyone’s attention. 

“Alright,” she said, crossing her arms, her tone half proud, half teasing. “That was your first real service under a professional chef, and you didn’t burn the place down. So I’d say that’s a win.” 

Laughter rippled down the line. Robin smiled faintly, though her nerves hadn’t quite settled. 

Sabine glanced toward Chef Deveau. “Now, Chef, I’m curious. If you had to hire one of them to work in your kitchen tomorrow, who would it be?” 

The room went still. Everyone straightened. 

Chef Deveau took his time, hands clasped behind his back as he walked the line, studying each of them with the same sharp eyes that had watched every movement during service. “If I could only hire one…” He stopped in front of Jace. “It would be you.” 

Jace blinked, surprised, then grinned. 

“You have precision,” Deveau said. “You keep your station clean, your timing sharp, and you watch your team as much as your food. Those are rare habits.” 

Jace nodded respectfully, murmuring a quiet “Thank you, Chef.” 

Sabine smiled, about to move on, but Deveau lifted a finger. “But,” he added, “if I could hire two…” 

He turned, and his gaze landed on Robin. 

Robin’s heart thudded. “Me?” she blurted out, before she could stop herself. 

He gave a small smile. “Oui. You.” 

Her jaw dropped. “But I was terrible today.” 

Deveau shook his head gently. “You made mistakes, yes. But you never downed tools. Your shoulders never slouched. You never got lost in your own head. You never looked like you questioned if you could do this.” 

Robin stared at him, unsure if she’d heard right. 

“I have apprentices,” he continued, “that I wish had your attitude toward cooking. Technique can be taught. Spirit cannot.” 

The room was silent for a moment before Sabine’s smirk broke through the tension. “Hear that? You impressed one of the best chefs in the world.” 

Robin couldn’t help it; she laughed, shaking her head, cheeks warm. “I’ll try not to burn the next one, then.” 

Deveau chuckled. “Burning is part of learning. But next time, perhaps less smoke.” 

The others laughed, the moment light again, but Robin’s chest felt full in a way she hadn’t expected. She’d come into the kitchen terrified, and now she stood there, feeling seen, and for once, capable. 

Back at the house, Robin felt like she was walking on air. Her cheeks still hurt from smiling, and the chef’s words played on repeat in her head.  

If I could hire two… you.  

She’d made mistake after mistake, burned a fillet, over-salted a sauce, but somehow, she’d come out of it praised, not scolded. 

She showered slowly, letting the hot water beat against her skin, washing away the grease and chaos of service.  

When she finally crawled into bed, the exhaustion hit all at once, but the grin never left her face. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t fall asleep worrying about tomorrow.  

She just felt proud. 

The next morning, Robin climbed into the van still half-asleep, her head resting against the cool glass as the city rolled by.  

The others chatted quietly, their voices low and tired, but her eyes caught the clipboard hanging by the door. When she read the schedule, her pulse quickened.  

Cooking Classes. 

By the time they pulled into the studio lot, her drowsiness had been replaced by curiosity.  

There was no Sabine waiting to greet them this time, only Chef Delmar in his crisp white jacket and Gary holding a clipboard, both of them standing near the entrance. 

“Morning, cooks,” Delmar said, his tone brisk but not unkind. “Today is all about improving your fundamentals. Knife work, timing, seasoning, and working clean. Half of you will start with me in the kitchen, the other half will go with Gary to the secondary set to work on plating and precision. Then you’ll switch halfway through the day.” 

He gestured toward the prep tables behind him, where rows of whole fish rested on crushed ice. “You’ll also be learning how to properly skin and debone a fish. It’s a skill every professional cook should master.” 

The group exchanged glances, a mix of anticipation and nerves spreading through the air. 

Delmar gave a faint smile. “This isn’t a challenge, so relax. There are no eliminations and no immunity at stake. Just the opportunity to get better. So, let’s see who actually wants to learn.” 

Robin felt her shoulders square up.  

