Day 2: Claire (The Piano Recital)

Rebekah meets you outside the auditorium, looking surprisingly low-key — black sweater, fitted jeans, clean sneakers.

But as you take your seat, she leans in and mutters, “Claire better be worth it. I cancelled scrims for this. Last time I put this much effort into prep I was in tournament warpaint with killstreak eyeliner and a headset that cost more than my car.”

You glance at her. “I’ve seen your car. I figured it was a freebie.”

She grins, enjoying the jab. “Whatever. This girl still better fuck that piano like it owes her rent.”Eyes open,” she murmurs, flipping open her phone and pretending to use the came like she’s checking her makeup while secretly lining up to record Claire’s performance. She’s getting footage on her opponent, you realize. “Third piece. Watch her throat, the tip of her tongue, her hands when they come off the keys. Most of all—watch for the flutter.”

You don't ask what that means. You just nod. And wait.

The recital begins with a rustle of programs and shifting hips. Claire walks on stage in a floor-length black gown, fitted but not revealing. Her hair is tied in a tight bun, not a single strand daring rebellion. Her posture is pure discipline.

She bows. She sits. She begins.

The first piece is Bach. Precise. Unyielding. Like a clockwork dancer. It’s technically perfect, and emotionally barren.

Rebekah doesn’t even blink.

The second piece shifts tone. Romantic, flowing. Her hands soften. Her shoulders loosen. She sways a little, just a little, to the rhythm. When it ends, her eyes linger on the keys for half a breath before she bows again.

Then comes the third.

Claire’s own composition.

She doesn’t announce it. Just begins.

The music breathes with her—hypnotic, with a pulsing left-hand rhythm that rises and dips like breath. Her right hand dances across the keys, teasing phrases and melodies that climb and fall. There’s something aching in the structure, like restraint bending toward a crack.

And that’s when it begins.

Her back arches—barely. Her lips part. Her eyes close, not in focus but in feeling. She’s playing harder now, pressing into each note like it costs her. Her jaw tenses. Her breathing shifts.

Rebekah leans toward you.

“This is it,” she whispers. “The climax IS her climax.”

And sure enough— The final chord hits. Sustained. Hanging.

Claire’s face trembles. She pauses. Her thighs clench subtly, unseen by anyone who doesn’t know exactly what they’re seeing. Her head tips back a hair too far for modesty, then jerks back into place. She holds the last note for three eternal seconds. Then it ends. Silence embraces her. But from your seat you think you hear her slight gasp.

You’re not sure she’s still breathing until she rises. The applause is thunderous. Claire bows. Once. Twice. She doesn’t smile. She walks off like a soldier leaving the battlefield, tight and composed… but her fingers twitch at her sides.

And you? You’re stunned. You weren’t watching a pianist. You were watching a woman… reach a crescendo. In front of an audience of ninety. And no one noticed but you.

Well— You and Rebekah.

Afterwards, the two of you loiter by the stage door like groupies without a poster to sign. Eventually, Claire exits with a few well-wishers. She nods politely, thanks someone for flowers, and turns down a dinner invitation with a gentle shake of her head.

Rebekah elbows you.

“There,” she says, low and sure. “The dazed walk. The flush. The soft knees. She’s post-orgasmic and hiding it like a nun with a vibrator. Tomorrow? We blow this open.”

You don’t speak. You can still hear the music. Still see the flutter. And now you see what Rebekah saw. You’d been skeptical when watching some of the videos she sent. She’d seemed normal, just intensely focused. Others had been more obvious, but this was undeniable.

Your mind drifts back to her bio card. Kinkiness 22 and they think all she’s into is oral? She MIGHT enjoy that, you consider, especially since that’s how Tank scored with her, but they have SERIOUSLY underestimated this woman.

And you would have too…

…if not for Rebekah.

At night you log on to the game’s group chat again. The first thing that catches your eye is the list of current participants: Rhett, several members of the game stuff you’ve seen from previous weeks and assume to be editors, camera crew and the like, yourself, Milo, Cassie, Graham, Simon, Rebekah (Strategic Advisor) and Selene (Strategic Advisor). You frown at the breach of privacy in allowing two people not directly involved in the game into the chat.

Cassie Li: When, exactly, did we start allowing non-players into the player lounge?

Rhett: When the so-called "non-players" started shaping rounds harder than half the board.

Their access has been authorized.

Cassie Li: Access is one thing. Strategic involvement is another. I’d like clarification on their status.

Rourke: Granted. Selene and Rebekah operate as strategic proxies under faculty and board awareness. If the game adapts to ambition, so must its permissions.

Selene: Oh, Cassie. Still clinging to rules? Control’s only real when someone wants to take it from you.

Cassie Li: I don’t cling. I choose. That’s what separates refinement from recklessness. Mentioning choice, is your boy primed yet for our ‘date’?

Selene: Of course. He knows his place.

Milo: Can you at least not talk about me like I’m not here.

Selene: Be quiet, ****, the adults are talking.

Rhett: Ouch.

Graham: This is what happens when you lose control of your own deals, Milo.

Rebekah: It sounds like you two are having fun… Milo too if I’m reading his objection correctly. Player one and I have scouted the battlefield, and are ready to begin deploying our strike **** tomorrow.

Cassie: You made a 2 glow a couple of weeks ago, fresher, now you’re putting the shine on a 3? Do you have something interesting planned?

You: Wait for the summary and see. Let’s just say this won’t be the first time a playing card was very wrong.

Selene: Play her right… And you’ll hear her scream in seven sharps. She is a music student after all.

You: Haha! I’m saying nothing but… wait and see how accurate your joke is.

Rhett: Alright, enough foreshadowing. Good luck with the rest of the week. It sounds like our next game show should be… enlightening.