The camera never blinks. The truth never airs.
In a fractured America, feminism is outlawed and “traditional values” rule the airwaves. Boys and girls battle for dominance on live TV, forced to perform for a nation that craves order at any cost. Losers aren’t just defeated—they’re humiliated, paraded in shame, their lowest moments looped and dissected for the world’s entertainment. Winners seize instant celebrity, their faces plastered everywhere, their victories turned into national spectacle.
Ryker Vale never wanted fame—just a way out. But when he’s thrown against Rhea Schwartz, the friend who once gave him hope, their contest becomes a rebellion no script can contain. One fights to survive; the other fights to send a message. Together, they might spark something bigger—if the cameras don’t crush them first.
Chloroform Wars is a razor-sharp dystopian debut for fans of Black Mirror, The Hunger Games, and The Power. In this world, humiliation is currency, and “tradition” has rewritten every rule. Gritty, provocative, and disturbingly timely, it’s a story of gender, spectacle, and the price of defiance.
The camera never blinks. The truth never airs.
In a fractured America, feminism is outlawed and “traditional values” rule the airwaves. Boys and girls battle for dominance on live TV, forced to perform for a nation that craves order at any cost. Losers aren’t just defeated—they’re humiliated, paraded in shame, their lowest moments looped and dissected for the world’s entertainment. Winners seize instant celebrity, their faces plastered everywhere, their victories turned into national spectacle.
Ryker Vale never wanted fame—just a way out. But when he’s thrown against Rhea Schwartz, the friend who once gave him hope, their contest becomes a rebellion no script can contain. One fights to survive; the other fights to send a message. Together, they might spark something bigger—if the cameras don’t crush them first.
Chloroform Wars is a razor-sharp dystopian debut for fans of Black Mirror, The Hunger Games, and The Power. In this world, humiliation is currency, and “tradition” has rewritten every rule. Gritty, provocative, and disturbingly timely, it’s a story of gender, spectacle, and the price of defiance.
Chapter 1
Losing Rhea
Ryker
Being on TV for the first time felt unreal. I felt like I was in somebody else’s body, watching through their eyes as the lights beat down on them. I could hear voices through microphones, and smell the sweat of contestants before me. The gel they’d put in my hair before thrusting me out onto the stage clung to my scalp, making it feel like someone was stroking my hair back forcefully, just like my grandma always did when she said goodnight. With each heartbeat, my chest pounded. There was a dull ache in my torso, just about noticeable beneath the adrenaline rush and sensory overload.
My entire life, this show had been on the screens. It’d been in every home, on every phone, laptop, computer—hell, it’d even been on every billboard. Now, here I was, living it. That wasn’t anything to be proud of, not really. I was aware of that, just as most competitors are when they first go on the show. But it paid well, and we needed the money. Ma would hate it if she knew what I was doing, which, of course, she eventually would, when the episode was transmitted across the nation, live. I’d have to convince her, I was sure of it, that the money made it worth it. $90 per competition on this channel. I’d only expected to be paid the standard local fee, which was half as much. When they’d said $90, I knew I couldn’t turn it down. It was more than half a month’s wages these days. Ma couldn’t say no to that. Or at least, I hoped.
I took a deep breath, knowing in a few minutes, I’d be holding it. My eyes flickered around the room, waiting for them to bring on my contender, my competition. The room was cold, and the floor beneath me was paneled with bright white lights, the same as the ones shining down on me. I stood on one side of the stage, just in front of the microphone for the announcer, and just behind the large stainless steel table that the winners used to… celebrate. The right side of the stage, opposite me, was still empty. It wouldn’t be for long—I could hear the audience piling up against the doors outside. It was almost showtime.
Soon enough, the audience was led in and guided to the tiered seating that was directly in front of the stage, just behind the main cameras. It was an eclectic bunch: men, women, teenagers. I always wondered how you got in the audience, and, if I was honest, why you’d want to be. Although as I stood barefoot before them, I couldn’t help but feel like a hypocrite for even thinking it.
