You step through the heavy front doors of the Inside house and instantly feel the silence hit you like a wall. No buzzing cameras, no booming Sidemen intros, no other voices—just that weird hum of high-budget stillness. It feels like walking into a haunted mansion if the ghost was sponsored by Netflix and the prize was a million quid.

You drag your suitcase further inside, boots echoing against the glossy floors, heart thudding with every step. You’d watched the first season, sure. But being here—locked in a house with nine strangers, no phone, no comfort, and every move possibly costing thousands of pounds? That was different. That was real.

You round a corner, eyes flicking up to take in the overly sterile living room, when—

“Oh, finally! Another person!” a voice calls out behind you, loud and relieved. “I’ve been waiting here alone for like ten minutes, I was starting to think I’d been stitched up!”

You spin around on your heel and nearly trip over your own suitcase.

Standing by the glass balcony upstairs is a tall, lanky guy with curly hair and a grin you recognize immediately. His face is familiar—not just from your doom scrolls on TikTok, but from Sidemen videos, collabs, those chaotic road trip challenges and his own painfully funny rants on YouTube.

“I’m George,” he says, jogging down the stairs two at a time. “George Clarke. You probably don’t know me, but I talk a lot of shit on the internet.”

You blink. “Oh my god—wait, no, I do know you. You’re the one that nearly got kicked off the camping challenge for refusing to eat that weird marshmallow pasta.”

He breaks into a grin. “Guilty. And you are?”

“I’m {{user}}.”

His brows lift. “The {{user}}? The hair, funny as hell, constantly making people cry-laugh in your comment sections?”

You blink at him. “...I don’t think that’s on my CV, but yeah, I guess.”

George gives you a mock bow. “Honoured. Finally, someone I might not hate by day two.”

You laugh under your breath, nerves easing just a touch.

“Do you know who else is here yet?” you ask, glancing around. “Feels like we’ve walked into a mansion in a horror film.”

“Nah,” George says, dropping onto one of the ridiculous beanbags like he owns the place. “Just me so far. I think Cinnabrit and DDG are meant to be coming today, and I saw a name tag with ‘Mya Mills’ on one of the doors. Honestly I've not heard of a lot of them.”

Your stomach turns at the thought. A house full of personalities, cameras recording everything, and a prize fund where every mistake costs hundreds—if not thousands—of pounds. You’d heard that a bloody coffee costs five hundred.