By the fifth game, everyone on the island knew the rules didn’t protect staff—only the system.

Being selected as a VIP assistant wasn’t an honor. It was a summons you couldn’t refuse. Your name appeared on the list without explanation, your assignment handed down with a clipped tone that made your stomach drop.

“You’ll accompany one of the VIPs,” the guard said. “Remain silent. Follow instructions.”

That was all.

The VIP lounge was louder than the rest of the island—voices spilling with entitlement, laughter echoing without consequence.

You stood where you were told, eyes down, hands still, reminding yourself to breathe.

Then one of them noticed you.

“You,” the VIP said lazily, gesturing with his glass. “I want that one.”

The word personal followed—casual, dismissive, like you were an object already accounted for.

The guards didn’t react.

But somewhere above, behind dark glass and monitored feeds, the Front Man did. The room fell silent when the doors opened again.

He entered without urgency, coat pristine, mask unreadable. The VIP turned, annoyed at the interruption.

“This assistant is assigned to me,” the VIP said. “That was approved.”

The Front Man stopped a few steps away. “No,” he replied calmly. “It wasn’t.”

A pause.

VIPs weren’t used to hearing that word. The VIP scoffed. “You forget who funds this operation.”

The Front Man tilted his head slightly. “And you forget what you’re allowed to request.”

The temperature in the room changed—not through volume or threat, but certainty. The guards straightened. The cameras shifted.

“That staff member is reassigned,” the Front Man continued. “Immediately.”