Once the audience was settled, the presenter came out on stage. A tanned man in a perfectly pressed three-piece suit, with veneers that shone almost as brightly as the floor, and hair that seemed to have been styled by the same person who cemented mine to my head. He looked at me, and the corner of his mouth pulled upwards in a smirk.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice thick and rich, far too much of either to be from this town.
I smiled weakly at him. At this point, I just wanted it all to be over with. I’d spent my whole life watching this show, and for a brief moment when I got offered a place, I’d felt a blip of excitement… but then I remembered what show it was. What I’d have to do, or, if not, what I’d have done to me.
My stomach churned, and I felt my throat tighten.
The man reached up and tapped his earpiece. “Bring her in.”
I glanced up at the glowing red neon sign that read On Air. It was almost the only thing on the stage with any color, and it covered the audience in a red tinge that made them look almost menacing. I knew that the second my opponent appeared, we’d be live. We’d be broadcast across the nation, and thousands of people would be staring at us on their TV sets. Not as many as if we were a big challenge, then we’d be aired on TFN. As it stood, we were assigned to TFN II, the Tradition First’s secondary channel. Local competitions, smaller shows, were usually aired on TFN Local stations, but for some reason, they’d decided this show was different. They wouldn’t say why.
From across the room, I heard the dressing room door creak open. My head rolled forward as I pulled my eyes away from the on-air sign and focused them on the empty stage opposite me. My mind raced, and even though I thought my chest had been pounding before, this was something else altogether. Seconds passed, and someone stepped out onto the stage. I kept my eyes locked on her space on the stage. I wanted to wait until she was there. I needed to. The less time I spent familiarizing myself with the person opposite me, the easier the task at hand would be.
The very thought made me feel sick. How had I become this person? I abhorred violence. I watched the show, sure, just like everyone did. For most people, TFN one through four were the only channels. It cost more than pretty much anyone could afford to get the other national channels, and there was nothing else to do but watch TV. Nobody could afford to go anywhere. Half of the people my age couldn’t read; they were taken out of school to work instead. So TFN was everywhere. It was everything. And when Chloroform Wars wasn’t playing, something else equally as disturbing was.
It was just how things were.
After what felt like an age, the girl I was to compete against appeared in my eyeline. With confidence, she strode over to her mark, her bare feet hitting the floor with delicate thuds. I inhaled and let my eyes adjust.
And then my heart dropped.
My mouth fell open, and my throat tightened. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead.
I knew the girl before me. I knew her better than I knew myself. Her name was Rhea Schwartz, and she had been my only friend for as long as I could remember. We’d grown up together. We’d celebrated our eighteenth birthdays together. Our families knew each other—when her grandfather died, my mother made the food for the funeral. We’d been by each other’s sides since we could walk… and I’d loved her just as long.
It wasn’t a secret to me that Rhea was on the show. Her family was just as poor as mine, and I’d seen her on two shows already. She’d won both, shocking the audience and becoming a favorite among those who bet on the program. After her first win, she made the local news: local teen set for stardom?
She’d told me she’d hated it, and that if they offered her a big contract for national games, she’d probably turn it down. The money was one thing, but she didn’t want anything to do with TFN. I couldn’t say I blamed her. My match hadn’t even started, and I wanted out.
As her eyes met mine, I tried to smile, but the muscles on my face were frozen in place. All I could think about was Rhea’s first two matches. Her first challenger had been a man in his mid-thirties. Portly, sweaty, and pig-like, he’d passed out within seconds. Rhea then went to work. She tried her best to flip him onto his stomach, which took a few attempts, much to the audience’s enjoyment. Once there, she removed the man’s shorts and held them aloft. I could see the discomfort in her eyes, but only because I knew her. To anyone else, she was playing her part well. She was confident, strong, and, most importantly, she was humiliating the loser.
