Romance Island

The house sat like a jewel dropped carelessly into the blue, all white walls washed in pinks and purples once the sun dipped low. Blue lights wrapped around its edges, glowing even in daylight, as if the place needed to remind everyone that it was special. Cameras blinked from every corner—under eaves, beside doors, near the pool—never sleeping, never missing a moment of the ten twenty-somethings trapped inside.

This was Romance Island, a show designed to convince loveless people they could find something meaningful under enough sun, alcohol, and surveillance.

By midday, boredom had baked itself into the walls. The cast lifted weights, floated in the pool, napped on beanbags, flirted half-heartedly, and circled each other like bored animals at a zoo. The sun was relentless. The air was thick. Nothing happened.

That afternoon, five of them sat around the fire pit that never actually needed fire. Jacob lounged with his sunglasses still on. Kyle leaned back, arms behind his head. Tommy hunched forward, restless. Sidney watched more than she spoke. Bradie sat stiffly, aware of the heat on her skin and the eyes on her from every direction.

Tommy broke the silence.

“So,” he said, leaning toward Bradie, “what’s going on with you and Noel? All that working out together?”

Jacob nodded. “Yeah. The boys have been curious. Feels like mixed signals.”

Bradie felt the cameras before she saw them. One perched to her left, another directly behind her head. She stared past Tommy, mind racing—not for the truth, but for the version of it that wouldn’t get her yelled at.

“I think… the potential is there,” she began. “The chats they have, they have, they have—”

A sharp crackle filled her ear. She flinched.

Bradie, what the fuck was that? Bill’s voice cut through the static, venomous. Why are you stut—stut—stuttering? Say what you want to say.

Bradie clenched her jaw. “Fucking asshole,” she muttered, barely moving her lips.

Kyle shifted, trying to smooth it over. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ve got all the time in the world. Not like we’ve got anything to do.”

Static again. This time, all five of them reached for their ears.

No we FUCKING don’t, Bill snapped. The network wants today by midnight. Take a minute. Then tell bumbling Bradie to get her shit together.

Something inside her cracked—not suddenly, but from repetition. From weeks of this. From pretending interest. From pretending gratitude. From pretending these men were anything more than cardboard cutouts with abs.

Bradie stood up. She pulled the microphone from around her neck and hurled it into the pool. It disappeared with a dull splash.

No one stopped her.

She stormed inside and locked herself in the only bathroom, the one all ten of them shared. It wasn’t filthy in a dramatic way—just worn, cluttered, lived-in too hard. Towels on the floor. Toothpaste in the sink. Someone else’s hair everywhere.

Bradie stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes burned, threatening tears, but she refused them. She’d already done her makeup once today.

A knock came at the door.

“Fuck Bill,” Sidney said through the wood.

Bradie laughed despite herself. “Fuck Bill.”

Sidney slipped inside and perched on the closed toilet lid, like it was the most natural seat in the world. “You should hear him right now. He’s losing his mind.”

“How do you think I feel?” Bradie said, throwing her hands up. “I’m not stumbling because I don’t know what to say. I’m stumbling because if I say these men ain’t shit and Noel has the personality of a piece of bark, Bill’ll lose it.”

Sidney pressed her palms together dramatically, batting imaginary lashes. “Just go out there and say, ‘It might be something.The way Kyle has been moving, he’ll be gone by Friday when we vote his ass out.”

They both laughed, sharp and necessary.

“Your mic’s outside,” Sidney said. “Let’s just get this done.”

Bradie rinsed her hands, took a breath, and followed her friend back out into the glare. She clipped the mic back on. The girls slipped easily into a fake conversation, voices light, smiles practiced—something safe for the edit.

Then the sky roared.

Jets screamed overhead, low enough to rattle the windows. The house vibrated. The girls paused, glanced upward, and waited. Helicopters followed, chopping the air, tearing through the carefully staged moment.

The cameras kept rolling. Bradie walked over to the pool, grabbed her mic and sat back in the seat.

“I think there might be something?” Bradie staged with a giggle.

