I shower, shave the roughest edge off my jaw, tie my hair back neatly, and spend one extra second at the mirror making sure I look relaxed instead of hunted. Easy instead of desperate. Warm instead of feral.
It is an old trick, but an effective one.
Backstage nerves and debt terror both answer well to the same kind of face:I meant to be here.
Solarium Hall sits in the center of the compound like a crystal threat.
When I arrive, the glass walls are already glowing from within, reflecting sunset in sheets of pink, gold, and copper.Music pulses softly through hidden speakers. Staff at the entrance scan wristbands and smile too much. Inside, the room opens into a soaring space full of suspended light sculptures, polished stone floors, curved bars, floating trays of food, and enough media equipment to document a coup.
Contestants have dressed for war by way of elegance. Sharp suits. sleek dresses. sponsor colors. careful hair. careful smiles. Around them drift reporters, sponsor reps, producers, and a few people so obviously important they seem to bend the air around them with entitlement alone.
I take one step in and feel the entire room make a tiny adjustment toward me.
Recognition.
Not universal. But enough.
Ah. Right.
I was almost famous once.
A reporter in silver catches me before I get three strides past the door.
“Bron Varek, GXC rookie contestant and former touring artist—what brought you to the Challenge?”
I glance at her mic, then at the camera hovering just above her shoulder. “A profound commitment to personal growth and several catastrophically poor financial instincts.”
The camera operator snorts.
The reporter grins despite herself. “So not glory?”
“Glory is a side effect. I’m mainly here for rent money and character development.”
She laughs. Good. Human noise. I can work with that.
Another reporter angles in. “Do you think your performance background gives you an advantage?”
“Absolutely. I already know how to smile while something inside me gives way.”
A nearby sponsor rep chokes on his drink.
Within ten minutes I’ve got a flute of something sparkling in one hand, three reporters orbiting, and half a dozen contestants deciding whether I’m entertaining or insufferable. Possibly both. Ideally both.
It gets easier fast.
It always does.
Put me in a room with lights and strangers and I know exactly where to place my shoulders, my mouth, my voice. I know how to lean into a question just enough to make people feel clever for asking it. I know how to tell a story that sounds spontaneous but lands on its feet. How to flirt without promising. How to let laughter travel just far enough that other people start wanting in on it.
By the second drink—not enough to dull me, just enough to warm the edges—I’m in full form.
A producer with a chrome lapel pin asks whether I’m intimidated by the athletic caliber this season.
“Terribly,” I say. “Some of these people look like they bench-press shuttle parts recreationally. I’m hoping to distract them with cheekbones.”
A human contestant nearby laughs into his glass. “That’s not a strategy.”
“Everything is a strategy if you commit hard enough.”
