Groans erupted across the cafeteria at PD Kwon's announcement.
One trainee from Category Three actually slammed his palm against the table, earning sharp looks from nearby cameras.
But not everyone seemed devastated. At the front tables, a few trainees whispered excitedly, eyes gleaming as they watched the chaos unfold.
More screen time and drama meant more exposure.
My stomach churned for entirely different reasons.
"Wait, what about—" A trainee two tables over went pale, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "Did they find the—"
His friend elbowed him hard, cutting off whatever confession he'd been about to make.
"Furthermore," PD Kwon's voice rose above the mounting complaints, "all personal mobile devices will be collected immediately."
The cafeteria fell silent for exactly three seconds.
Then the real chaos began.
"Are you serious?"
"How are we supposed to call home?"
"This is inhumane!"
PD Kwon raised one hand, his smile turning sharp.
"You will receive ten minutes of supervised access per day. No exceptions. No negotiations."
The groans rippled louder this time, rolling through the room like a wave of despair.
Phones weren't just devices—they were lifelines to families, friends, and the world beyond these walls.
I'd expected this. Every survival show operated the same way.
Complete isolation bred dependency on the production and made trainees more malleable, more desperate for any scrap of validation.
But knowing didn't make the reality sting less.
Staff members emerged from the kitchen carrying clear plastic bins, their footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet.
"Please place your devices in the bins. Thank you for your cooperation."
The first trainee to comply kissed his phone like he was saying goodbye to a lover.
"Stay strong, baby. I'll see you tomorrow."
Others weren't taking it as well. Muttered curses filled the air, some in languages I couldn't identify. A few trainees put on exaggerated pouts for the cameras, playing up their distress for potential screen time.
When the staff member reached our table, I quietly slipped my phone into the bin.
My hands didn't shake.
They couldn't.
Inside that phone were messages I'd never sent, contacts I'd never called, and search histories I couldn't let anyone see. Medical sites. Omega support forums. Suppressant dosage calculators.
Better it disappeared into their digital black hole than risk discovery.
As the last phone was collected, the big screen at the front of the cafeteria flickered to life.
Jisoo, Yuhyun, Jinwook, and I turned to face it along with everyone else.
Upbeat variety-show-style background music erupted from the speakers, transforming the entire cafeteria into a live viewing party.
Bright, playful graphics exploded across the screen: "Dorm Spot Check – Secrets Revealed!" Complete with bouncing cartoon mascots and sparkly effects.
DING! A cheerful sound effect rang out as the footage began.
Production crews swept through dorm rooms like overzealous detectives, pulling open drawers and rifling through luggage.
The screen exploded with dramatic sound effects. Staff members triumphantly held up contraband like state secrets.
GASP! The sound bite played as a crew member discovered a trainee's hidden stash of instant coffee jars under his bed.
"CAFFEINE ADDICT!" screamed the caption in bold red letters, complete with coffee bean animations bouncing across the screen.
The camera zoomed in on each jar with the intensity of a crime scene investigation.
One jar. Two jars. Five jars. The dramatic music crescendoed with each discovery until it reached soap opera levels of absurdity.
Cut to the trainee's face in the cafeteria—eyes wide, mouth agape, looking like he'd just watched his entire world crumble.
The footage continued its relentless march of humiliation.
Another room revealed a stack of handwritten fan letters tied with ribbon, hidden beneath folded clothes.
"HOMETOWN HERO'S SECRET STASH!"
The camera lingered on each envelope with voyeuristic hunger before cutting to slow-motion black-and-white footage of the trainee's devastated expression.
Then, the footage shifted to the S-rank suites, and the tone completely changed.
Soft, admiring music replaced the dramatic sting effects as cameras panned through Haejun's immaculate room.
Everything was pristine—books arranged by height, skincare products lined up like soldiers, and workout gear folded with military precision.
"PERFECTIONIST PRINCE!" The caption sparkled in elegant gold font.
No hidden contraband. No embarrassing secrets. Just the image of someone who lived exactly as he appeared on camera.
The screen cut to Hyunki's room next. Energy drinks sat openly on his desk beside protein bars and dumbbells. Bold workout schedules covered his wall in neat handwriting.
"ALPHA DEDICATION!"
Again, nothing scandalous. Just reinforcement of his aggressive, determined image.
The crew members swept Hyunki's protein bars and energy drinks into their confiscation bins anyway.
His face darkened as he watched his supplements disappear on screen.
The dramatic music shifted, playing ominous notes as "NO EXCEPTIONS!" flashed in warning-red text.
Even they were not immune to the production's hunger for control.
Finally, Doyun's room appeared. The camera lingered on notebooks filled with original lyrics, a small keyboard, and inspirational quotes taped to his mirror.
"UNDERGROUND GENIUS AT WORK!"
Even his "messy" desk looked artfully arranged, pens scattered in photogenic chaos.
I pressed my lips together, watching the stark contrast.
The elite trainees' rooms told perfect stories. Their "discoveries" only made them more appealing to viewers.
But for everyone else, this segment was pure humiliation packaged as entertainment.
Still, I couldn't deny the brutal logic behind it. Bad publicity was still publicity.
Every mortified face on screen meant the audience would remember that trainee's name, their story, and their downfall.
In a competition where being forgotten meant elimination, even humiliation had value.
My jaw clenched as I watched another trainee's private diary excerpts scroll across the screen in cartoon speech bubbles, complete with heart emojis and embarrassing childhood confessions.
This was psychological warfare disguised as variety content.
The trainee beside me actually covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. Whether from laughter or shame, I couldn't tell.
My chest tightened.
Under my pillow back in Room 312 sat the one thing I couldn't let anyone see—my pills, my scent blockers.
If they found them, it wouldn't be funny. It would be the end.
The screen would flash my secret across millions of viewers. The captions wouldn't be cute or dramatic—they'd be vicious.
"OMEGA IMPOSTOR EXPOSED!"
The thought burned through me, leaving my palms slick and my lungs tight. I forced my face still, even as panic clawed at my insides.
And then the screen cut abruptly.
"ROOM 312 – THE UNDERDOGS' DEN!"
The title blazed in electric colors, with playful sound effects chiming.
My vision tunneled.
They were coming for us.
They were coming for me.