Rafael grins at the camera mounted above the lodge entrance, tilting his chin the way he practiced at home. The red light blinks steadily. Perfect. He came to Whitehaven to become famous, and every second on screen counts. He runs a hand through his hair and flashes his best smile before stepping inside. Inside the lodge, he spots a wall of monitors showing camera feeds from across the frozen landscape. His stomach drops. One screen shows the hill where he tried skiing an hour ago. The broken pieces of rainbow-colored skis still lie scattered in the snow where he fell. Another monitor captures the moment he slipped and landed face-first. A third shows him trying to stand, falling again, then crawling away. He'd been so focused on the camera crew filming his departure that he never noticed these other angles. Now every clumsy second lives forever on tape. The production assistant at the desk doesn't look up, but Rafael sees his own horrified face reflected in a dozen screens. This isn't the fame he imagined.

Rafael can't stop thinking about those monitors. He wanders through the lodge until he finds himself back in front of the wall of screens. Each one shows a different angle of Whitehaven. The cameras never stop watching. He leans closer to the control panel, watching footage cycle through. A contestant slipping on ice. Another crying in their cabin. Someone burning dinner while the smoke alarm screams. His finger hovers over the archive button. These moments could make him the hero who brings drama to the show. He pictures his face on every screen across Whitehaven, narrating the chaos through the outdoor projection system mounted near the lodge. Fame delivered on a silver platter. But his hand freezes. On screen twelve, he sees himself from yesterday, grinning at a camera and making what he thought was a smoldering expression. It looks ridiculous. His stomach twists. He backs away from the controls. If he broadcasts everyone else's worst moments, they'll find his. And he has so many more.

Rafael steps outside the lodge into the bitter cold. The wind stings his face, but he barely notices. His mind is still on those screens, on all the footage they've captured. He pulls his jacket tighter and looks around at the scattered cabins and equipment dotting the white landscape. That's when he sees it. A rusted camera pole near the path to the northern cabins, its lens pointing uselessly at the ground. He walks closer, breath forming clouds in the freezing air. The camera housing is cracked, ice caked in the joints. Broken. He looks past it and spots another dead camera by the stone cottages, then a third hanging limp from a tree trunk. His heart races. These zones aren't being watched. No footage, no record. He could do anything here and the producers would never know. Practice his poses without embarrassment. Stage the perfect dramatic entrance. Create moments worthy of fame without the risk of capturing his failures. But as he stands in the blind spot, wind howling around him, an uncomfortable thought settles in his chest. If he's not on camera, does it count? Fame needs witnesses. He turns back toward the lodge where the working cameras wait, pulled toward the very thing that terrifies him. Being unwatched is worse than being watched badly.