The exit door finally gave way with a tortured groan of metal. The katana had carved deep gashes into the seams, shoulders had rammed against it until bones ached, and sheer desperation had done the rest. When the slab swung outward, cold night air flooded in—sharp, salty, real. Stars glittered overhead like indifferent witnesses. The distant crash of waves against the island shore sounded almost peaceful.
But peace was a lie.
Spotlights snapped on with blinding intensity, turning night into artificial day. Helicopter rotors thumped overhead, their downdraft whipping hair and clothes. Camera flashes popped like automatic gunfire. Reporters—dozens of them—surged forward in a wave, microphones thrust out like spears, voices overlapping in a deafening roar.
"Total Drama Chaos survivors! Over here!"
"The most controversial season in reality TV history!"
"Two hundred and thirty-seven million live viewers at peak—ratings shattered every record!"
Courtney stumbled to a halt just outside the door, eyes wide. "What… what is this?"
Gwen's hand flew to her mouth, muffling a choked sound. "They're filming us. Right now."
Heather's face twisted into something between disgust and cold fury. "Of course they are. We're the finale."
Lindsay clutched Heather's arm, voice small and trembling. "There are so many people… so many cameras… I don't like this… I don't like this…"
Ezekiel stepped out last, katana still gripped loosely in his right hand. Dried blood flaked off the blade with every movement. He scanned the chaos, then spoke quietly, voice steady despite everything:
"This isn't freedom. It's the next episode."
Lindsay echoed him immediately, repeating the words like a mantra, eyes glassy:
"This isn't freedom… it's the next episode… this isn't freedom… it's the next episode…"
Izzy emerged behind him, swaying slightly, hair matted with blood and dirt. She stared at the lights, the cameras, the shouting faces, and let out a shaky, broken laugh that turned into a sob halfway through.
A tall man in an immaculate charcoal suit pushed through the throng—the producer. Same slick hair, same predatory smile, same aura of complete control. He stopped a few feet away, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Welcome back to the world, survivors," he said, voice amplified by a hidden microphone. "Or should I say… congratulations. You six have just completed the most groundbreaking, most-watched season in Total Drama history. The audience couldn't look away. Two hundred and thirty-seven million people watched every death, every scream, every twist—live. We've already sold the international streaming rights for eight figures. Merchandise pre-orders are through the roof. You're not just contestants anymore. You're icons."
Heather took a step forward, voice low and venomous. "You let them die. You sat in your control booth and watched Chris get decapitated, watched Duncan explode, watched Bridgette and Owen get blown apart, watched Geoff choke on poison gas, watched Justin get a dart through the skull, watched Trent get torn apart by piranhas, watched Cody get ripped in half by a shark, watched Tyler get crushed by boulders… and you kept the cameras rolling."
The producer's smile didn't falter. "And the viewers thanked us for it. The finale ratings alone generated more revenue than the last three seasons combined. That's business."
Courtney's hands clenched into fists. "Business? You turned murder into entertainment."
"Drama is entertainment," he replied smoothly. "And chaos… chaos is gold."
He gestured to an assistant who stepped forward holding the oversized novelty check—$10,000,000 still printed in bold red letters.
"The prize is yours," the producer continued. "The contract is clear: the winner—or winners—take it all. Split it however you like. But first, a few words for the cameras. The world is watching. They want to hear from the people who outlived the massacre."
Gwen shook her head slowly. "We're not doing interviews. We're done."
The producer tilted his head. "You signed the contract. You agreed to post-show obligations. Interviews, press tours, reunion specials. It's all in the fine print."
Izzy's hand moved before anyone could react.
She pulled Brady's pistol from her waistband—the same gun that had killed so many—and raised it in one smooth motion.
The producer's smile finally flickered.
"Izzy—" Gwen started.
Izzy fired.
The shot cracked through the night. The bullet punched a neat hole through the producer's forehead. He staggered backward two steps, eyes wide in genuine shock for the first time, then collapsed like a marionette with severed strings. Blood spread beneath his head in a dark halo on the gravel.
For three full seconds, the world went silent.
Then pandemonium.
Reporters screamed. Cameras kept rolling—some zoomed in on the body, others on Izzy's face. Helicopters dipped lower, spotlights swinging wildly.
But the six survivors didn't flinch.
Courtney stepped forward first, voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
"The contract said the winner takes all. But there is no single winner. There are six of us. We split it equally."
Gwen nodded, voice hoarse. "One million six hundred thousand each."
Heather crossed her arms, eyes never leaving the producer's corpse. "The remaining hundred thousand goes to a memorial fund. For the ones who didn't walk out."
Lindsay wiped tears from her cheeks, voice small but steady for once. "For Chris... Duncan… Bridgette… Owen… Geoff… Justin… Trent… Cody… Tyler… DJ... Katie... Sadie... Noah... Leshawna… Eva… Harold… Chef… Beth…"
Ezekiel looked down at the katana in his hand, then let it fall to the ground with a dull clang. His voice was quiet.
"And we have a farewell party. To mourn them properly."
Izzy lowered the pistol slowly. Her voice cracked, but she managed a small, broken smile.
"They're gone. But we're still here."
The reporters kept shouting questions:
"How do you feel about killing the producer?"
"Was this planned?"
"What happens now?"
But the six of them turned their backs.
They walked toward the dock where the boat waited—the same boat that had brought them to the island months ago, now ready to take them away.
No security stopped them. No one dared.
The cameras followed until the boat's engines roared to life and the vessel pulled away into the dark water.
Inside the cabin, they sat in silence for a long time.
Courtney finally spoke. "We're splitting it six ways. One million six hundred thousand each. No arguments."
Gwen nodded. "Agreed."
Heather leaned back against the wall. "The extra hundred thousand… we use it for something real. A foundation. Scholarships. Memorials. Whatever keeps their names alive."
Lindsay whispered, "I want to plant trees. One for each of them. Somewhere quiet."
Ezekiel stared out the window at the receding island. "We survived. That's enough for now."
Izzy curled up on a bench, hugging her knees. "We survived… but part of us didn't."
The boat cut through the waves, carrying six broken people toward whatever came next.
Behind them, the island lights faded into darkness.
But the world kept watching.
Clips of the final moments—Brady's headless body, the producer's corpse, the survivors walking away—went viral within minutes.
Ratings soared.
Sponsors lined up.
The chaos never truly ended.
It just changed shape.
**The End...**
**Or not???** ☠️😈☠️