-wakeupnfuck- Viola Bailey- Apolonia Lapiedra -... -

Viola’s card read: Choose your signature recipe. The audience will rate it. The loser cleans the infinity pool. By hand.

Apolonia Lapiedra stood by the espresso machine, already dressed in crisp white linen trousers and a black sleeveless top. She looked like she’d stepped out of a minimalist architecture digest, not a bed. She held up her own wrist, displaying the same mark.

Viola and the redhead—who introduced herself as Bailey, just Bailey—joined her at the window. The city below was pristine. Gleaming towers, lush vertical gardens, and streets filled with silent, electric vehicles. On the side of the opposite building, a massive digital billboard cycled through three images: their faces. -WakeUpNFuck- Viola Bailey- Apolonia Lapiedra -...

It wasn't a terrified scream. More of a startled, indignant yelp.

Then, the scream.

And in that penthouse, suspended above an unknown city, three strangers stopped being contestants and started being collaborators. The first episode of had just begun—and the world was already refreshing its feed.

Before she could answer, a third voice, dry as a martini and laced with a Spanish accent, cut through the morning haze. “Because, chicas, we’re not here by accident.” Viola’s card read: Choose your signature recipe

Below their faces, in smaller text: Your lifestyle. Their entertainment. One rule: Don't check out.

The three women looked at each other. The city hummed below, indifferent. The camera lenses hidden in the smoke detectors, the paintings, the potted fiddle-leaf figs, all blinked a silent, red . By hand

Viola looked down. There it was, in neat, blocky script: .

Apolonia raised an eyebrow. “No promises. Entertainment first.”