Chapter 1: The Alpha Underdog Steps Onstage

Fresh out of college, I signed up for a wilderness survival reality show that America just couldn’t stop talking about.

The instant my sneakers hit that stage, I swear, every eye in the room zeroed in on me. To my left was Beckett—a fierce-looking ex-Marine with a jaw like a cinderblock, arms that could bench-press a car, and eyes sharp enough to cut glass. On my right? Marcus, this burly South African survivalist—seriously, I think his handshake could crack walnuts. The kind of guy who probably wrestled crocodiles before breakfast. The tension between those two was almost a living thing, thick in the air—like they were already squaring up for a showdown. Part of me wanted to laugh, but mostly, I just tried not to get crushed by the testosterone cloud.

At 5'5", barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, and rocking thick-rimmed glasses, I looked about as intimidating as a librarian at a biker bar. Yeah, I know. Not exactly the stuff of legends. Honestly, I felt like the nerdy little sister who’d somehow snuck into the wrong locker room. My hands kept fidgeting with the hem of my jacket, but I forced my chin up—no way was I letting nerves show on national TV.

International viewers were already going off: "Really? Did the U.S. run out of people? They actually sent a little girl to compete—she’s just here to be bear food!"

Meanwhile, American viewers weren’t holding back either: "Is this girl desperate for Instagram fame or just broke? She’s embarrassing us on the world stage."

Honestly, it was almost funny. I mean, sure, maybe I was nuts—but it wasn’t the internet that did it. There was something inside me, something wild, that didn’t care about hashtags or livestreams. That’s what really drove me here.

I’d spent my early life as the Alpha of a werewolf pack in the deep woods, before waking up in this world twenty-two years ago.

Weird, right? But those memories never really left me. They always hovered at the edge of my mind—howling at the moon, the snap of twigs under my paws, the warmth of the pack pressed close on frozen nights. But here, I was just Harper Lane, recent college grad, nothing but a diploma and a restless spirit to my name.

School and college life had been fun, but this year, my wolf blood finally woke up.

It was like something inside me had started pacing—restless, hungry. I’d catch myself staring at the moon or itching to sprint until my lungs burned. Finals week? Yeah, try explaining that to your study group.

“Awaken. The hunt begins.”

The words echoed in my head—half memory, half promise. My pulse kicked up, the world sharpened around the edges. Time to answer the call.

Right after my college graduation ceremony, I packed my gear.

I didn’t even bother with the after-party. While my friends popped champagne and snapped selfies in their gowns, I was cramming survival gear into my duffel, checking and rechecking my list by the glow of my desk lamp. My mom peeked in, worried as ever. I just grinned and told her I’d be back with stories. She rolled her eyes, muttered something about "kids these days," and left me to it.

I boarded a flight and rushed to Anchorage, Alaska, for the show’s press conference.

The airport was a blur—fluorescent lights, stale coffee, and nerves. I barely slept on the plane, my brain on overdrive. But when I stepped out into the crisp Alaskan air, it was like a jolt straight to my bones. This was it. This was the wild.

The show I joined? Only the world’s hottest reality series: "Wilderness Survival, Season 3."

Everywhere I turned, there were posters plastered with the show’s logo and grinning past winners. The press room buzzed—reporters, fans, wannabe contestants, all talking over each other. I tried not to eavesdrop, but it was impossible. "Did you hear who made it this year?" "They’re upping the prize money!" Stakes had never been higher.

There were no fake edits or manufactured drama—just raw survival, real danger, and the promise of life-changing money. Seriously, even the bravest hearts skipped a beat.

The surviving contestants from the first two seasons became instant celebrities—fame, fortune, the whole package.

Some were household names now—guest spots on late-night TV, book deals, sponsorships with outdoor brands. Their faces were everywhere, grinning by campfires or holding up trophies. Who knew you could get rich just by not dying? It was the American dream, just with more mud and fewer rules.

