I am the most miserable man on the internet. Three years in the industry. While others sell smiles and sparkling charm, I market my own gloom. The public calls me dramatic, a fraud, a desperate attention-seeker. My agent begs me: “Man, can you stop playing the tortured artist every time you’re on camera? Your follower count is cratering.” My parents urge me to walk away: “We have enough money. Just quit.” My girlfriend sent me one final text before she blocked my number: “I love you, but I can’t build a life with a man who doesn’t know how to smile.” I ignored them all. Not because I wanted to cultivate some dark, moody persona for the aesthetic, but because of a curse. Before my grandfather died, his skeletal fingers clamped around my wrist like a vice, whispering a terrifying prophecy: “Before you reach adulthood, you will face eighteen deadly trials.” At first, I didn’t believe him. But after surviving one brush with death after another, year after year, the skepticism burned away, leaving only cold, hard certainty. Now, seventeen of those trials are behind me. The shadow hanging over my chest has finally begun to lift. But a week before my eighteenth birthday, my agency suddenly signed me up for a wilderness survival reality show. 1 “Beck, what is the big deal if you let Cyrus borrow your survival pack?” My agent, Gideon, stood in the doorway of the green room, his hand outstretched with effortless entitlement. I pressed my back against the cold, unyielding drywall, my fingers white-knuckled around the waterproof black canvas of my pack. “This is my personal gear,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of warmth. “According to my contract, I don’t share.” “Can you lose the corpse face for five minutes?” Gideon’s patience snapped. He took a sharp step forward, reaching for the bag. “The internet is tearing you to shreds for being a selfish prima donna. This show is your chance to clear your name. Don’t you get that?” I didn’t move an inch. I merely pivoted, letting his hand grasp empty air. Clear my name? In my playbook, public relations didn’t matter. Only survival did. Next week, I would turn eighteen. The final trial my grandfather warned me about was looming, a guillotine suspended by a thread. Getting thrown into a tropical rainforest for a survival show at this exact moment felt less like a career move and more like a carefully orchestrated execution. There was no way in hell I was parting with a bag I had personally inspected twelve times. “Gideon, please don’t force him.” The voice was bright, clear, and dripping with performative warmth. Cyrus Novak, the golden boy of the network, stepped into the room. He was dressed in pristine, high-end technical outerwear, his face—the one fans routinely called ‘the human sunshine’—pinched in a look of perfect, sympathetic distress. “My pack got lost in transit, but it’s really fine. Even without gear, I can manage in the jungle. I’ll make do.” He walked over, looking up at me with eyes so earnest it made my stomach turn. “Beck has been struggling, and he’s always so… heavy. He needs these things to feel safe. I want him to have them.” Gideon’s face softened instantly, morphing into a mask of maternal concern. “Cyrus, you are far too good for your own good. You’re about to shoot a blockbuster film with an Oscar-winning director next month. If you get hurt out there, who pays for it?” Gideon whipped his gaze back to me, eyes spitting venom. “Beck, I am telling you one last time. Give him the bag.” “And I’m telling you,” I replied, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, “no.” In the blind spot where the production cameras couldn’t reach, a flash of pure, venomous malice crossed Cyrus’s eyes. It was gone in a fraction of a second, replaced by a gentle tug on Gideon’s sleeve. “Gideon, let it go. I know Beck has some resentment toward me—he thinks I took his spots, his endorsements. But I’ve always admired him. Everyone drags him online, but his mental strength is incredible. He just does what he wants.” The words were wrapped in compliments, but each one was a calculated strike. He was framing my boundaries as petty jealousy, and my caution as sheer obstinacy. Sure enough, the crew members lingering in the hallway began to whisper. “Jesus, Beck is unbelievable. No wonder his girl packed her bags.” “Cyrus is being a saint, and Beck is still acting like a sociopath.” “Wait till the livestream starts. The chat is going to eat him alive.” The whispers floated through the door, sharp and clear. But my expression didn’t change. I survived my first seventeen trials in the quiet spaces of other people’s mockery. When I was six, I refused to board the school bus. My parents whipped me for it. Thirty minutes later, that