“Is he insane?” Suho asked the moment they were led into the viewing room.
The room was dim, save for the large screen up front showing a live feed from the auditorium where the next challenge was set to begin.
The contestants had been herded into the observation chamber—just a distant seat as witnesses to the train wreck or triumph about to unfold.
Some of them were already munching on chips or tearing open packets of dried squid that were perched on the side just for them.
Still, their eyes didn’t waver from the screen.
They were locked on the remaining five actors in the auditorium, each now holding the full script for the round. It had been revealed to the viewing room, too. As it popped up on the digital display in front of them, Ian let out a sound that was half scoff, half breathless laugh.
“This is impossible,” he muttered, squinting at the text.
It wasn’t just long—it was dense. A full page of uninterrupted text. Heavy lines. Paragraphs that blurred together.
Technically, it was a dialogue between an artist and their manager, but it didn’t feel like one. It was long-winded and layered. And worst of all, most of the lines fell to the artist.
“I don’t think it’s a dialogue,” Ian added numbly. “It’s a monologue pretending to be a conversation.”
Zeno had ten minutes to memorize this?
“How could he do this?” Misha said, sitting forward, legs bouncing.
“How could anyone do this?” Suho added, shaking his head.
On the couch, Risa was jittery from the two cups of coffee she had downed earlier. Her knee bounced furiously, fingers picking at the edge of her cup.
“He can’t go home,” she muttered under her breath.
Next to her, Misha echoed the exact same thing at the exact same time.
They turned to each other, wide-eyed.
“Uh-oh,” Shin said, flopping onto the seat in front of them with a grin, joining their team. “Zeno’s charm is really off the charts. He really got you, too, Misha?”
Misha’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?” she exclaimed, cheeks immediately coloring.
“You’ve got that look,” Shin teased.
“I don’t have any look!”
Shin just raised his brows. “Mm-hmm.”
Then, voice softening, he added, “But hey. Let’s trust Zeno.”
Risa raised a brow. “Trust him?”
“Zeno’s a great actor. I would argue he’s even a genius,” Shin answered.
Oska, who had been quietly sipping on soda near the back, finally chimed in. “No matter how much he’s a genius,” he said plainly, “it’s not humanly possible. I mean, thirty minutes would’ve already been hard. But ten?” He held up his fingers.
“Ten minutes for that much text? That’s alien-level stuff.”
“Why are you chiming in again?” Risa asked, side-eyeing him.
Oska’s lips pursed. “I just wanted to give my two cents about it.”
“Zeno can do it,” she muttered, wanting to believe in it.
He looked like he might argue, but decided better and leaned back into his seat instead.
Meanwhile, Hero sat on the floor in front of the digital script in one of the screens, lips moving as he tried to repeat the lines under his breath. He stopped. Started again. Then laid on the ground with a groan.
“I can’t do it,” he said loudly.
That got everyone’s attention.
“This is impossible!” he exclaimed. “No one can memorize this in one sitting. It’s—insane.”
Silence followed.
Back in the auditorium, Zeno sat with the script in hand.
He had been reading it for five minutes.
He traced the lines with his thumb, lips moving subtly. Every now and then, he paused—not in confusion, but in thought. It was a technique of his. He was tucking each word into a box in his mind, folding it neatly before moving to the next.
“Well,” he whispered to himself.
“It’s pretty possible.”
He thought he would regret switching his order with Shelly right away.
However, he quickly realized he needed a handicap.
Yeah. That was fair.
He didn’t do it because he cared about Shelly. Or the human race.
He just… could do it.
That was the truth, wasn’t it? That was the only reason. The most reasonable, logical, utterly emotionless reason. He gave her the number one slot because he didn’t need it. Not because of the way her fingers trembled or the way her lips were pursed in the exact shape of fear. Not because of the sound she made when she saw her number.
The others around him were speaking out loud, biting their thumbnails, rubbing their necks, tapping their feet.
Zeno was just sitting, his hands calmly folded over the printed script.
Cut to the viewing room, where Phoenix leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the screen.
“Has he given up?” he said, brows lifting in quiet disbelief.
It was a fair question. Zeno hadn’t so much as opened his mouth in five minutes. It didn’t look like he was memorizing. It didn’t even look like he was trying.
Phoenix chuckled to himself.
“He really has,” he muttered. “Well. I can’t blame him. Why would he even switch their places in the first place?”
“Maybe he’s just trying to be nice?” Billy muttered. “But it’s stupid. No one would do that.”
Phoenix shook his head again, still wearing that smug little grin. “It’s his fault,” he muttered, leaning back. If he got eliminated, then it was on him.
A sound rang through the auditorium.
The timer for the ten minutes was over, which only meant one thing.
A staff member approached Zeno and held out a hand. He didn’t hesitate. He handed over his script without protest. The camera zoomed in on it, now clutched in the staff member’s arms—proof that he couldn’t read it anymore.
Everyone else could keep practicing.
But not him.
He stood.
He walked to the center of the stage with a soft sigh. Well, going first always had a great benefit.
You finish first, too.
Meanwhile, in the viewing room, everyone watched.