The sun rose over the shattered skeleton of Camp Wawanakwa like a wound that refused to close. Blood-red light bled across the horizon, painting the jagged cliffs, the splintered dock, and the twisted metal husks of old challenge structures in shades of rust and fire. The air smelled of salt, rotting wood, and the faint metallic tang of fear. Only three figures remained standing on the edge of the thousand-foot drop: Gwen, Ezekiel, and Heather.
Gwen stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, black hair whipping in the wind, her pale skin almost luminous against the crimson sky. She had come a long way from the girl who hid behind sarcasm and sketchbooks. Somewhere between the nightmares and the betrayals, she had found something unbreakable inside herself—a quiet, stubborn light.
Ezekiel stood a few paces away, barefoot on the cracked concrete, his flannel shirt torn at the sleeves, his straw-colored hair matted with salt and sweat. The farm boy who had once been the butt of every joke had become something else entirely. His "future-sense"—that strange, unreliable gift that let him glimpse possible timelines—had saved him more times than he could count. He no longer flinched when people looked at him like he was broken. He simply waited, patient as the earth itself.
Heather stood between them, chin high, long black hair streaming like a battle flag. Her designer clothes were shredded and stained, but her posture screamed defiance. She had clawed her way to the final three through manipulation, strategy, and sheer spite. She would not lose now. Not to these two.
Chris McLean stepped forward, grinning like a shark that had just smelled blood. Behind him loomed a massive, rusted spinning wheel—the kind you might find in a carnival from hell. The wheel was studded with names, dares, and insults, all scrawled in the handwriting of eliminated contestants.
"Welcome, final three," Chris announced, voice booming over the crashing waves. "Welcome to the penultimate showdown! Today you face the I Triple Dog Dare You Gauntlet. Here's how it works: every eliminated contestant sent in one dare. You spin the wheel. Whoever's name it lands on gets to watch while you try to complete their revenge. Finish the dare, you get a point. Refuse or fail, you lose one. At sunset, the person with the lowest score gets the boot. Simple, brutal, and oh-so-entertaining."
He clapped his hands. "Let's spin!"
The wheel groaned as it turned, metal screeching against metal. It slowed, ticked, and stopped.
**Noah.**
Heather's name was written in neat, sarcastic script beneath the dare.
Noah's Dare: *Recite the entire script of a Shakespearean play while Chef throws live, agitated lobsters at your head.*
Heather's eyes narrowed. "Of course he picked Macbeth. That pretentious little—"
Chef Hatchet appeared from behind a boulder, carrying a writhing bucket. The lobsters inside snapped and hissed like tiny demons. He grinned, showing every crooked tooth.
Chris handed Heather a laminated script. "You've got forty minutes to get through the whole thing. No skipping lines. No stopping. Go."
Heather took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and began.
"Is this a dagger which I see before me—"
A lobster sailed through the air and clamped onto her shoulder. Pain exploded like fire.
"—the handle toward my hand? Come, let me—OW! You giant green idiot!"
She ducked as another one flew past her ear. Chef laughed and lobbed two more. One caught her in the ribs. She staggered but kept going, voice rising over the snapping claws and Chef's bellowing laughter.
Gwen and Ezekiel watched from the sidelines. Gwen winced every time Heather took a hit. Ezekiel's face was unreadable, but his fingers twitched as though calculating trajectories.
Heather kept reciting. Line after line. She dodged, rolled, ducked under flying crustaceans. A lobster tangled in her hair; she ripped it free without missing a beat. Blood trickled from a dozen small cuts. Her voice cracked once—only once—when a particularly large one latched onto her calf. She screamed the next line instead of speaking it.
Forty-two minutes later, she finished the final soliloquy, panting, covered in welts, one eye swelling shut. The last lobster hit the ground and scuttled away.
Chris checked his stopwatch. "She didn't miss a single line. Point: Heather."
Heather collapsed to her knees, breathing hard. She looked up at the other two. "Your turn."
The wheel spun again.
**Tyler.**
Ezekiel's name appeared.
Tyler's Dare: *Extreme freestyle diving. A triple-front flip into a pool filled with electrified jellyfish.*
The pool had been constructed overnight—clear plastic walls filled with glowing blue water. Dozens of jellyfish pulsed inside, their tentacles crackling with tiny arcs of electricity.
Ezekiel stared at it. His future-sense flickered: a dozen timelines where he hit the water wrong and his heart stopped. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, felt the wind direction, the angle of the sun, the exact placement of the diving board.
He climbed the ladder. At the top, he paused, looking down at Gwen and Heather. Gwen gave him a small nod. Heather just smirked.
Ezekiel ran. Three steps. Launch.
He tucked, spun—once, twice, three times—arms tight, body arrow-straight. At the last second he adjusted, angling toward the one narrow gap between the jellyfish clusters. He sliced into the water like a knife, barely disturbing the surface.
The electricity crackled around him but never touched. He surfaced on the far side, gasping, unharmed.
Chris whistled. "Perfect form. Point: Ezekiel."
Gwen exhaled in relief. Heather rolled her eyes. "Lucky farm boy."
**Cody.**
Gwen's name.
Cody's Dare: *The Glass Box of Terror. Ten minutes in a box with five thousand Madagascar hissing cockroaches.*
The box was clear acrylic, three feet by three feet, already humming with movement. Cody had written a note taped to the side: *I'm sorry, Gwen. I just really hate bugs.*
Gwen looked at the box. Her claustrophobia surged like nausea. She hated tight spaces. Hated things crawling on her. But she stepped forward anyway.