bus plunged off a mountain pass. When I was thirteen, I refused to eat a slice of cake my cousin handed me. The family called me ungrateful and rude. The next day, the cake was found to be contaminated with rat poison. So no, I didn’t believe in human kindness. I didn’t trust smiles. I trusted the antivenom, the broad-spectrum antibiotics, and the three distinct tactical knives packed neatly inside my bag. “Cyrus, stop coddling him!” Gideon snapped, lunging forward to wrench the bag from my hand. “He’s handing it over today, whether he likes it or not!” I caught Gideon’s wrist. I didn’t shake him off; I just squeezed, my fingers finding the pressure points with clinical precision. Gideon gasped, a sharp yelp of pain escaping his throat as his grip failed. “You touched me?” he hissed, cradling his wrist, staring at me as if I’d grown a second head. “This bag is my life,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Anyone who touches it gets hurt.” Cyrus immediately rushed to Gideon’s side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, his eyes wide with a perfect mixture of shock and heartbreak. “Beck, that’s enough! Gideon was just trying to look out for the production. How could you be so violent?” Just like that, he branded me the loose cannon. The aggressor. I looked at his flawless, lying face. “Cut the act,” I said softly. 2 “Beck!” Cyrus’s eyes welled with tears, his shoulders trembling like a startled fawn. “I honestly don’t know what I did to make you hate me this much. If it’s about the Best Newcomer award… I’m sorry. I really am.” He bowed his head, a gesture of profound, submissive apology. And right at that moment, the door swung wide. The camera crew stepped in, their lenses catching the final frame of his sorrow. The livestream was officially live. In seconds, the chat overlay on the production monitor turned into a blinding blizzard of hate. “Oh my god! Why is our sweet Cyrus bowing to that freak?” “Is Beck terrorizing people again? Why is he still employed?” “Cancel him! Cancel him now! I can’t stand his miserable face.” “Cyrus is too pure for this world. My heart is breaking.” Seeing the red recording light, Gideon leaped into his role. He cradled his wrist, wincing with a look of stoic endurance. “Beck, we all know you’re going through a dark time. We know about your depression. But Cyrus has no survival gear. The jungle is lethal. How can you sit there and watch him go in unprotected?” It was a brilliant trap. He had just painted me as a cold, calculating monster to millions of live viewers. I turned to the lens. My pulse was steady. My voice held no tremor. “The contract states that the production team provides standard gear. If a participant loses theirs, it is their responsibility to request a replacement. My bag contains specific medical supplies tailored to my physiological needs. If Cyrus needs gear, the network can overnight him a set. This is a cheap attempt at emotional blackmail to steal private property.” My logic was airtight, but logic is useless against a mob. “It’s just some medicine, you psycho! If anything happens to Cyrus, your life wouldn’t be enough to pay for it!” “So selfish. Why is this trash still on our screens?” Cyrus wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s fine. I don’t blame Beck. I’m a man. I can take care of myself and look out for the others.” He turned to the camera, offering his signature, heart-melting smile. “Please don’t be mean to Beck, everyone. He’s just… scared.” With a few sentences, he cemented his status as the brave, forgiving martyr. The director’s voice crackled urgently through Gideon’s earpiece, demanding we move. Within the hour, the six of us were packed into a helicopter, flying toward the dense, suffocating green canopy of the rainforest. The roar of the rotors was deafening. Cyrus sat directly across from me. When the camera panned toward the window, he caught my eye, his lips moving silently to form four distinct words: “You. Are. Dead. Meat.” I stared back, my expression flat. I reached down, my thumb brushing the tiny micro-tracker concealed inside the cuff of my sleeve. Seventeen trials had taught me one fundamental truth: When someone shows you who they are, you don’t argue. You map out their path to destruction. The helicopter touched down in a muddy clearing, and the nightmare began. Our first task was setting up camp. Cyrus immediately went to work, embodying his “sunshine boy” persona. He took on the heaviest branches, helped Mallory—a rising starlet who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else—pitch her tent, and kept everyone laughing. The camp was thick with praise for him. “Cyrus is literally a lifesaver.” “I know, right? Unlike some people who just sit