"Heads, I go. Tails, I don't." I flip the coin and watch it catch the plaza light. A Nebula Media trailer fills the whole screen above the tram hub. "Detective 101 returns," a voice booms. Clips snap: neon alleys, trembling suspects, a crowd in a holo-chamber yelling answers. The prize flashes in chrome—FIFTY MILLION. The number is bigger than my parents' mortgage, bigger than the hospital bills stacked on the kitchen table at home. A kid nearby shoves popcorn in his mouth and points at the screen. "You seeing this?" he says. "I am," I say. My thumb presses the edge of the coin. My thumb wants tails. My brain knows the truth: no safety net at home, rent due, Mom's meds slipping from the cabinet. Fifty million would fix more than we deserve. The coin lands. Heads. I don't think. I pull my phone out, pull up the Nebula applicant portal, and fumble a signature onto the screen. The application form reads like a contract because it is one. A countdown shows a seven-day window to report if accepted. A line in bold flashes: "All actions monitored and broadcast as part of program. Live signature required to complete acceptance." A robotic voice from a promo bot announces, "Sign now to be eligible. All contestants will be subject to live coverage." Someone behind me laughs. I hit SEND. My phone pings immediately. A new message from Nebula: "Application received. Invitation pending. Sign contract to confirm