Elsewhere, in The HH...

Norah Rahman let the day soak into her bones, which felt good, which was rare. The rec room’s battered blue couch was not comfortable in any conventional sense, but it was battered in the right ways—cushions warped, back slouched from a decade of impact, a spring that jabbed the unwary in the left thigh. None of the women in the harem had ever figured out why Arabella had such a shitty piece of furniture in the otherwise pristine hotel, but they had decided long ago it must be some sort of inside joke.

Norah had spent the morning and half the afternoon moving tables and planning a playlist in the Dance Hall with the other women, which sounded more fun than it was; the resort's Dance Hall was less disco and more "ballroom after the wedding, before the caterers arrive." Emi had started working on decorations, promptly, yet accidentally, decorating herself with what appeared to be the contents of an entire glitter canister.

Which was why Emi still looked faintly radioactive, flecks of gold and silver dust on her arms, neck, and—most impressively—her scalp, where she'd itched at her hairline until the skin shimmered like a pufferfish under the sun.

"Is that edible glitter?" Norah asked, holding her beer up to the lamp, pretending to peer through it like a jeweler.

Emi blinked, not at all self-conscious, then wiped her hand on the hem of her shirt. "It's not technically toxic. But it makes your poop weird, so—"

"Right," Norah said, "so just like a quarter of American food." She sipped the beer, watching Emi set up a board game. "Why are you even doing that?"

"I promised Sam we’d play after dinner," Emi said. "She wants to try Carcassonne with the river expansion. It’s supposed to be very cutthroat."

"Sounds... thrilling." Norah dragged the word out so that Emi might notice she’d rather chew sand than play Carcassonne. The game had so many tiny tiles and fiddly rules that Norah suspected its true purpose was to provide men with a safe space to discuss railways and aqueducts.

Emi set a piece, then looked at her arms as if noticing the glitter for the first time. "I should shower. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be finding gold specks on my skin until August."

"At least you have a theme now," Norah said, and tilted her head. "‘Medieval Peasant, but Make It Disco.’"

Emi considered this, then laughed, soft and melodic. Norah couldn't help but smile. There was something about Emi—she’d always been the wallflower, the one who watched but never commented, and when she finally spoke, it was always unexpectedly dead-on. Like when she’d called the other morning after Norah’s blowup at the challenge, and instead of pep-talking, just said, ‘You have every right to be furious. Want me to make you lemon rice for breakfast?’ Sometimes, that was all anyone needed.

A soft click sounded near the entrance, as if someone had just materialized in the room, and Norah’s sixth sense for trouble vibrated up her spine. She was right: Arabella stood in the doorway, wearing a sheath dress the color of oxidized copper, her hands folded with practiced serenity. There was always something faintly unreal about Arabella, even when she was trying not to be the Host; she moved like a painting that had gotten up to stretch and decided to stick around for the conversation.

"Hello, ladies," Arabella said, the vowels perfectly clipped but warmer than they used to be. She looked at Emi’s glitter and Norah’s beer and seemed to approve of both. "Would you mind terribly if I joined you? It won’t be long. I come bearing... news."

Norah said, "Is it another challenge? Because the bruise on my shin hasn’t even turned green yet."

Arabella laughed, the kind that started in the throat and never quite reached the diaphragm. "No, Norah. Today, I bring a curiosity." She leaned against the wall, as though considering whether to sit, and then decided she wouldn’t.

Emi looked up, hands still hovering over the game pieces. "What’s the curiosity?"

"Well," Arabella said, producing a slim black tablet from nowhere—she could have been a magician or a particularly gifted waiter—"It’s come to my attention that we have received a… review. It’s from a pair named Marcie and Gina. Very strong opinions. They have... critiqued the first round of this season."

Emi’s eyes widened, and Norah made a mental note to never look up her own name on the internet. "You mean, they’re watching us?"

Arabella deadpanned, "In their dimension, our season is available as written prose. Yes, they’re fairly backwards. But, they’re commenting on the plot. Including you, and Emi, and even Andy."

Norah felt suddenly naked, which, given the general vibe of the resort, was saying something. She chugged the rest of her beer. "So what do they think of us?"

Arabella tapped the screen. "They’re divided. But they mention both of you by name."

Emi looked at Norah. "See? I told you you have main character energy."

Norah grunted. "Great. My entire personality summed up in a chili pepper and a bad attitude. What about you, Emi?"

Emi tucked her hair behind her ear, spreading more glitter. "What do they say about me?"

Arabella scrolled. "They keep comparing you to a woman whose first name is Kim, on another season."

Emi made a face, but she didn’t seem hurt. "That tracks."

There was a lull. Norah tried to picture two people out there in some alternate world, spending their time ranking her, Emi, and Andy like a bunch of reality show contestants. The thought made her want to scream, but also—it was kind of comforting. If she was going to be reduced to tropes, better to be the bitch than the doormat.

"So, what are we supposed to do with this?" Norah asked, waving at the tablet. "Just live knowing we’re a series of bullet points?"

Arabella smiled the closed-lip smile of someone who’d just been handed a live grenade at a formal luncheon. "Not quite, Norah. The point, I suppose, is that you’re free to respond. They’ve asked for a rebuttal."

