Brandon tipped an imaginary hat.
“Happy to be the sacrificial creep,” he said. “My contract said ‘humiliating exit’, not ‘subtle one’.”
“You’ll get your bonus wire tomorrow,” Henry said. “For now, you’re done. No stepping back into frame. You were eliminated. Stay eliminated. In fact, kindly disappear, never to be seen on this property again, and do it pronto.”
Brandon gave a lazy salute.
“Copy that, boss.”
He clapped me on the shoulder as he passed.
“Good luck,” he murmured. “She’s got more spine than the other ones. I like her.”
I didn’t answer. When the door shut behind him, Henry straightened.
“Gentlemen,” he said, pitching his voice into that calm, authoritative register, “this is your final reminder: you are not here to win. You are only here, being paid very well, mind you, to make the Game look believable. No one freelance-seduces Chrissy Jones. No one suddenly grows a conscience. You flirt, you brood, you banter, you posture. You do not try to steal the spotlight from Number Seven.”
A couple of them glanced at me.
I kept my expression blank.
“Your job is to muddy the water,” Henry went on. “She needs to see nine viable options, nine different temperaments. She needs to see tension between you. Rivalry. Ego. Not incompetence. Not obvious villainy.”
One of the guys — Number Three, a lean guy with dark brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and a SAG card — raised a hand.
“Regarding our lines about the groundskeeper,” he began, “Are we still leaning on the ‘he’s beneath you’ angle or backing off since he volunteered?”
“You can throw the occasional jab,” Henry said. “But you are not to openly question his promotion to the position of number eighteen’s partner. Mr. Stonewood’s decision stands. The help was allowed into the Game. If you overplay your resentment, it’ll look like we’re trying to steer her away from him, and she’ll dig in out of spite.”
“She already digs in out of spite,” I muttered.
Henry ignored me.
“One more thing,” he said. “Masks stay on until you’re told otherwise. You’re numbers. Not names. Not backstories. If she asks personal questions, deflect, or answer in vague archetypes. You’re here to be types, not individuals.”
A chorus of nods.
Henry turned to me last.
“Seven.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re Jacob until the moment this is all over,” he said. “To her, to them, to anyone in earshot. No slips. No indulgent hints.”
I inclined my head once.
He studied me for a beat longer, then stepped aside and checked his watch.
“Places in five,” he said. “Dining room doors open at seven-thirty. Remember: tonight is optics and vibes. No one wins, but anyone is up for elimination. Are you ready?”
The actors filtered out in twos and threes, masks on, laughter low and performative.
I was the last one left.
Henry waited until the room was empty, then spoke without looking at me.
“You ready?” he asked.