under a tree holding their precious little bag like a security blanket.” Mallory threw a disgusted look my way. I ignored her. My eyes were busy scanning the topography, calculating the potential angle of a mudslide if the looming clouds decided to burst. This was my survival protocol. That evening, food was rationed. Cyrus was in charge of distributing the limited survival bars provided by the crew. He broke them into small pieces, handing them out with careful, equitable grace. When he reached me, his hand slipped. The bar tumbled directly into a puddle of thick, black mud. “Oh no!” Cyrus gasped, his face instantly falling into a mask of deep regret. “Beck, I am so sorry. My hands are just so sweaty from the work. Here…” He knelt down, reaching for the mud-covered bar. “Maybe… if you wipe it off, it’s still edible? We don’t have much else.” Mallory stood up immediately, her voice sharp. “Cyrus, don’t apologize to him! He didn’t even try to catch it! If he doesn’t want to eat, let him starve.” I looked at the ruined food, then at the tiny, triumphant glint in Cyrus’s eyes. “Don’t bother,” I said. I stood up, hoisting my pack. “I’m going to scout the perimeter.” I walked into the darkening wall of the jungle. Behind me, Cyrus’s voice drifted through the trees, heavy with feigned concern. “Beck, it’s pitch black out there! Don’t go far, it’s dangerous!” I didn’t look back. Because the moment I stepped out of their line of sight, I pulled down my night-vision goggles. The lens flared, and I looked back at the muddy bar left in the dirt. Coating the surface of the chocolate was a very fine, pale yellow powder. I knew exactly what it was: the powdered dander of the golden-fringe moth, a rare rainforest insect. Ingesting even a microgram of it would trigger a violent, acute asthmatic attack within an hour, followed by asphyxiation. My eighteenth trial had officially begun. 3 The next morning, a blood-curdling shriek shattered the quiet of the camp. “Get it off! Get them away from me!” Mallory tumbled out of her tent, scrambling through the dirt on her hands and knees. Three brightly banded coral snakes were coiled near the entrance of her tent, their small heads swaying, tongues tasting the humid air. Cyrus was the first to act. Armed with a thick branch, he stepped between Mallory and the snakes, keeping his voice steady and calm as he guided her back and coaxed the serpents into the thick brush. “Don’t panic. I’ve got you. Just move slowly.” He looked like a hero straight out of a classic adventure film. Mallory threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest. “Cyrus, thank god. Thank god you were here.” The livestream chat erupted. “Oh my god, he’s literally a prince! Look at how he protected her!” “My heart is beating so fast. He is so brave.” “Where is that useless dark cloud Beck? Is he still sleeping?” All eyes turned toward my tent. The flap was zipped shut. No sound came from inside. Gideon marched over, slamming his fist against the fabric. “Beck! Are you dead in there? Something this massive happens and you can’t even bother to step out? Where is your team spirit?” I unzipped the flap and stepped out, entirely unbothered. I was wearing full-coverage, snake-resistant gaiters and thick canvas sleeves. In my hand, I held a small glass vial. “I’m not dead,” I said, scanning the crowd. “But if I hadn’t stepped out, you might be.” I walked over to Mallory’s tent, crouching down. I pointed to a faint, greasy white residue smeared along the bottom seam of the nylon. “This is snake-attractant paste.” I looked up at Cyrus, my gaze freezing him in place. “Last night, someone went out of their way to paint this around the campsite.” The clearing went dead silent. Cyrus’s expression faltered for a microsecond before smoothing back into his trademark innocence. “Beck, what are you talking about? Attractant paste? This is a rainforest. Snakes live here.” He laughed softly, looking around for support. “You can’t just make up wild conspiracy theories because you’re terrified of the dark.” Mallory chimed in, her voice shrill with indignation. “Exactly! You didn’t do a single thing to help, and now you’re trying to scare everyone! If someone put paste out, why didn’t they get bitten?” I ignored them both. I held up the glass vial. “Because of this.” Inside the vial was a crushed green weed I had harvested from the deep brush during my midnight walk. “This is viper-grass, a plant whose natural oils neutralize the paste’s scent. Unfortunately for the person who smeared the paste, the wind shifted last night. They ended up spreading the scent onto Mallory’s tent—and mine.” I kept my eyes locked on Cyrus’s twitching gaze. “If I hadn’t anticipated this and coated my tent with the crushed