The boys erupted instantly, dapping each other up, shouting “tight, tight, tight,” like they’d just won something. Bradie only side-eyed the nearest camera.

She was exhausted by the so-called social experiment. Three weeks in, it had been dull guy after dull guy after dull guy. Most of them weren’t here to find love anyway. They wanted brand deals, followers, maybe a red carpet appearance or two. That was the unspoken goal: act like a character, hope America roots for you, never knowing how the producers are shaping you in the edit.

Bradie wasn’t even supposed to be here. One night, drunk on cheap wine, she and her friends had signed up as a joke. Somehow, she’d been chosen. On the outside, she had a decent job as a secretary at a law office. She didn’t need the $100,000—though it wouldn’t hurt. Still, she hadn’t realized how much the price would be sitting in a bikini all day, dressing up every single night, floating by a pool while the same idiots lifted weights and talked in circles. Hours and hours of forced conversation with no intellectual stimulation whatsoever.

Bradie was educated. She read The Times every morning and devoured books on her lunch break. Yet here she was, trapped in conversations with people whose brains seemed stuck in high school.

One morning early on, before she truly understood what this place was, she’d been by the pool with Quinn. She’d asked him casually, “Do you think the conflict in Eurasia is going to escalate?”

Quinn had thought about it for a moment before grinning. “I don’t even know where that is, bro.”

He laughed—armor for ignorance—and Bradie laughed too, stunned by it. That was how it went. Day in, day out. And every night, she was forced to sleep in the same bed as one of these men. Not because she liked them, but because the show demanded it.

At dinner that night, Bradie curled into one of the outdoor chairs, nursing her mandated two glasses of champagne. It was cheap but it was the only alcohol she was allowed and the only thing that made these conversations tolerable.

Sitting near her were Sidney, Tommy, and Quinn, all deep into some conversation about a game she didn’t care about.

“Tommy,” Bradie said suddenly, “start singing Steely Dan.”

“Oh, not a problem,” he replied immediately. “Times are hard, you’re afraid to pay the deed…”

Bradie had learned during an earlier conversation that Steely Dan was Tommy’s favorite band. Getting him to sing wasn’t hard—and it worked in her favor in two ways. One, it broke the monotony. Two, the network wouldn’t pay licensing fees.

“I think I’m leaving tomorrow,” Bradie said quietly to Sidney. “I’m over this shit.”

“Come on,” Sidney said. “Two weeks left. Why throw it all away now?”

“I’m sick of it,” Bradie replied. “I can’t hold a single conversation with any of these idiots. No offense.”

She turned to Tommy and Quinn, pressing her hands together in mock prayer, then took another sip of champagne.

“I’m a fool to do your—uh—non-taken… dirty work,” Tommy sang, briefly breaking to grin before jumping back into the song.

Then Bill’s voice slashed through her earpiece.

“Oh why the FUCK is Tommy singing. Bradie, I swear to God, I’m going to make the rest of your time here—”

Bradie ripped the earpiece out.

The weight of the competition had been pressing on her for weeks, and now it finally collapsed. Tears spilled down her face—not from fear or sadness, but from pure exhaustion. Sidney pulled her into an embrace, holding her while Tommy finished his song, oblivious.

Overhead, jets roared again. Then helicopters. The sound vibrated through the air.

Bradie tilted her head, whispering, “What is going on up there?”

That night, she went to bed convinced it would be her last. The decision felt final, calming. There was no reason to stay.

Lights stayed on. Curtains closed automatically. Doors locked—standard procedure to make sure no one wandered. She slept beside Quinn—not because she liked him, but because she could tolerate him.

Sleep never came easily. Long days. Short nights. Four hours at best, interrupted by anxiety, muffled sex sounds, and Kyle’s brutal snoring. But this night was different.

She woke to sharp booms.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

In the pitch black, Bradie lifted her head. No one else stirred.

Morning was stranger than usual.

Normally at six, the curtains rolled up automatically and the lights snapped on. But Bradie woke on her own, the room still dark. Some people were asleep. Others were already awake.