Naturally, everyone scrambled to sign up—over a million applied this time, from what I’d heard.

Your odds? Worse than getting into Harvard. The waiting list was legendary. People camped out for auditions, sent in wild video reels, begged on social media. It was a feeding frenzy of adrenaline junkies, survivalists, and dreamers. And me? I wasn’t even sure what I was doing here.

Seriously, you could see it in their eyes—they weren’t here to play it safe.

You could feel it in the way they talked, the wild glint in their eyes. No one here was playing it safe. Everyone wanted to prove something—to themselves, to the world, maybe even to the ghosts in their own heads. Me? I just wanted to survive.

So the producers had to screen candidates, especially since twenty people had to be rescued, or worse, over the first two seasons.

There were whispered stories—rescues gone wrong, close calls with bears, contestants vanishing for days... The producers wanted drama, not disaster. They ran background checks, physical tests, psych evals. Only the toughest—or the luckiest—made it through.

To keep things spicy, only 50 contestants made the final cut.

Fifty. Out of over a million. That number hung in the air like a dare.

Brutal doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Obstacle courses, survival simulations, endless interviews. Some dropped out after a single night in the woods. Others broke down on camera. The rest—well, they were the ones standing on that stage, ready to face the wild, no matter what.

I hadn’t even planned to join. But then, a few months back, something inside me snapped awake.

It started as a whisper in my dreams—old instincts tugging at me. I tried to ignore it, but the urge only grew. One night, I found myself running barefoot through the woods behind my house, heart pounding, breath steaming in the cold air. That’s when I knew I was done pretending.

Suddenly, my senses sharpened, my instincts went wild, and I felt stronger than I’d ever been—almost scary strong.

Colors popped brighter, sounds were sharper. I could smell the rain coming, taste the electricity in the air. My muscles felt coiled, ready to spring. Honestly? It freaked me out.

I needed an outlet—before I lost my mind.

It was like trying to bottle up a hurricane. I needed something big, something wild, to burn off all that restless energy. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe fate had a weird sense of humor. That’s when I saw the casting call for Wilderness Survival.

I was in a hurry, so I skipped the prelims and bought a sponsor slot.

Yeah, I know. Not exactly the heroic underdog story. Go ahead, judge me. I’d do it again. When you’ve got a ticking clock inside you, you don’t wait for permission. You make your own way.

It wasn’t cheap—half a million dollars—but my family could swing it.

My folks aren’t billionaires or anything, but they did alright. Old money, smart investments, a big house with a forest out back. Still, half a million wasn’t pocket change. No pressure, right? I promised to pay them back, one way or another.

That was the real challenge.

They’d seen the news stories, the horror reels. My mom cried, my dad paced the kitchen. I had to show them I wasn’t just some kid with a death wish.

I lined up the barbell in the garage. Dad watched. I lifted it with one hand—no sweat. His jaw hit the floor. Then I took him outside, nailed a bullseye with my old recurve from a hundred yards, and built a fire in five minutes flat. When I finished the log cabin demo, they looked at me like I’d grown a second head.

Finally, they just stared at me, then gave me the green light.

My mom hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. My dad just shook his head and muttered something about "raising a superhero." I promised to call as often as I could—though we all knew, once the cameras rolled, I’d be on my own.

No time to breathe, no time to think—as soon as I arrived at the press conference and passed identity checks, a staff member whisked me onstage.

They barely gave me time to breathe—just a quick check of my ID, a slap of makeup, and a nudge toward the glaring lights. The roar of the crowd hit me like a wave. I straightened my shoulders and tried to look like I belonged. Fake it till you make it, right?

Suddenly, there was a camera in my face and this blond, blue-eyed host was announcing to the world.

He grinned, teeth dazzling, and launched into his spiel: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the most anticipated season yet!" I tried to smile back, feeling the heat of a thousand spotlights. Sorry, Mom. Somewhere, my parents were probably glued to their TV, hearts pounding.