The words lit something inside her. Yesterday had been the best day she’d had on the show so far, and she wasn’t about to lose that momentum now. 

The morning started briskly.  

Chef Delmar divided all thirteen contestants into two groups, seven in one, six in the other. Robin’s group included Neveah, Jace, Ava, Isaac, Chloe, and Finn.  

They followed Delmar into the main kitchen, where rows of cutting boards gleamed under the bright lights and the counters were covered in neat rows of fresh snapper. The air smelled of salt and lemon. 

“Alright,” Delmar said, lifting one of the fish by the tail. “Snapper. Beautiful, delicate, and easy to ruin if you rush it. Today, you’re going to learn how to skin and debone one cleanly. Not quickly, cleanly.” 

He set it flat on the board, guiding the knife under the skin with slow precision. “The knife does the work. Don’t fight it. The bones will tell you where to cut if you listen.” 

Robin swallowed hard as he handed each of them a fish. It was heavier than she expected, cold and slick in her hands.  

She mimicked his stance, pressing her fingers against the flesh the way he’d shown. Her knife trembled slightly. The first slice went too deep, tearing into the meat. 

Delmar stepped beside her. “Stop.” His tone wasn’t sharp, just calm and certain. He tapped her wrist. “You’re gripping too tightly. Relax. Guide the knife, don’t force it.” 

She nodded and tried again, moving slower this time. The blade slid beneath the skin, and a thin sheet lifted away in one piece. Not perfect, but far better than her first attempt. 

“That’s it,” Delmar said, checking on the others. “Small adjustments. That’s how you improve.” 

Robin’s confidence grew with each motion. She made mistakes, nicked the flesh, broke a few bones, but each time Delmar corrected her with quiet patience.  

By the end of the first hour, her apron was spattered with scales and fish guts, but she’d skinned two fish nearly clean. 

When they finished, Delmar clapped once. “Good. You’re learning. Remember, speed comes later. Mastery starts with respect for the product.” 

The next session was with Gary in the plating kitchen, where the air smelled faintly of butter and herbs.  

He had them work on plating technique, starting with something simple: mashed potatoes, vegetables, and a slice of grilled chicken. 

“Your instinct,” Gary told Robin as he watched her swirl too much sauce across the plate, “is to make the food fit your space. What you need to do is make the space fit your food.” 

He had them plate the same dish three times: rustic, elegant, and modern. Each time Robin found herself thinking differently.  

On her second attempt, she slowed down, using less garnish, more intention. On her third, she wiped the plate clean before stepping back. 

“Better,” Gary said with a short nod. “You’re thinking more like a chef now.” 

By the time lunch came around, Robin’s feet hurt and her hands were sore, but she felt sharper than she had in weeks.  

When the groups swapped, she was back under Delmar’s watch, this time on the hot line. 

The focus was on searing proteins. Steak, chicken, and fish again. Her first salmon stuck to the pan. She tried to pry it loose too soon, and the flesh tore apart. 

She thought she’d mastered salmon yesterday, but she still had a lot to learn... 

Delmar didn’t scold her. “Patience,” he said, moving beside her. “Fish releases when it’s ready. Wait for it to tell you.” 

She waited, watching the edges turn golden.  

When she finally slid the spatula under, it lifted clean and perfect. The crisp skin shimmered in the light.  

She flipped it, her heart hammering, and when Delmar nodded faintly in approval, a grin broke across her face before she could stop it. 

Hour after hour, she kept making mistakes.  

She burned a piece of chicken, undercooked a steak, and dropped a fillet when her tongs slipped.  

But each time, she learned a little more, grew a little steadier. The rhythm of the kitchen, the sound of sizzling pans and clattering utensils, started to make sense. 

When Delmar finally called everyone to the front, the sun was low through the studio windows, painting the kitchen gold. “You worked hard today,” he said, looking over their tired faces. “Some of you struggled, but none of you quit. That’s what matters. Talent is easy to find. Tenacity isn’t.” 