"You want us to… reply to our own performance review?" Norah asked.

"If you like," Arabella said. She slid the tablet onto the coffee table. Its screen glowed with the word “Review” in Comic Sans, which was either a deliberate choice or the universe’s way of reminding everyone that all existence is a joke.

Emi craned her neck to look. "Can I…?"

"Go wild," Arabella said, and made a slight, regal gesture as if setting the hounds upon a fox.

Norah leaned in, then made a face. "Okay, you want to read this together or…?"

"I’ll do voices," Emi said.

And she did, starting with the opening lines, giving each imaginary reviewer a distinct inflection: one nasal and fast, the other low and matter-of-fact. The review was long, a rambling hybrid of pop-culture references, genuine emotional engagement, and occasional threats to self-harm when the narrative veered into melodrama. Emi pointed to one of the earliest lines. "Marcie says: ‘Gina, please. We can read a wholesome story once in a while.' I think Marcie’s rooting for us."

Norah raised her beer. "Good to know the world’s not totally fucked up, only Gina. To you, Gina, wherever you are. Fuck yourself with a cactus."

Emi giggled, then went back to the tablet. They read in silence for a while, only breaking when one or the other burst out with a comment. The reviewers, Marcie and Gina, had clearly read way too many seasons of the HH. They kept referencing people—Hardric, the “cow guy,” the “other Kim,” even a “Royal Gambler”—as if Norah and Emi were supposed to know what the hell any of that meant.

"Did we ever have a cow guy?" Emi asked.

Norah shook her head. "I think that’s just a metaphor. Or maybe not. This place is weird enough."

Emi made a face, then returned to reading. They went back and forth for another page, pausing whenever a particularly sharp dig or meta joke landed.

"‘If this goes in the direction I think it is going I have to kill someone.’" Norah said, clutching her chest in mock despair. "Wow. Not even a trigger warning? Cancelled. Cancelled forever."

Emi snorted. "I liked how they write as if the existential trauma was a technical error."

"Yeah," Norah agreed, adopting a nasal, Gina-esque (she assumed) whine: "How dare you make me feel things, author. Next you’ll tell me the girls have feelings. Ugh."

Emi looked at the ceiling, as if considering the cosmic injustice. "My favorite line," she said, "is, ‘Like, I can’t even give half of them a title! Where’s the brat? The sex-lover? The tradwife? The brainiac? The boss? The psycho?’ Like, okay, but isn’t that just… the point?"

Norah shrugged. "You can’t win. Either it’s just horny nonsense, or it’s non-standard horny nonsense. Meanwhile, I’m over here with real problems. For example, does anyone want my lemon rice?"

Emi looked at her with mock indignation. “I made it for you! I thought you ate it!”

They dissolved into giggles, the kind that made Emi wheeze and Norah almost spill her beer. But underneath the laughter, Norah felt a twinge—because yeah, it sucked that people in another world were laughing at Andy’s pain, at Laura’s ****, at the way the world sometimes just sucks and there’s nothing you can do about it. But it was also true that The HH was a little like high school, except with more nudity and fewer consequences.

Emi, still smiling, wiped a tear from her eye. "Okay, but can we talk about Marcie’s thing for Andy in a Hawaiian shirt?"

Norah rolled her eyes. "Is that a kink? Is that a thing now?"

Arabella, who had been observing from the periphery with the polite silence of a spy at a funeral, coughed delicately. "If it helps, I do try to encourage Andy to vary his wardrobe. But there are limitations."

"Why? You could just snap your fingers and give us anything," Norah said.

"Yes," Arabella said. "But I can’t give Andy a wholly new sense of style."

Emi tapped the tablet. "It says, ‘Marcie bites her lip in that generic way women do in aftershave commercials.’ Which, like, okay. But the way Andy was dressed on the first day? That’s not even a porn archetype, that’s just… barbecue dad chic."

Norah made a face, but also couldn’t help picturing it, and—regrettably—had to admit it worked. "He does look good in a floral print. I’ll give her that."

"Did you see the part where they say my last name was stolen from another contestant’s first name?" Emi said.

Norah glanced at her. "Yeah. Like, there’s a warehouse full of Kims and Dawns and they just crank’em out with new faces every season."

Emi set a tile down, a perfect fit. "Isn’t that sort of creepy, though? Like, what if there’s a version of me somewhere else, and she’s named Kim Emi, but her life is totally different?"

Norah leaned back, feeling the couch threaten to swallow her whole. "Maybe she’s not even in the HH. Maybe she’s, like, an accountant in Fresno."

Emi grinned, but there was a trace of real melancholy behind it. "Or she’s in another harem show, but instead of six arms she has… tentacles?"

Norah nearly choked. "Don’t give them ideas. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about reality shows, it’s that every season gets weirder."

Emi poked her in the arm. "You think there’s a version of you that’s happy to be here?"

Norah shrugged. "Probably. Maybe that Norah is the fun one. Maybe she’s not even a chili pepper, just, like, mild salsa."

