The floor didn't just open; it vanished.One second, I was standing on solid, cold metal, staring at the bored faces of people who had paid to watch our lives. The next, gravity became a hungry mouth. There was no transition, no slow tilt. Just the sudden, sickening realization that the air was no longer holding me up."Kaima!" Rowan’s voice was a jagged streak of terror in the dark.I reached out, my fingers clawing at the empty air. The wind roared past my ears, smelling of ozone, stale popcorn, and burnt plastic. I saw the lights of the studio—the "Sun" and the "Moon"—flicker and die far above us. We were falling through the bowels of a machine we were never meant to see.Around me, the other fifty survivors were screaming. They were silhouettes of panic against a faint, industrial red glow. Some were flailing; others were curled into balls, surrendering to the descent."Rowan!" I screamed back, my lungs burning.I felt a hand grab my ankle. It was a rough, desperate grip. Then, an
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