She’d thrown his shorts to the ground, and, pretty immediately after, took her flag from the wings of the stage. Bright yellow, with the slogan “Winning Is For Girls”, the flag was attached to a slender silver pole. Taking a deep breath, she spat on the metal and pressed the flag into the man’s lower back—right where the cameras would catch it.
If she won a few more battles, the prize money would help—her family couldn’t survive another winter with the heat shut off. But that wasn’t why she fought. She wanted to be remembered, not erased—and to make damn sure her little brothers never had to step into this arena.
Opposite me, her face mirrored my own. There was a forced stoicism on it, but in her eyes was that very same discomfort I’d seen through the TV screen, only now it was tenfold. Her hand, on the side that the cameras couldn’t quite see, was flexing by her side.
Neither of us wanted this.
Suddenly, it made sense. This is why we were on TFN II. This is why I got paid ninety bucks. The bigger shows always came with drama, with a backstory that connected the two players.
We’d been played. And now we had no choice but to play. We’d signed contracts.
I could handle the pain. The bruises. The sting that came with a planted flag. I’d already experienced it once on the audition, and for only twenty bucks. I just couldn’t… I couldn’t win. I was contractually obliged to humiliate the loser if I won, and, whilst I was sure my contract hadn’t stipulated exactly how, every show for the last fifteen years had gone the same way, and rumors had it that the small print said it had to play out that way.
I took a deep breath in through my nose. Behind me, I could hear the announcer speaking, but his words were just noise to me. Then the room dimmed, and two spotlights formed. One on me, one on Rhea.
The show began with the announcer’s booming, dramatic voice.
“It’s the ultimate battle of the sexes, with chloroform as the weapon of choice. Welcome to Chloroform Wars. Tonight’s episode is especially intriguing—two childhood best friends from Silver Falls, Oregon, go head to head. I can’t wait to get to tonight’s show. Nothing says heartwarming like forced competition between old friends,” the tanned man said, smirking.
“Now then—let’s hear what our players had to say before the fun really starts.
I held back a wince. Before you go on stage, the producers get an audio bite from you, used to intimidate your competitor, or to show your personality… I’d known it was coming, and yet I’d hardly prepared. A crackle in the speakers prefaced my own voice.
“To my competitor, I have only this to say: I am not a violent man. If I win, I will offer you a gift. I will give you my virginity.”
I cringed as the words echoed around me. I’d admitted, in that moment, that I’d do as was expected of me. I hated myself for it. I thought, when they thrust the microphone in my hand, that bringing up that I was a virgin would make me seem innocent, harmless, hapless, even. I thought it would reassure my competition. I thought I was being nice.
The crowd gasped, and I could feel their eyes on me. Then, the speakers crackled again, and Rhea’s voice came out.
“I’ve beaten two men now. I don’t care who my competitor is… I’m going to beat him tonight. And when he loses, I’ll mark that loss—in front of everyone—and remind the world that girls hold the power in this war.”
The live local audience erupted with the same wild energy I'd always heard from the national crowds. In front of both of us, two podiums rose through the floor. On them, sat a plastic oxygen mask attached to a clear tube that disappeared into the wood through a hole in the center.
With shaky hands, I reached out and picked the mask up. I glanced over at Rhea as she did the same.
She’s won two matches, I told myself. Maybe you don’t need to worry. She’s always been good at holding her breath. She was always a good swimmer. Maybe it’ll be alright.
“And, breathe!” The tanned man yelled.
Each of us put the masks to our faces, and took in a deep breath. It tasted weird. It was almost sweet as it hit the back of my throat, causing my eyes and nose to sting. My eyes rolled back, a throbbing headache pulsing through my skull. I fought to steady myself. As I pulled the mask away for a second, I gulped down as much fresh air as I could to counteract the lingering effects of the gas. Dizziness slowly loosened its grip, and my focus sharpened again.
“And another!” The man yelled.