They giggled together, the kind of laughter that came from having spent too many hours with only each other for company. From the corner of her eye, Norah caught Arabella watching them with that sly, Mona Lisa expression, as if they were the only two people on the island who didn’t realize the cameras were still rolling.

"Do you ever feel like," Emi said, "we’re only here to amuse somebody else?"

Norah deadpanned, "I mean, the evidence is pretty damning."

Arabella cleared her throat, and they both turned to her. "Ladies," she said, "I do hope you realize how rare it is to see such self-awareness in contestants. If only more of you would spiral so productively."

Norah couldn’t tell if that was a compliment, but it felt like one. Emi snickered, then said, "At least they both mention us as standing out. Honestly, I think we both deserve awards. The things we’ve been through? Our character development? Should’ve gotten an Oscar. At the very least, Best Kidnapped Supporting Actress."

Norah laughed., then got suddenly, weirdly serious. "Do you think they know what it’s actually like, going through all that? Having your body rewired, your brain rebooted, and then being told it’s for someone else’s pleasure?"

Emi grew thoughtful, the way she did whenever she was about to say something devastatingly honest. "I don’t think anyone who hasn’t lived it could ever really understand." She paused, then added, "But you know what? I’d rather have six arms than be trapped in a painting forever."

That got Norah’s attention. "Wait, what?"

Emi pointed. "This part here about Katherine? You know that painting with the naked woman in the field, in Andy’s bedroom? I saw a replica in the Museum of Pleasures Past.”

Norah shivered, remembering the painting from the suite, the way Katherine seemed to follow you no matter where you walked. "You think that’s—"

Emi nodded, sadly. "I think it’s an eliminated contestant."

For a second, Norah was quiet. She hadn’t given much thought to what happened to contestants after they were eliminated, but the idea that someone could be turned into art—literally immortalized, but totally stuck—gave her a fresh wave of respect for every woman who’d ever risked the HH.

"I’d go nuts," Norah said. "Just standing there, forever."

Emi shuddered. "And she can’t even move. Or cover herself."

"Maybe she’s not aware," Norah said, her voice lower than usual. "But fuck, she was someone before this."

"Yeah," Emi said softly. "Like us."

The two of them sat in silence, picking at the rice, until Norah decided she’d had enough of introspection.

She looked up at Arabella, who was watching them with that mild, amused detachment.

"So, question," Norah said. "What’s with the ring?"

Arabella blinked, surprised. "Excuse me?"

"The ring these two fuckers mention," Norah said, pointing to the simple gold band on Arabella’s right hand. "We’ve been here for weeks and I’ve never noticed you wear it until now."

Arabella smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made you think she was hiding something. "Oh, that. It’s not important. Not in the author’s top ten priorities, anyway."

Emi leaned in, eyes wide. "So you’re not going to tell us?"

Arabella’s smile widened, becoming almost mischievous. "Maybe in another universe. Or another season."

The table went quiet, and Norah tried not to think about how many secrets the Host was still keeping. It was easier to focus on the food, or the sound of Emi’s fork scraping against the bowl, or the strange comfort of having someone to share the mystery with.

Emi, who had been thinking about it as she finished reading the review, said, "Hey, did Marcie and Gina ever get to see the after-challenge party?"

Arabella shook her head. "They stopped at the end of the first round. Prematurely, if you ask me."

Norah snorted. "Figures. Always the people who leave early that complain about the pacing. They missed the best part."

Emi nodded. "Honestly, if they’d just kept reading, they would have gotten their, um… 'exxxtra value pack.'"

She made air quotes, and Norah couldn’t help but laugh. "I bet if they skipped to round two, they’d go ‘it’s just wall-to-wall drama and sex and, like, everyone’s traumas are suddenly resolved.’"

"That’s how you keep the readers," Emi said, sage and solemn. "Hook them with grief, reel them in with sex."

Arabella interjected, "I believe that’s the network’s official policy."

Norah grinned, then asked, "So who did they pick as their favorites?"

Emi’s eyes sparkled. "I’m Gina’s favorite."

Norah wrinkled her nose. "That’s a little weird, but congrats."

Emi beamed, then turned to Norah. "Marcie picked… Katherine. Which I guess is fine, but, um, she’s a painting?"

Norah rolled her eyes. "Classic. I risk my life, lose my dignity, and the critics still pick the inanimate object over me."

Emi patted her hand. "I would pick you."

Norah said, "Well, fuck you, Marcie. I’ll see if Erin can loan you Sir Spikes."

Emi giggled, then added, "But if they wanted more sex, all they had to do was keep reading. Maybe we should send them a demo video."

Arabella deadpanned, "I’ll make a note of it for the next round."

Norah, staring at the ceiling, said, "I still can’t believe they called you 'witty and professional,' Arabella."

Arabella inclined her head. "I am nothing if not consistent."

Emi smiled, then looked at Norah. "You know what? I’m glad we got reviewed."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Emi said. "It means someone is watching. And look, they said we are ‘adequate’ and ‘not vomit-inducing!’"

Norah snorted. "That’s probably the best review we’ll ever get."

They both laughed, and even Arabella allowed herself a genuine smile.

The world was strange, and the future uncertain, but for now, it was enough to be seen—even by the harshest critics.