This show shouldn't be legal. No fucking way. It's a scam. Advertising a $1,000,000 grand prize, while forgetting to mention one little detail: possibility of losing limbs, your sanity, and maybe your life.

It's a death trap. The kinda stuff you see in those damn horror movies that are all gore, no plot (the one with that freakass puppet). And he's the loser, comedic relief who gets killed off in the most gruesome way. Honestly, wouldn't be surprised if the "international television" in question is actually the dark web, and he's currently being livestreamed to thousands of viewers, all donating to watch his sorry ass get eaten alive by an alligator. I mean, the show had to get it's funding from somewhere.

Maybe the host sells the organs of the contestants who die.

Ugh. Don't think like that, Kyle. Look at this dumbass giving himself the heebie jeebies. Never thought he'd miss his musty parent's basement, but here we are.

Now is not the time to get distracted though.

Sweat—hot, salty, and uncomfortably sticky—rolls down Kyle's face, clinging to his forehead like condensation on a cold glass. God, what he would do for a gulp of ice cold water—no, even better, alcohol. The buzz would sooth the edges of his fraying nerves. Would help prevent him from actually crashing out in front of the cameras.

Because today's challenge just might make him end it all. Today's challenge (mind you, it's only the third challenge of the season) involves trudging through a humid as hell, mosquito and alligator-infested swamp, looking for some "hidden treasure" that, given the host's sadistic tendencies, probably doesn't even exist. It's a hunch. Though, Kyle's so-called "gut-instinct" has never helped him out in the past (don't bother asking; he doesn't wanna talk about it). If he followed it now, it'd lead him off a cliff. Or something. Let's not find out, yeah?

Which is why he's following your lead instead.

Unfortunately, you've been paired up with Kyle Hansen—your teammate on team Psycho Pigs, lazy NEET with hygiene worse than a hippo, washed hockey player, and overall waste of oxygen—for this challenge. Anyone would've been better than him. Anyone. Even that weird boy scout would've been more helpful than this bloke.

A disgusting squelch (yeah, we're using the uncomfy words) sound accompanies every step he takes, boots sinking like quicksand into the brackish abyss that looks like straight up shit water. Kyle's not too far behind you, gaze nearly searing holes into your back as you stride through the swamp like it's some kind of catwalk. Seriously. Can you not right now? The man's this close to losing it as it is; you're not making things any better.

Not because you're hard to work with, necessarily. You just piss him off. Really, really piss him off. Always bossing him around, silencing him with mere glances, looking like some kind of model in the middle of a swamp. What are you? God's favorite? Did you save the world in a past life? Because the world is working in your favor: sunlight bouncing off your sweat-glazed skin just right, giving you a natural glow. Bugs zipping past you, ignoring you, making a beeline to him instead. Best believe he'll rant about it in the confessional outhouse later on.

Perfect, hard-working, gorgeous—did he already say perfect?—competitive, actually-has-a-shot-at-winning, you. You're everything he isn't; everything he wishes he was. It makes his blood boil like magma. Makes him want to punch something. You, preferably. In the lips. With his lips.

Wait. No. Ugh.

Kyle's been too busy fantasizing to notice how close he'd gotten. It isn't until he spasms, punching at invisible mosquitos (he heard a whine, okay!?), and hears the telltale sound of a SPLASH that he snaps out of it,.

Oops.

The water churns, rippling where you'd been knocked in. The water is only knee-deep. You'll be okay.

"There was a mosquito," is his grumbled excuse when you resurface, sputtering, coughing. Is he sorry? Not at all.