Robin stood near the back, her arms sore and her hair damp with sweat.  

She caught her reflection in the stainless steel counter. Her cheeks were flushed, a streak of flour on her collar, but there was something new in her expression.  

Determination. 

She wasn’t perfect, but she’d improved. And when she saw Delmar’s faint smile before he dismissed them, Robin felt something settle deep in her chest, a quiet, steady pride that followed her all the way home. 

When they got back to the house, the mood was different, looser, lighter. Someone had found out there were no call times tomorrow.  

No 9 AM knocks on the door, no mics shoved in their faces, no challenge waiting in the studio. For once, they had a full day off. 

By the time Robin reached the living room, she could already hear laughter spilling out from the back patio.  

Music thumped softly from someone’s speaker, and the sharp scent of chlorine wafted through the open doors. A few of the others had stripped down to swimsuits, splashing and shouting, the tension of the past week dissolving into easy chaos. 

Robin lingered for a moment, watching Neveah cannonball into the pool and Jace try to balance a beer can on his head while the others cheered him on.  

She smiled faintly. It was nice seeing everyone unwind. They’d earned it. 

But the idea of joining them felt impossible. She wasn’t twenty-one yet, and even if she had been, she wasn’t sure she could pretend to be carefree right now.  

The adrenaline of the day was still pulsing faintly under her skin, a hum that wouldn’t settle. 

So instead, she slipped upstairs. 

Her room was cool and quiet.  

She peeled off her apron-stained clothes, tossed them into the hamper, and stepped into the shower. The warm water ran over her shoulders, washing away the smell of smoke, fish, and sweat.  

She closed her eyes and let her mind wander back through the last two days. 

Chef Deveau’s calm, steady voice corrected her grip on the spatula. The soft click of his knife gliding through salmon skin.  

The small, encouraging nod when she finally got it right. Then Delmar today, his quiet approval, the small lessons that had built into something bigger.  

She’d made so many mistakes, burnt fish, split sauce, dropped pans, but she hadn’t frozen once. She’d kept going. 

She thought of Sabine too, of the Ferris wheel and the easy quiet between them, the corndogs, the ocean view.  

Sabine had looked so relaxed that day, smiling in a way Robin hadn’t seen before. It was a shame she hadn’t been there today to see her cook. 

Robin stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel.  

The air smelled faintly of lavender from the soap. She sank down on the edge of her bed, running a comb through her damp hair. 

Her hair was getting healthier, she was healthier...Mentally and physically. Daily hot showers, three meals a day, no mold-infested apartment, no arguing she could hear keeping her up at night, none of their after-argument ‘activities’ either. No Diner customer degrading her, or her boss’s crap.  

For once, everything felt still. Peaceful.  

No Finn at her back.  

No suspicion.  

No blackmail hanging like a storm cloud over her head.  

Finn had barely looked her way all day, too focused on learning, too absorbed in her own cooking to bother her. And when Robin had caught her eye and smiled, nervously, testing the waters, Finn had actually smiled back, brief but genuine. 

It felt... normal. 

Robin lay back against her pillow, exhaustion wrapping around her like a blanket.  

Her eyes traced the ceiling’s soft shadows. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was about to break. 

Tomorrow, she promised herself, she’d sleep in. Then maybe study her notes, maybe write down everything she’d learned before she forgot it. 

The house echoed faintly with laughter and splashes from the pool. Robin smiled into the quiet, her eyelids heavy. It had been a good day. A good couple of days, actually. 

And when she finally drifted off, the last thought she had was a simple one.  

I’m actually getting better. 

Robin woke late to the faint sound of waves hitting the rocks below the villa. It took her a second to realize what had happened: the dull ache in her stomach, the heaviness in her body. “Great,” she muttered.  

Her period. Just what she needed on her one day off. 

After taking care of it and changing into something comfortable, she sat by the open balcony door overlooking the blue stretch of ocean.  