Already? I gave the camera a smile, but before I could introduce myself, the camera swung to the burly guy on my left.

I was ready with my little speech—then, wham, the camera jerked away. Beckett’s face filled the screen, his expression all business. Guess I wasn’t the main event. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

His name was Beckett. According to him, he’d been a mercenary and once killed a mountain lion barehanded. Yeah. You heard that right.

He told the story with a flat, matter-of-fact tone, but you could see the pride in his eyes. The crowd ate it up. I could almost see the challenge in his eyes—like a wolf sizing up the pack.

(That bloodlust was practically radiating off him.)

My instincts prickled. In another life, I might have circled him, tested his strength. Here, I just made a mental note: don’t turn your back on Beckett.

After a long list of his exploits, the camera panned past me to the bald guy on my right—Marcus, a special forces vet who’d lived alone in the Amazon for a year—no big deal.

Marcus smiled at the camera, his accent thick and confident. He listed off his credentials like he was reading a grocery list—jungle survival, tracking, even snake-handling. The crowd murmured in awe. I glanced at him, sizing him up. Show-off. No weaknesses on display.

Wow. Tough crowd. This is going to be fun.

I couldn’t help it—a little smirk tugged at my lips. If they only knew what I could really do. Let them think I’m crazy. The audience probably thought I was out of my mind, but inside, my wolf blood was humming with excitement.

Meanwhile, the livestream chat was already losing its mind.

People were typing so fast the screen was a blur. I caught flashes of my own face, memes already popping up. There was no going back now.

“Oh my god, is that glasses girl a contestant too? She looks so weak!”

“Never saw her in the prelims—bet she just paid her way in to get famous.”

“Seriously, can’t we stop embarrassing our country?”

“Embarrassment is one thing, but risking your life is another.”

“No way, are we about to see another disaster?”

“In Season 2, some influencer paid to join, but less than half an hour in, he got scared off by wolves.”

#FreshGradTakesOnWildernessSurvival

The hashtag exploded on Twitter, with everyone betting on how many hours I’d last before quitting. Vegas probably had odds on me.

I could just picture the Vegas odds, people placing bets over pizza and beer. There were already memes of me Photoshopped running from cartoon bears. It was kind of hilarious.

As expected, my raised eyebrow kicked off a new round of international bickering.

Suddenly, my face was a meme: #EyebrowChallenge. I tried not to laugh. The world loves a good underdog story—especially one they think is doomed.

International viewers: "Really? Did the U.S. run out of people? They actually sent a little girl to compete—she’s just here to be bear food! Watch our guys crush her."

American viewers: "Is this girl desperate for Instagram fame or just broke? She’s embarrassing us on the world stage."

None of that mattered up here.

Standing on that stage, the chatter faded away. It was just me, Beckett, and Marcus—three strangers about to be thrown into the wild. Game on. The only thing that mattered now was survival.

Just three of us. That’s it.

You could feel the tension ratchet up. The producers liked small groups—more drama, more tension. The other two barely glanced at me, sizing each other up like two alpha wolves in a new territory.

It was clear the other two didn’t take me seriously—they were just sizing each other up. Fine by me.

I saw it in their eyes—the way they dismissed me as background noise. That was fine. Underestimation was my secret weapon. Let them.

Besides the essentials provided by the producers—sleeping bags, salt (because apparently, bland food is the real enemy), rain tarps, emergency beacons—we each got to bring three personal items.

The essentials were all laid out in neat rows: standard-issue sleeping bags, a small bag of salt, rain tarps, and the all-important emergency beacon. The real test was in the personal choices. No pressure, right?

Beckett brought: a fishing net, a firestarter, and a bowie knife. Classic. Figures.

Marcus: bow and arrows, firestarter, fishing net. Marcus wasn’t messing around.

Me: a deck of playing cards, a big cast iron pot, and an axe. Yeah, I know—cards. Just wait.

When I revealed my gear, everyone burst out laughing. Figures.