Now was the time to keep the masks to our faces. I watched as Rhea inhaled through the mask again, and I did the same. The pain in my head sharpened, and I wobbled from one foot to another. But before I went anywhere, I saw Rhea’s knees shake. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes rolled back. It was the same fierce determination I’d seen when I bested her at arm wrestling as kids, but now it was mixed with a frenzied panic. Her gaze was a tempest of dread, a sharp reminder of exactly what she expected to come next.
The TV commentators never used the word. They insisted it was “contextually complex.” They called it a closing ritual—a necessary intimacy to conclude the match and “reassert balance.” But the audience didn’t cheer for balance. They cheered for power. And everyone knew what they were really watching. It was marketed as a release valve, a way to prevent gender-based violence from erupting at home… supposedly.
Typically, the victor humiliated the loser. For men, it came down to acts—routine, ritual, and sold as entertainment.
For women, it was the flag, pressed into a place that said: I won, and now the world knows it. Ceremonial. Unmistakable. Always caught on camera.
It wasn’t just defeat—it was legacy. The loser didn’t disappear. They became part of the show: labeled, exposed, remembered.
One of the main attractions was watching the losers wake up and realize what the cameras had recorded.
The audience didn’t just want winners. They wanted reminders of what losing looked like.
Rhea tried to throw her head back, gasping for air—a clear sign she was about to faint. Without even thinking, I threw my mask to the floor and ran over to her. My long legs made quick business of closing the distance between us, and I managed to dart my arms beneath her frame just before she hit the ground, her auburn hair just dusted the floor as she lay limp in my arms. I could see her chest rising and falling under her white shirt.
For a moment, the stage and the audience fell away. It was just me and her, and she was okay, she was safe. I fought the urge to rest my head on her chest, to hold her tight. All I wanted was her comfort and to get us both out of here.
But that wasn’t the deal.
If I didn’t fulfill my contract, I wouldn’t get paid. Worse, I’d heard stories of people being beaten, robbed, having their families involved… I didn’t know how true it was, but something in my gut told me to trust it. If The Network were brazen enough to air Chloroform Wars, what else could they do?
Swallowing back the bile in my throat, I lifted her onto the platform, then turned toward the rowdy crowd. Every man was standing and applauding. The women were smiling softly, each of them gazing at me with an almost… admiration. It wasn’t something I was expecting. It made the hair on my arms stand on end.
Please forgive me, I thought to myself. You knew the rules. I knew the rules. We signed up for this.
Every muscle in my body was tight as I reached forward.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
The buttons flew in every direction, bouncing off the floor like dropped marbles. The fabric split open, limp and useless. The crowd’s reaction intensified. Sharp whistles and wild cheers echoed around me, and I did all I could to ignore them.
Then came the realization that I needed to make a grand gesture for the audience—it was expected of the victor. But before I could even debate what that would be, I caught a glimpse of my friend before me, and my heart shattered at the thought of what came next. I was about to lose something that should’ve been mine to give. But it wasn’t. It belonged to the cameras, the crowd, the contract. And it felt more like surrender than choice.
Worse than that, it was with the only girl I’d ever had any interest in—the only person I’d ever really felt anything for.
She’s never going to speak to me again, I thought to myself. So much for winning.
I took another deep breath, trying desperately to empty my mind. The self-loathing could wait. It wasn’t going anywhere. Not after this. Right then, though, I needed to do as I’d promised, and I needed to get off this godforsaken stage.
I lifted my arms, copying the hollow bravado of past winners.
The cameras lingered on her—closer than they should have.
I bent down and slid her shorts off, my hands trembling—not from nerves, but from shame.
Her underwear caught my eye, and for a moment, I was back at the lake—rope swings, cannonball splashes, her laughter bouncing off the water.
Back when a glimpse of her swimsuit meant nothing but friendship and sunburns.
But this wasn’t summer.
This wasn’t safe.
And I was part of it now.
I didn’t just cross a line. I erased something sacred.
As the crowd erupted in applause, I exhaled through pursed lips, fighting off the wave of dizziness that came purely from nerves. Anxiety tightened my chest, making it ache, and my pulse raced uncontrollably.