The air smelled of salt and rosemary. She spread her notes across the small desk, reviewing knife cuts, sauce emulsification, and the difference between cold and hot smoking.  

Every so often, she’d scribble something new she remembered from the lessons. The rhythmic crash of waves made it easy to focus. 

By noon, her stomach growled, and the cramps had returned full force.  

She decided to head downstairs for something quick to eat and maybe find some aspirin.  

Robin padded barefoot into the kitchen, the tile cool beneath her feet. The house was quiet, sunlight spilling in through the wide glass doors that led to the pool.  

She found a box of cereal, poured a bowl, and set the milk beside it before rummaging through a drawer until she spotted the aspirin bottle. Two tablets clinked against the glass as she swallowed them down with a gulp of water. 

She sat at the table, spooning cereal absently, eyes half-lidded with the fatigue of her cramps.  

When she looked up, she noticed Finn at the far end of the room, sitting on the counter, slippered feet swinging lightly as she scrolled through a notebook. Her silver-and-black hair was pulled into a lazy bun, a mug of coffee balanced beside her.  

Robin blinked, unsure how long she’d been there. 

Before she could say anything, laughter drifted in from outside. The sliding door opened, and Josh stepped in, dripping water, swim trunks clinging to him.  

Chloe followed, wearing a towel wrapped low around her hips.  

Josh’s arm stayed snug around her waist as they passed through, whispering something that made Chloe laugh before they disappeared down the hall toward her room. 

Robin frowned, setting her spoon down. “Seriously?” she muttered. “She was all over Jace two days ago.” 

Finn looked up from her mug, her expression unreadable. “Don’t judge too harshly,” she said. “People tend to hump like rabbits when they’re stressed.” 

Robin pushed her cereal bowl aside, the milk suddenly unappetizing. “That include you?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.  

Finn’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Sometimes,” she said, voice low and lazy, like it cost her nothing to admit it. “Not lately, though.” 

Robin regretted asking almost instantly. The heat crept up her neck, and she focused on the cereal bowl as if she could sink into it. 

“How about you?” Finn said.  

God, why did I ask her about her sex life? Now we’re talking about our sex lives. 

“I wouldn’t really know,” she said quietly. “I’ve never… done that.” 

Finn blinked, lowering her mug slightly. “Never?” 

Robin gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “It’s not exactly something you can do at a Catholic orphanage. Nuns, curfews, shared dorms. Shared beds sometimes, if there were a lot of girls. Not a lot of privacy… or romance... I-I mean, it was all girls too, so.”  

Finn leaned back on the counter, studying her for a moment. “That explains a lot.” 

Robin looked up, half-defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Finn slid off the counter, her slippered feet hitting the tile softly. She crossed the room slowly, stopping just short of Robin’s chair.  

Sunlight caught the silver streaks in her bun, turning them molten.  

“You’re just wound up, tight.” Her voice dropped, almost intimate in the quiet kitchen. “Every time someone talks to you, you get this frightened look in your eye for half a second.” She mimed a tiny flinch, fingers curling near her own temple. “Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

Robin pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loudly. She grabbed her cereal bowl, the milk sloshing pale against the ceramic.  

“I don’t think not having sex is why I have anxiety,” she muttered, turning toward the sink. It wasn’t venomous, just weary.  

The cramps twisted low in her belly; a dull ache beneath the tension. 

But before she could take a step, Finn was there. Not beside her, behind her.  

Close enough that Robin felt the heat radiating from her body, smelled the faint trace of coffee and something earthy, like thyme.  

Finn’s lips brushed the shell of Robin’s ear, her whisper slicing through the quiet kitchen like a knife through soft butter. "I'd be happy to help you test it." 

Robin froze. The chill that raced down her spine wasn't fear; it was pure, electric shock. It collided violently with the deep, twisting cramp seizing her abdomen.  

Her fingers spasmed. The bowl slipped, hitting the tile with a sharp crack that echoed off the stainless steel appliances.  