viper-grass, the snakes would have been inside my sleeping bag by midnight.” The weight of my words sat heavily in the damp air. Gideon stepped in, red-faced and shouting. “Beck, you are officially losing your mind! Cyrus was exhausted yesterday. He slept like a log. Where would he even get snake paste? You need professional help!” Cyrus took a step back, his eyes swimming with tears. “Beck… if you hate me this much, just say it. But don’t accuse me of trying to kill people. I just wanted to keep everyone safe.” His trembling voice rallied the other male contestants. They stepped forward, closing ranks around him. “Apologize to him, Beck!” “Seriously, he’s a toxic element in this camp. We need to kick him out.” I looked at the group of easily manipulated fools. No anger. No disappointment. Just cold evaluation. Apologize? I’d send him a wreath for his funeral. “Believe whatever you want,” I said, turning back to my tent to pack my gear. “I’m leaving the group. I’ll survive on my own.” This was always my preferred path. Staying with these people only increased the variables of my eighteenth trial. “Good! Go! Nobody wants you here!” Mallory yelled. But Cyrus took a step forward, blocking my path. “Beck, no.” He looked deeply concerned, his eyes wide with noble responsibility. “It’s too dangerous out there alone. You won’t make it. We’re a team. I can’t just let you go off to die.” He looked at the camera lens, his expression resolute. “Even if you hate me, I’m responsible for you.” I looked at the disgusting display. “Move,” I said. 4 “Beck! Show some damn respect!” Gideon shoved his way between us, standing protectively in front of Cyrus. “Cyrus is trying to save your ungrateful skin, and this is how you treat him? If you want to leave so badly, fine.” He pointed to my pack. “Leave the group supplies behind, and you can rot in the jungle for all I care.” I looked at him, my expression dead. “I’ve told you once. This is my personal gear.” “Your bag has the broad-spectrum antibiotics and the water purification tablets!” Mallory shrieked from behind them. “The team actually needs those!” Cyrus sighed, playing the peacemaker once again. “Gideon, Mallory, let it go. Beck is fragile. He needs those things more than we do. We’ll just have to work harder to find a clean spring.” The more he conceded, the more the others hated me. It was a textbook execution of social isolation. No weapons, no direct violence—just letting the collective weight of the group crush me. “No way!” Gideon barked. “If you don’t leave the supplies, you aren’t leaving this clearing.” Two of the other male contestants shifted their weight, blocking my exit path. I calculated my odds in a physical altercation. One hundred percent. But physical violence would trigger a production intervention, and the moment the crew stepped in, I would lose control of the narrative. I would be disqualified, sent back, and my survival would be at the mercy of outside forces. I reached into my bag, pulled out the heavy plastic case of medical supplies, and tossed it into the mud at their feet. “If you want them that badly, take them,” I said, my voice as casual as if I were discarding a wrapper. They all froze, caught off guard by how easily I surrendered. Cyrus’s eyes widened in brief surprise, which quickly melted into quiet satisfaction. He thought he had finally broken me. “Beck, remember, you gave this up voluntarily. No one forced you,” he said, his voice dripping with faux-sweetness. I didn’t answer. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked into the green dark of the jungle without looking back. The silence of the jungle was different from the silence of the city. Here, the damp earth breathed, and every rustle of the canopy was a reminder of my own fragile existence. For two days, I was entirely alone. I followed the contingency plans I had spent my childhood memorizing, mapping out water sources, laying simple snare traps, and constructing a small, high-altitude shelter. It was peaceful, in a way. No cameras. No forced smiles. No Cyrus whispering poison under the guise of concern. Yet, the quiet was deceptive. I knew my eighteenth trial wouldn’t end with snake paste or poisoned chocolate. The universe, or whatever malicious force had pursued me for eighteen years, was just catching its breath. On the afternoon of the third day, the air turned heavy. The sky bruised into a dark purple, and the clouds opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour. In the rainforest, rain of this scale is a death sentence. The clay soil quickly liquefies, and flash floods can tear through ravines in minutes. From my elevated shelter, I was safe. But on the portable receiver I had synced to the production’s emergency