Evil MC's NTR Harem

Some contestants couldn't stop glancing directly at the camera, others spoke too quietly or too fast.

One even tripped over a lighting cable and nearly took down an entire lamp.

The chaos became exhausting.

By 11 p.m., the group was visibly deflated.

Seth buried his face in the script, groaning into the pages, while the others lounged on the couches, arguing about whether they should keep going or call it for the night.

Ross sat in the corner, watching it all unfold. He hadn't spoken since the night before when his offer to direct had been politely but firmly rejected.

No one had asked for his input. No one had even glanced in his direction.

He didn't mind.

Not yet.

The night's shoot ended in failure. Nothing usable had been filmed.

Everyone went to bed irritated, disappointed, or completely indifferent.

Then came Tuesday.

The crew tried to rally their energy and pick up where they left off, but the spark was already gone.

Morale was low, and tension simmered beneath every forced laugh and tired joke.

That day, Ross was finally called to the set.

His role? A pizza delivery guy.

No dramatic entrance. No clever lines. No importance to the plot whatsoever.

He appeared in the doorway during a brief scene, holding a prop pizza box, and delivered his only line:

"Large pepperoni with extra cheese?"

He handed the box over, received a nod, and walked off screen.

And just like that, his part was done.

No one clapped. No one commented. The scene moved on as if he hadn't even existed.

His character wasn't mentioned again. Not in the next scene. Not in the script notes.

Not in the bloopers reel. Just a one-and-done cameo—a background prop in human form.

Ross said nothing. He gave no sign of offense, no sarcastic quip, no gloating remark.

But those who knew him best—his women—noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor.

The way his eyes narrowed just slightly.

The way he leaned back, arms crossed, observing the others like a lion watching clueless prey.

Cara happened to glance his way mid-scene and felt a chill run down her spine at the way he was looking at Seth.

This wasn't over.

Let them fail a little longer. Let Seth run himself ragged trying to hold the group together.

Let the footage fall apart, and the arguments grow louder.

He wouldn't need to push or force anything.

When it all came crashing down—as it inevitably would—he'd be right there, ready.

And this time, they wouldn't have the luxury of saying no.

The days passed quickly, and before long, Saturday arrived.

It had been a chaotic week—sleepless nights, clumsy rehearsals, constant bickering over scenes and lines—and now they were down to the final hours.

Tomorrow, they would present their movie to the judges and the rest of the world.

Whatever was done was done. There was no time left for reshoots, rewrites, or miracles.

All they could do now was polish what they had and hope for the best.

Fortunately, the in-house camera crew had stepped in during the final stretch.

Perhaps they felt sorry for the group—or maybe they were just tired of watching the disaster unfold.

Either way, they'd helped with lighting adjustments, editing transitions, background scores, and even color grading.

Thanks to them, the project looked at least somewhat watchable.

That evening, the contestants gathered in the main lounge for the final viewing.

No one spoke much. Even the usual chatter and gossip were absent.

Instead, they slumped onto beanbags and couches, the weight of the past week pressing down on their shoulders.

Some clutched snacks they didn't eat.

Others scrolled absently through their phones while waiting for the screening to start.

Then the room dimmed, and the film began to play on the big TV.

It ran just under an hour.

Sixty long, dragging minutes.

By the end of it, no one clapped. No one even moved.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Most stared at the screen blankly, as if trying to process what they had just watched.

Others avoided eye contact altogether, too embarrassed to face each other.

Even the crew who had helped in editing looked mildly uncomfortable.

"Well, well, well…" someone finally said, trying to break the silence with a forced chuckle.

"I think we did good, right? Not perfect, but hey, it was kind of funny."

The only reply he received was a wave of groans and unimpressed grunts.

It was clear—no one thought it was funny. Not even close.

Corey, ever the optimist, clapped his hands together, trying to rally the group.

"Come on, guys! Don't be so down. I think we did our best. That counts for something, right? We might still win the weekly task."

But his words rang hollow. No one cheered. No one nodded.

They knew better.

"If even we think the thing we made is ugly," someone mumbled from the back, "how much worse will it look to an actual director?"

Though it was said in a whisper, the quiet in the room made sure everyone heard it loud and clear.

The statement struck like a blade.

No one argued.

The truth was too obvious.

Their acting had been awkward. The pacing was weird. The dialogue felt forced.

The emotional moments came off as cringe, and the jokes landed flat.

Worst of all, it was clear that no one had any chemistry with each other—especially the supposed lead couple, Corey and Cara themselves.

They had poured hours into the project, but somehow, the result still felt cheap and hollow.

A heavy silence settled over the room, stretching longer and longer until even the ticking of the wall clock felt loud.

Some shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

A few looked like they were trying to think of something positive to say but couldn't find the words.

The realization hit them all at once.

They were going to fail.

There would be no celebration. No rewards. No weekly budget.

It was a disaster of their own making and inability.