Milk splashed across the floor, ceramic shards skittering toward Finn's slippered feet. 

Silence crashed over the kitchen, thick and sudden. The distant splash from the pool sounded muffled, irrelevant.  

Robin stared at the mess, her breath shallow.  

Finn hadn't moved. Robin could still feel the phantom warmth at her back, the whisper clinging to her skin.  

Slowly, she turned, bracing one hand on the cool countertop as another wave of pain tightened its grip. 

Finn’s gaze flickered from the shattered bowl to Robin’s pale face.  

Her usual cool detachment seemed momentarily fractured. "Are you okay?" She asked, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant.  

"I didn't mean to make you drop it." She took a small step forward, her slippered foot avoiding a shard. "It was just... a joke." 

Robin didn’t answer. The cramp in her abdomen twisted deeper, sharp enough to steal her breath.  

Finn’s closeness, the lingering heat at her back, the whisper still buzzing in her ear, it all crashed against the pain, a dizzying collision.  

She turned abruptly, ignoring the mess, the apology, Finn’s sudden shift in expression. Clutching her stomach, Robin hurried out of the kitchen, her bare feet slapping softly on the cool tile.  

Every step jarred her, the cramps pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat.  

She didn't look back, pushing through the swinging door to the hallway, the distant pool laughter fading behind her. 

The stairs felt like a mountain. Robin gripped the banister, pulling herself up one step at a time, breath hitching. Finn’s words echoed: 

 "I'd be happy to help you test it." 

Sharp and surreal against the mundane ache. Her cheeks burned hotter than the cramp. She reached her room door, fumbling with the handle before stumbling inside.  

Relief washed over her as she shut it, the click of the lock loud in the sudden silence. Sunlight streamed through the balcony doors, painting warm stripes on the wooden floor.  

She crawled onto her bed, curling onto her side, clutching a pillow tight against her stomach. The cool cotton against her heated skin eased the throbbing.  

Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs. She squeezed her eyes shut, replaying the moment, Finn’s voice low and deliberate, the heat at her back, the intimacy of that whisper slicing through the quiet kitchen. 

A knock at the door shattered her thoughts.  

Soft, insistent. Robin froze, her breath catching. The sound vibrated through the wood, sharp against the room’s stillness.  

She didn’t move.  

Didn’t answer.  

Her pulse hammered against her temples. The knock came again, louder this time. Fingers curled against the doorframe.  

Then Finn’s voice, low and edged with an unfamiliar urgency: "Robin? Open up." 

Robin buried her face deeper into the pillow. The phantom heat of Finn’s whisper still prickled her skin.  

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Silence stretched.  

The doorknob rattled, a hesitant jiggle that stopped almost immediately. Finn’s sigh was audible through the wood, a rush of air like frustration or regret. "Look. I’m sorry. That was... stupid." A pause. The scrape of Finn’s slippered feet shifting outside. "The bowl... it was my fault. I cleaned it up already.” 

Robin uncurled slowly.  

Pain radiated from her abdomen, a dull anchor against the adrenaline humming in her veins. She stared at the door. Finn’s silhouette darkened the thin strip of light beneath it. 

Finn, cleaning? Apologizing?  

It felt surreal, disconnected from the sharp-edged competitor who’d eyed her like prey. Another cramp twisted deep. Robin pushed herself upright, wincing. The cool air raised goosebumps on her bare arms.  

She padded to the door, her movements stiff, and unlocked it. She didn’t open it wide. Just enough to peer out. 

Finn stood inches away, her usual cool composure fractured.  

A faint smear of milk darkened the cuff of her grey sweatshirt. Her silver-streaked hair had loosened from its bun, strands clinging to her temples.  

Her gaze flickered from Robin’s pale face to the hand still pressed low against her stomach. 

“Are you okay?” Finn repeated, softer this time. Her hand twitched like she might reach out, but didn’t. “I’m sorry I scared you. That was… tactless.”  