The snickers were immediate—someone in the back actually snorted. I just shrugged and stacked my items neatly in front of me. No point explaining—let them laugh. They’d see soon enough.

Beckett even pointed at my iron pot and mocked, “Harper, this isn’t a cooking show.” I shot him a look and tapped the pot. "You’ll see," I said quietly, but whatever, dude, he was already turning away.

Marcus picked up my playing cards and flipped through them: “You brought cards, but no one’s going to play with you. Might as well head home early.” He didn’t get it.

He fanned the cards, eyebrow raised. I just smiled, letting him think what he wanted. The real trick was keeping my secrets to myself. Let them underestimate me.

Viewers were gearing up to roast me when, suddenly, something whizzed past and—bam—the screen went black.

A hush fell over the crowd. For a split second, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. Oops. But then I realized—the camera drone had just crashed, hard.

People craned their necks, whispering. While everyone was confused, a staff member’s camera showed what happened.

The feed switched to a handheld shot—there was the drone, lying in the dirt, propellers spinning weakly. Just my luck. I winced, realizing all eyes were on me.

So, yeah. When the drone crashed, I just smiled awkwardly.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to look sheepish. The audience buzzed with confusion, some people craning their necks to see what had happened. I could almost hear the "what the heck?" murmurs.

Reflexes, I guess. I’d sensed something flying toward me, so I snatched up a card and flicked it—knocking the drone out of the air.

It was pure instinct—a flash of movement, a snap of my wrist, and the card sliced through the air like a razor. The drone tumbled, sparks flying. Nailed it. I tried not to look too pleased with myself.

Great. Now I had their attention. Everyone in the room turned to stare at me. Beckett and Marcus’s eyes were suddenly full of hostility and wariness.

It was like the temperature dropped ten degrees. Beckett’s jaw clenched, Marcus narrowed his eyes. For the first time, I saw something like respect—and maybe a hint of fear. Finally.

The producers weren’t taking any chances. I could hear the whine of more drones circling overhead, like a swarm of high-tech bees. Showtime.

A staffer quickly took my playing cards and put them in my gear bag. He shot me a nervous look, probably wondering what else I might throw. I just grinned and gave him a little salute. Don’t worry, I’m out of tricks—maybe.

They didn’t buy it. I told a staffer, “It was just an accident.”

They didn’t look convinced. I could hear the murmurs—"Did she really just do that?" I shrugged, trying to play it off. Nothing to see here.

"Seriously? You broke a camera fifty yards up—with a card."

A producer’s voice cut through the chatter, half amused, half annoyed. I spread my hands, feigning innocence. I’m just here for the wilderness, folks.

A crew member snorted, “Amazing. Turns out the real clown is me.” He meant himself, not me.

Someone in the crew laughed, breaking the tension. I shot them a wink.

"Now that’s real skill!" Finally, some appreciation.

A few people clapped, but most just stared. I felt the old thrill of being underestimated turn into something sharper—a challenge. Bring it on.

"Is this just for show?" I almost wanted to wink at the camera. If only you knew.

I could feel the skepticism, thick as smoke. I just smiled, letting the mystery hang in the air. Let them wonder.

"So what if she’s good at tricks? Don’t forget, contestants have to survive in the wild for a whole year." I wanted to roll my eyes. Yeah, thanks for the reminder.

That line stung a little, but I let it slide. I knew what I was capable of. Let them doubt.

People online were losing their minds. Not that I cared.

The internet could argue all it wanted. Out here, only skill mattered. I tuned out the noise and focused on the task ahead. Game face on.

The livestream used flying cameras and satellite tracking. No pressure.

There was nowhere to hide. Every move, every stumble, would be broadcast to millions. I took a deep breath and let the pressure sharpen my focus. Let’s do this.

Before leaving, the staff kept warning me not to break any more cameras.

I promised, hand over heart. They didn’t look convinced. I hid a grin—no promises if another drone got too close. Maybe next time, aim higher.