The lid closed. Darkness. Then the floodlights came on.
The roaches poured over her like black oil. They hissed. They climbed. They explored every inch of exposed skin. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her back against the glass, and tried to breathe.
Outside, Ezekiel knelt by the box. "Gwen. Listen to me. Just listen."
His voice was low, steady, the same voice he used to calm spooked horses back home. "Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four. You're not trapped. You're just… visiting."
Gwen focused on the rhythm of his words. In. Hold. Out. The skittering legs faded into background noise. She pictured the prairie behind his farm—wide, open, endless.
Ten minutes later the lid opened. Gwen stumbled out, shaking, covered in roach residue, but alive.
Chris grinned. "She lasted the full time. Point: Gwen."
Heather clapped slowly. "Impressive. Didn't think you had it in you."
Gwen shot her a look. "I've had worse nightmares."
The morning dragged on. The dares came faster.
**Justin.**
All three had to eat a "beauty mask" made of Chef's mystery meat, swamp water, and blue cheese.
The smell hit like a punch. Heather gagged immediately. Gwen vomited halfway through but forced the rest down. Ezekiel ate his portion methodically, expression blank—he'd grown up on roadkill stew and fermented silage. To him, this was Tuesday.
Points: All three.
**Beth.**
Makeover the Sasquatchanakwa.
The beast was chained to a tree, roaring. Heather had to paint its toenails bubblegum pink while Gwen and Ezekiel held its thrashing legs. One roar nearly deafened Heather. She painted faster, cursing under her breath.
When the last toe was done, the Sasquatchanakwa blinked, looked at its feet, and—miraculously—stopped struggling.
Point: Heather.
**Leshawna.**
The Truth or Dare Dance.
Heather had to perform a ten-minute hip-hop routine while shouting genuine compliments to everyone she'd ever insulted.
She danced—awkwardly at first, then with growing fury. "Leshawna… is a queen!" she shouted between spins. "Gwen… is actually a brilliant artist!" She stumbled but kept going. "Ezekiel… is actually the most decent guy here!"
She collapsed at the end, chest heaving.
Point: Heather.
**Geoff.**
The Hot Sauce Slip-n-Slide.
A tarp stretched down the cliff, coated in ghost pepper sauce. The three slid one after another. The burn was immediate and apocalyptic. Heather screamed the whole way. Gwen cursed in three languages. Ezekiel gritted his teeth and took the burn in silence.
Points: Ezekiel and Gwen.
The sun climbed higher. The dares blurred into a haze of pain and exhaustion.
**Courtney.**
Stand on one leg atop a twenty-foot totem pole for two hours while Chef pelted them with rotten eggs.
Heather wobbled after forty minutes. Her calves screamed. Gwen took an egg to the eye and didn't flinch. Ezekiel stood like a statue—years of balancing on fence rails had prepared him for this.
All three endured.
Points: All three.
Courtney, watching from the luxury resort on the other island, gave a single, cold nod.
**Izzy.**
Wrestle a bear while wearing a tutu.
Ezekiel stepped forward. Instead of fighting, he hummed a low, soothing tune—the same one his mother used on newborn calves. The bear blinked, sniffed him, then lay down and let him scratch behind its ears.
Point: Ezekiel.
**Harold.**
Num-yo skill test with flaming torches.
Gwen's focus was unbreakable. She caught every throw, spun, flipped, never let the flames touch her.
Point: Gwen.
**Trent.**
Write a song about your biggest regret.
Gwen and Ezekiel were raw and honest. Gwen's song was quiet, haunting—about the night she pushed everyone away. Ezekiel's was simple, aching—about the day he lost his family's trust.
Heather lied. She said her only regret was wearing last season's boots. Chris denied the point.
No point: Heather.
**Bridgette.**
Twenty minutes in a freezing ice bath.
All three shivered violently, teeth chattering, but they stayed.
Points: All three.
**DJ.**
Protect a nest of baby birds from a hawk using only a stick.
Ezekiel's animal instincts took over. He moved like water, never striking, just guiding the hawk away until it gave up.
Point: Ezekiel.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the final tally was brutal:
Ezekiel: 16 points
Gwen: 14 points
Heather: 12 points
Heather stood on the sand, hair plastered to her face, body bruised and bleeding. Chris pulled out a pair of silver military hair clippers. The buzz was loud in the sudden quiet.
"The final dare," Chris said softly. "Sent by Duncan. He wanted revenge on everyone, but you're the one on the block, Heather. Shave your head, or you're out."
Heather's hand went to her hair. Tears filled her eyes—real tears, not the crocodile ones she'd used for years. "No… please… anything but this."
Chef stepped forward, clippers humming. His boot hit a slick patch of gravy from earlier. He lurched. The clippers flew from his hand, spinning toward Heather's face like a silver hornet.
SNAP.
Ezekiel lunged. His hand closed around the clippers inches from her forehead. At the same instant, Gwen's hand slammed down on his, thumb hitting the off switch.
The buzzing died.
A single strand of Heather's hair drifted to the sand.
Chris sighed. "The dare wasn't finished. Chef fell. You two intervened. Score stands. Heather—you're eliminated."
Heather touched her hair. Her hands shook. She looked at Gwen and Ezekiel, who were still holding hands in the sand, breathing hard.
"I still think you're both losers," she whispered. Her voice cracked, then steadied. "But… thanks. Seriously. I'll be watching. Don't let farm boy win too easily, Gwen."
She turned. Head high. Walked to the Boat of Losers.
The sun sank into the sea.
The final two: Ezekiel and Gwen.
The prize: one million dollars.