She glanced down at the hallway floor, then back. “You looked like you were going to pass out.” 

She thinks she scared me... 

In truth, Finn’s breath on her neck had sent an entirely different kind of chill down Robin’s spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the unexpected intimacy of that whisper slicing through the quiet kitchen. 

She focused on Finn’s eyes, the usual cool detachment replaced by something unnervingly close to concern.  

The milk stain on Finn’s cuff was absurdly grounding. Real. Tangible proof that Finn had scrubbed ceramic shards off the floor because of her reaction. 

"You didn't scare me," Robin blurted, her voice scratchy.  

She clutched the doorframe tighter. "I'm...I'm on my period, I got a cramp in the kitchen, is all." The half-truth felt flimsy under Finn’s sharp scrutiny, but the lingering ache in her abdomen lent it weight. "Thank you for cleaning that up." 

Finn’s expression shifted, surprise flickering through the concern, before settling into something unreadable again.  

Her gaze dropped to Robin’s hand still pressed low against her stomach.  

"Oh," she said, the word clipped but not unkind.  

A pause stretched between them, thick with unsaid things. Then, Finn shifted her weight, her slippered foot nudging a loose tile.  

"You want aspirin? I have some extra-strength ones." She didn’t wait for an answer, already turning toward her own door down the hall. "My mom used to swear by them. And a heating pad." 

Robin watched her go, leaning against the cool wood of her doorframe. The unexpected practicality of it, Finn, retrieving painkillers and appliances, felt jarring against the charged tension of the kitchen.  

She heard Finn rummaging inside her room, the soft clatter of a drawer opening.  

When Finn reappeared, she held a small bottle of ibuprofen and a folded electric heating pad, its cord dangling loosely.  

"Here," she said, holding them out. "The aspirin’s better than the stuff downstairs. Stronger." 

Robin took them, her fingers brushing Finn’s. The brief contact sent another jolt through her, less electric than before, but still unsettlingly present.  

"Thanks," she murmured, clutching the items to her chest. The heating pad radiated a faint warmth through its fabric cover. 

Finn lingered, her gaze drifting past Robin into the room, sunlit, sparse, the open balcony door letting in the rhythmic crash of waves.  

"You should lie down," she said, voice low. It wasn't an order, more like detached advice, but the undercurrent of concern felt genuine.  

"Works better if you’re horizontal." She didn’t move to enter, just stood framed in the doorway, the milk stain on her cuff stark against the grey fabric. 

Robin clutched the aspirin bottle and heating pad tighter. The cramps pulsed, a cruel counterpoint to the lingering heat where Finn’s whisper had touched her ear.  

"Right. Yeah," she mumbled, stepping back slightly. The silence stretched, thick with the salt breeze and unspoken tension.  

Finn’s eyes met hers again, sharp and assessing, before she gave a curt nod and turned away, her slippered footsteps quiet on the hallway runner. 

Robin shut the door, locking it with trembling fingers. The click echoed in the stillness.  

She crossed the room, the heating pad soft against her chest. Near the balcony, a lone outlet waited beside the desk.  

She knelt, fumbling with the plug. The prongs slid home with a soft snick. When she flipped the switch, a gentle warmth bloomed through the fabric immediately.  

She pressed it low against her abdomen, sighing as the heat seeped through her thin clothes. Blissful relief began to dull the sharpest edges of the pain. 

But then the scent hit her. Subtle, woven into the pad’s worn cotton cover. Thyme. Coffee. And something uniquely Finn, sandalwood, and expensive shampoo.  

It was faint but unmistakable, wrapping around her senses like a ghostly embrace. Robin froze, the heating pad suddenly alive against her skin.  

She inhaled sharply, the scent flooding her memory: Finn’s closeness in the kitchen, the heat radiating from her body, the whisper against her ear.  

Her cheeks flamed, hotter than the pad. 

"It smells like her." She said to no one in particular.