channel, I could hear the chaos at the main camp. They were flooded. Cyrus was leading the group toward the high cliffs to the north. It was a massive mistake. The cliffs had no tree cover to buffer the mudslides, and the sheer rock face would be slick as ice. A single slip meant a hundred-foot drop onto jagged limestone. He wasn’t saving them; he was leading them into a slaughterhouse. And I had to go. Because the cliffs were the only route the rescue helicopters could reach in this weather. If I didn’t make it to that clearing, I would be trapped in the valley, cut off from any exit. I pulled on my heavy weather gear, checked my harness, and headed straight into the storm toward the cliffs. When I arrived at the base of the rock face, they were already attempting to scale it using a single, frayed climbing rope. Cyrus claimed the production team had left it there as an emergency line. Gideon and Mallory were already near the top, huddled on a narrow ledge. Cyrus was at the bottom, preparing to climb. When he saw me emerge from the rain, his face went white. “Beck? How are you here?” he yelled over the roar of the wind, his voice losing its polished charm. “Get up here! It’s too dangerous down there!” He stepped aside, gesturing to the rope. “You go first. I’ll spot you from below.” 5 I looked at the rope swaying violently in the gale. The rope itself was professional-grade nylon, but right where it curved over the sharp lip of the cliff, the sheath had been deliberately sliced. A clean, surgical cut. The moment a grown man’s full weight hung on it for more than sixty seconds, the core would snap. Cyrus, is this your grand finale? I let out a cold, breathy laugh. “Sure,” I said. I grabbed the rope and began to climb. Below me, Cyrus watched, his face twisting into a silent grin of pure anticipation. When I reached the halfway point, suspended fifteen yards above the rocky valley floor, a sharp, wet “pop” echoed through the ravine. The nylon outer layer split. “Oh my god!” Mallory screamed from the ledge above. “Beck, the rope is snapping! Get down! Get down!” Gideon roared. I didn’t stop. I kept climbing. Below, Cyrus let out a frantic cry. “Beck, jump! I’ll catch you!” But his eyes were wide, hungry for the sound of my bones breaking against the rocks. “Snap.” The main load-bearing core sheared completely. My body plummeted. The stomach-churning sensation of freefall took over. The wind screamed in my ears. Below me, Cyrus’s face illuminated with the savage joy of a man who had finally won. But a fraction of a second before I hit the ground, I pulled the secondary release cord on my chest harness. “Thwip.” A high-tensile, military-grade steel cable shot from my belt, anchoring itself deep into a crevice in the rock face with a loud, metallic strike. My descent stopped instantly. The sudden deceleration jerked my spine, but the harness held. I swung gently in the air, suspended safe and sound, a foot above the jagged rocks. The ravine went dead silent, save for the pounding rain. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked up. Cyrus’s triumphant grin was frozen, his mouth half-open, looking at me as if I were a ghost. Using the mechanical ascender on my harness, I pulled myself up to a stable ledge near the top. I looked down at him from my high vantage point. “Cyrus,” I called out, my voice cutting through the storm. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you cutting the core of the line?” I spat a mouthful of rainwater onto the rocks. “Your little game ends today.” Thunder cracked, and a flash of lightning illuminated his pale, terrified face. The golden boy’s mask had finally shattered. “Beck… what are you talking about?” he stammered, trying desperately to cling to his innocence. “The rope was old. It was an accident. How could you accuse me of that? You don’t have any proof!” On the ledge above, Gideon found his voice, screaming over the wind. “Beck, you are insane! Cyrus let you go first out of the goodness of his heart, and you’re trying to blame him for a faulty rope?” Mallory was shivering, clinging to Gideon’s wet jacket. “He’s a lunatic! Just leave him! Let’s get out of here!” Even now, they chose to believe the lie. To them, I was just the broken, paranoid kid who saw monsters everywhere. I stood stable on the ledge and reached into my inner, waterproof pocket, pulling out a small, black metal square. It was a military-spec, all-weather recording device. “Proof?” I said. I looked down at Cyrus. “Do you really think I left the camp just to get some peace and quiet?” I pressed the play button. The device was hooked to a high-decibel, waterproof speaker. A voice, clear and cold, cut through the rain.
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