She slid out of bed and found Tommy tugging at the curtains.

“They’re late today,” he whispered. “They’re never this late.”

“What time is it?” Bradie asked.

There were no clocks in the house. Time existed only through the phones the producers issued them. Bradie’s was still charging across the room.

Tommy checked his. “I forgot to charge it last night, but it says 8:30.”

He looked uneasy. “Bill hasn’t said anything either.”

“That’s a relief for once,” Bradie said, smiling.

They walked to the door and realized it was unlocked.

“Must be on a timer,” Tommy said. “Which is fine, ’cause I gotta piss.”

They stepped out into the hall as others began to stir. Bradie paused, glancing back at the darkened room.

If today was free, she thought, at least let them sleep.

Bradie went into the kitchen and started preparing breakfast.

Normally, the boys cooked for the girls while the girls did their makeup—another unspoken rule of the house, another trope the show loved to reinforce. But this was her last day. Or at least she was sure it would be. So Bradie fried herself bacon and eggs, standing barefoot on the cold tile like she owned the place.

She waited for Bill’s voice to tear through her headset. She expected to be yelled at for ruining a “moment,” for breaking character, for refusing to play along.

Nothing.

The silence was unsettling. It felt… normal. Like the outside world. A feeling she had almost forgotten.

Eventually, the others wandered in. They talked about how strange the morning had been, but no one panicked. They chalked it up to a glitch. The show was full of glitches. So they defaulted to routine.

The girls got ready.

The boys worked out.

Everyone drifted toward the pool.

Bradie stretched out on a beach chair between Sidney and Jessie, sunglasses tilted low, trying to nap. Jessie—perfect tan, perfect teeth, voice always a little too loud—was the kind of girl Bradie had immediately written off as a Valley Girl stereotype. All filler, no substance. Bradie lifted her sunglasses after a few minutes.

“Hey,” she said slowly, “does the sky look… off to you?”

The sky had a faint orange tint, like something burning far away. But there was no smoke. No smell. No fire on the horizon. Just color where it didn’t belong.

“I mean, maybe?” Jessie replied, flipping her hair, the typical Valley Girl she was, Bradie thought. “Looks blue to me.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Sidney said, squinting upward. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”

That was enough.

Bradie sat up, her pulse quickening. The missing producers. The late morning. The silence. The sky. The house had always felt like purgatory—but it was a purgatory with rules. With structure. Now it felt like those rules were dissolving.

She stood and walked straight toward the nearest camera.

Heads turned. Everyone knew the rule: don’t acknowledge the cameras. They were supposed to be flies on the wall, invisible, sacred.

Bradie didn’t care.

She stopped short.

The light was off.

Her stomach dropped.

“They’re off,” she shouted.

“What?” several voices replied at once.

“They’re not fucking recording,” she yelled. “The cameras aren’t recording!”

Something shifted instantly. Weights clattered to the ground. Girls stood from their chairs. Tommy rushed over, staring up at the lens.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Is it an off day?” Kyle asked.

“No,” Sidney said. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Maybe the power’s out?” Jessie offered.

“They have enough generators here to keep a hospital running,” Quinn said.

Bradie froze, staring at him. It was the first intelligent thing he’d said since she’d met him.

The rest of the house gathered around the camera—thirteen of them now, shoulder to shoulder.

“Did the world end?” someone muttered.

“I swear to God,” Bradie snapped, “if I’m stuck here with you fucking assholes—”

The words surprised even her. She didn’t usually drop her mask like that. But after three weeks, it felt incredible.

“Oh, sorry, Ms. Uptight Bitch,” Quinn shot back. “Look at me, I’m better than everyone. I read The Times, I have a job, why won’t anyone stimulate me? Wah, wah, wah.”

Bradie stared at him. There you are, she thought. The real Quinn. Ugly, defensive—but honest. The first real thing she’d encountered in this house.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said suddenly, the edge draining from his voice. “I don’t know why I said that. Bradie, I—”

BANG.