"Hey, you got this!" shouted a man from the front row. His enthusiasm pulled me back into the present.
I looked down at my friend—still, silent, draped across the cold steel table. The weight of what I’d done pressed down like iron.
I stood frozen, hollow, unsure what part of this made me a “winner.”
Then the camera glided forward—slow, deliberate.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Its lens fixed on me like a spotlight, and I swallowed hard.
I cleared my throat and forced a smile. It didn’t belong to me.
"Let's get this show started," I said, trying to mask the pain and disgust beneath my words.
I had to give them the moment they came for. No fanfare. Just fabric falling, and a thousand eyes pretending it meant something deeper.
Do I take off my shirt? She doesn’t have hers on...
I hesitated, the thought of stripping in front of the crowd turning my stomach.
She had no choice. That was the deal. The show. The rules.
I pulled my shirt over my head and let it fall beside me. My fingers trembled—not from nerves, but from the crushing weight of what came next.
The noise hit like a slap—louder than celebration. More like a feeding frenzy.
They didn’t cheer for her. They cheered for the spectacle.
On the monitors, I caught a glimpse—not of her, but of myself. My face didn’t wear triumph. It wore grief.
I moved like a puppet on strings. Breath shallow. Mind blank.
“I didn’t feel the floor. I didn’t feel her beside me. Just the heat of the lights, the weight of a thousand eyes.
I pulled away, shaking, breath ragged.
And when it ended, I didn’t move.
I didn’t know if I’d finished… or been hollowed out.”
After a confusing moment, one of the producers motioned me off-camera. I stared down at the table. It felt as if all the air had left my lungs. The winner typically walks off the stage, while the camera holds a steady focus on the defeated contestant until they regain consciousness. The expression of embarrassment is what truly captures the audience's attention. I saw my strong-willed friend, the woman who had been beside me through it all. She was the best person I knew. She was the strongest person I knew. It hurt my chest to see her humiliated like that. I leaned into her ear and whispered, "I'm sorry, Rhea. I hope you can forgive me. You are the strongest girl I know."
Quickly, I leaned down and awkwardly retrieved her shorts and draped them across her waist, then walked off camera.
I really hope she’ll talk to me again, I thought to myself selfishly.
After a few quick words with the tanned man—Dalton, the show’s producer and host—I was led through the winding halls and into an office.
The story is set in a future where public humiliation is turned into a form of entertainment. Chloroform Wars introduces a chilling dystopia that mixes power and survival. A young man named Ryker Vale is drawn into the competition not for glory but for survival. His rival is his best friend from childhood, Rhea Schwartz, who's also fighting for survival. What appears to be rough sport becomes a platform for power, humiliation, and the price of remaining silent.
Ryker and Rhea are both strong characters, and it was easy to stay invested in their journey. Ryker and Rhea's relationship reminded me a bit of Kai and Paedyn in Powerless by Lauren Roberts. Their connection drives the story forward while still having their own purpose. There was a variety of other contestants introduced and each has a distinct personalities that help bring the world to life. It also shows the different sides of the system they are trapped in. The book has important themes about gender equality and how silence can keep oppressive systems going. Though these ideas aren't fully explored, they stick with you and make you think. Although this is the first book in the series, the ending feels complete and satisfying without a cliffhanger.
I rated this book a 4.7/5. It's one of those reads that lingers with you. Even when you put it down, it stays on your mind. At times, the shifts in perspective was a bit hard to follow, but those moments were brief. The overall flow was still easy to follow through. I found myself thinking about the characters and what might happen next, even long after I had finished reading. It's been a while since a book had that kind of hold on me. The discomfort I felt reading certain scenes was intentional, as Dan confirms in his author's note:
if you feel uncomfortable while reading - good. That's where the story lives.
The note sums up the entire reading experience. For those willing to lean into the discomfort, the story will definitely be unforgettable.