The red tally woke like a small eye and stayed on me. The courtyard set pretended to breathe. The string lights felt warmer than they were.
"Good evening," the host said to the lens. "We're back with boundary talk." His smile faced the camera; the rest of his face stayed practical. He angled half toward me, half to the audience. "Maya Quinn joins us as an on-air advisor tonight."
"Advise, not interfere," I said, clear enough to travel.
A ripple moved through the seats. Producers love ripples.
"Let's meet our couple," the host said. Two contestants stepped into the light - Jules and Hana, nervous hands and brave jawlines. Their names glowed in tidy lower-thirds. "Jules thinks Hana avoids hard truths. Hana thinks Jules performs for approval."
The tablet tried for position one seat over. PROMPT: Make her cry pulsed in cheerful font. Boone shifted his weight by a coin's width and the tablet remembered geometry.
I kept my left hand curled and turned to Hana. "One question, then I'm quiet," I said. "What did you protect tonight."
"I didn't want to look needy," she said. "If I cried he would win."
"Thank you," I said. "Jules - what did you protect."
"My cool," he said, and the word fell flat.
"Copy," I said. I stepped half a shoe toward the taped edge so the long lens would frame them as people. "Advice on rule - keep the apology on behavior, not identity. Say what you did, not who you think you are."
Jules swallowed. Hana looked at the hedge like it might coach her. The tablet pulsed, then sulked.
"I performed," Jules said. "I laughed so I wouldn't have to tell you I was scared I'm not enough."
"I ducked out," Hana said. "I changed the subject because I was scared you would call me dramatic."
"That's an apology," I said. "Now your question for each other is what do you need."
"I need you to take me seriously when I'm messy," she said.
"I need you to tell me when I'm playing to the crowd," he said. "I can step off the bit."
The host rode the current with professional grace. "And that," he said, "is advice on rule."
The branding corner tried to sell the moment like a snack. That was not my job.
"Thank you, Maya," the host said. "Moving on - I hear there's a disagreement over text messages on Break Room Two."
"No humiliation beats," I said, for the mic and the room. "We sort facts, not faces."
"Let's go there now," he said.
The handheld drifted toward the set that pretends to be a break room. I followed two steps behind the host and to his outside - a path that lets him be liked and me be useful.
Break Room Two held a pair of contestants whose arguments had learned to dance. A phone glowed on the counter like bait.
"Kara thinks Marco is flirting with the crew. Marco thinks Kara is reading into friendly banter," the host said.
Kara flushed. Marco folded his arms. The tablet crept into the doorway.
"Caption window," I said, before any line could grow teeth. Six minutes is not grace, but it is a handle.
"Kara," I said, "say the sentence you can stand by if your grandmother reads it on a bus stop."
Kara laughed once and steadied. "I don't like feeling like an extra in my own scene," she said. "When you are funny with other people, I don't know where I belong."
Marco's mouth opened. I held up a finger like a bookmark. "One breath," I said. "Then answer the sentence, not the fear."
He took it. "I like being liked," he said. "I'll put the jokes on a timer. Two minutes, not ten. If I blow it, I'll take the mic off and we can go for a walk."
"You can't remove a mic," a stagehand hissed.
"Metaphor," I said. "We walk without bringing the room with us."
The host wore relief well. "You two have homework," he said. "A timer and a walk."
Kara smiled without apology. Marco let his arms unfold.
We flowed back toward the courtyard. The audience had the warm sound editors love. The tablet flashed PROMPT: Ask about exes like a brand had reinvented curiosity.
"Hard pass," I said, and the mic made the syllables legal.
"Isn't that interfering," a producer said from somewhere a headset lives.
"Advise, not interfere," I said. "Exes are people. They didn't sign tonight."
The host switched to a safer card. "We've got a quick segment called Keep It Kind," he said. "Maya, three do's and don'ts for talking on camera."
"Three rules," I said. "Do speak in verbs. Do name what you did. Do offer one next step. Don't speculate about motives. Don't borrow another woman's name to sell your story. Don't pretend tears are currency."
The audience clapped in the rhythm of a thing they can memorize. The branding corner tried to wink.
A runner tugged the host's sleeve. He smiled at me like a man asking for permission without losing his job. "We've got time for a bite from our guest," he said. "Maya, why take the so-called villain slot tonight."
"So nobody else has to," I said. I let the beat live, then added, "I advise so the room hears one alternative to tearing people apart."
The tablet sulked and offered PROMPT: Ask about her love life.
The host looked at it, then at me, then at the audience. "Another couple needs us," he said smoothly. "We'll get to the truth the kind way."
He moved us toward the next set in the little cluster that makes a reality show feel like a neighborhood. The steadicam tracked our ankles. Victor straightened a cable with the grace of a pickpocket who donates to libraries.
Set C had a glass between two contestants with two straws like a school project. The argument had been about that glass for twenty minutes and about childhood for twenty years.
"Name the thing," I said before either could weaponize memory. "Not the person. Not the decade. The thing."
"The straw," one said.
"The silence," the other said.
"Good," I said. "The thing has edges. You can grip it without breaking skin."
The host glanced to the control room. "We're a minute out," he said. "We need a button."
"Button," I repeated. I looked at both contestants. "You owe each other one sentence before the hour ends. Choose a promise or a boundary. Seven words."
"I won't make you the joke to feel safe," she said.
"I won't ask you to be less to fit me," he said.
"That's more than seven," I said, but the math worked.
The applause found us again. The tally on Camera B cooled from urgent to patient. The floor manager's hand windmilled low. We had reached a seam.
"Stay with us," the host said, smiling into the lens as the logo drifted up. "After the break, we take you inside the confessional."
Music did its job. The set exhaled.
Rita was at my elbow, phone already writing our future. "Caption window activated," she said. "Six minutes. Brand is cutting a sizzle with your three rules."
"Let them," I said.
Boone faced nothing in particular and persuaded it to stop existing. "Loiterer at Service B," he said. "Wrong font again."
Victor unplugged me from the board enough to let my shoulder remember it was a body. "Wind is still your friend," he said. "Don't whisper in the booth."
"In the booth," I repeated. "What's the toss."
"They'll try Villain Confessional in the first minute," Rita said. "You say one line - I advise on rule to avoid harm - then let silence work for you."
"And the prompt," I said.
"Is a suggestion," Boone said.
We stood in the slice of shadow between courtyard and booth. The fake brick was kinder from the dark. The hedge looked like it wanted to nap. The tablet hovered at the edge of vision with a new face it hoped I would love: PROMPT: Ask about marriage.
I didn't look at it. Rita did. Her thumb moved. Flash. A little square of time went somewhere safe.
A PA lifted the booth flap. The room beyond wore acoustic blankets like a winter coat. The chair was screwed to the floor as if someone had once tried to leave.
"Ready," the host said, popping back into our orbit. "We toss in thirty."
"Copy," I said.
Rita touched my sleeve - two fingers, no sentiment. "Phones silent," she said. "Left hand curled."
"Curled," I said.
The floor manager lifted his palm. "In ten," he said. The courtyard hushed.
The tally over the booth door warmed to red.
"Two," he counted.
I stepped toward the booth.
The tablet breathed at the edge of the doorway like a gossip deciding whether to knock.
"Not tonight," I said.
The door unlatched with a small, decisive click, and the light over the lens stopped pretending to be patient.