The sound came from the front door.

BANG.

BANG.

The house went still.

Someone was trying to force their way inside.

Slowly, the group began moving toward the entrance.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

The group clustered near the couches, about fifteen feet from the front door.

It burst open.

Bradie and the others flinched backward.

A man stood in the doorway—another twenty-something. He was scrawny, wrapped in a hoodie and a KN95 mask streaked with dirt. His eyes were wild.

“Oh shit,” he blurted. “You guys survived?”

No one spoke. The word survived hung in the air, heavy and wrong.

Tommy squinted at him. “I know this guy,” he said quietly. “He was one of the interns. One of the ones who got us set up.”

Bradie studied him. The mask wasn’t clean—it had been worn, used. He carried a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder, heavy gloves dangling from one hand. Timberland boots. A black Carhartt jacket two sizes too big.

This isn’t the first house, Bradie realized. Not today.

“What do you mean survived?” Tommy asked. “Where’s Bill?”

The intern laughed—a sharp, broken sound. “You’re telling me you idiots didn’t hear the bombs last night?”

Bradie’s stomach turned. She thought of the booms. The darkness.

“The war kicked off,” the intern continued. “Cities got hit. I don’t even know what they were—nukes, chemical, something else.” His voice cracked. “When I woke up, the others—John, An, Yoko—they were lying there. Mouths open. Boils on their skin.” He swallowed hard. “I checked other buildings. Same thing. I don’t know how many people are left. I don’t know what the hell happened.”

Tears welled in his eyes.

Bradie felt a hollow sympathy—but also confusion. Why us? Why were they untouched?

For some of the others, the realization hit immediately. Family. Friends. Loved ones.

Dead.

Arms wrapped around bodies. Soft sobs began.

Then the intern reached into his bag.

He pulled out a double-barrel shotgun.

“I’m here for the food,” he said calmly, raising the weapon. “There’s enough here to last me weeks. Maybe months. Those non-perishables? Enough for fifteen people.” He adjusted his grip. “Now it’ll just be enough for me.”

Everyone dove behind the couch.

Tommy stayed standing, hands raised. “Hey—hey. You don’t have to do this. You can stay here with us.”

The intern laughed again. “Stay here with you?” He shook his head. “I’ve been watching this show for three weeks. I’d rather put this gun in my mouth and pull the trigger than live with you people.”

Bradie let out a quiet, involuntary chuckle. She’d thought the same thing more than once.

Tommy turned slightly, giving a subtle signal to the others. His eyes locked with Jax.

“Listen,” Tommy said carefully. “You’ve got a double barrel. Two shots. Thirteen of us.”

Jax moved.

The shotgun roared.

Jax’s face disappeared in a spray of red.

Someone screamed.

Jazmine rushed forward, screaming Jax’s name, throwing a pillow like it could undo what had just happened.

The second shot took her in the chest.

She slammed into the wall and crumpled.

The room erupted.

Blood soaked into the white couches.

The boys charged as Tommy shouted for someone to get a knife.

Bradie didn’t think. She ran.

She sprinted into the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife she could find. Her hands didn’t shake. Her mind was blank.

When she came back, the men had wrestled the shotgun away. The intern thrashed on the floor, screaming, kicking, feral.

Bradie drove the knife into his chest.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

She stabbed until the resistance stopped. Until the light drained from his eyes.

She didn’t realize she was still stabbing until someone pulled her back.

“He’s dead,” Quinn said, gripping her arms. “Bradie. You don’t need to keep doing that.”

When it was over, two housemates lay dead. An intern bled out on the floor.

They had been told the world had ended—but after weeks sealed away from reality, no one knew what was true anymore.

The group that had spent weeks trapped in manufactured limbo now faced a real challenge. Not a kissing challenge. Not a compatibility test.

Survival.

Bradie had woken up thinking this would be her last day in the house.

She hadn’t realized it would be the last day of the world she knew.

She didn’t know what came next.

But she knew one thing.

It had to be better than filming another day of Romance Island.