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

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 bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. Across the sprawling penthouse suite, on a matching sectional sofa, a woman with fiery hair and a constellation of freckles was staring at her own wrist.

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

“My phone is dead,” Apolonia continued, tapping a sleek, dark screen. “No signal. No Wi-Fi. But look at the view.” -WakeUpNFuck- Viola Bailey- Apolonia Lapiedra -...

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

Apolonia’s card read: Design the weekly schedule for your co-stars. Balance wellness, conflict, and desire. Make it entertaining.

The Third Sunrise

Bailey’s card read: Explore the building. Floor 13 is locked. Do not pick the lock. (But if you do, we’ll be watching.)

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 .

That’s when the first door slid open silently, revealing a long table set for three. On each plate was a single card. Before she could answer, a third voice, dry

Bailey, who confessed she was a former stuntwoman now running a tiny YouTube channel about urban exploration, looked less scared and more intrigued. “It’s a game. An immersive show. We’re the cast.”

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.