"Uh..." The middle-aged doctor appeared significantly calmer than the others, even unfazed by the corpse on the table before him. "I'm Ethan Clarke, a doctor—you could probably tell from what I'm wearing."
He tugged at his dirty, crumpled white coat before continuing, "Before I came here, I was in the middle of a surgery. The patient had an intraventricular tumor, growing rapidly for over six months, causing mild hydrocephalus. If we didn't operate soon, her life would be in serious danger."
"I opted for a frontal approach, using CT guidance to puncture directly into the ventricle. This procedure carries significant risks every time it's performed. But the patient—a woman—chose to take that risk because she wanted to be there for her young son."
"In the OR, even the smallest breeze is unacceptable to maintain a sterile environment. But none of us could have predicted something much worse than a breeze was coming."
"When the earthquake struck, I had just removed the patient's skull and was cutting into the dura mater—a delicate step where the slightest mistake could lead to devastating brain trauma. I made a split-second decision to abort the surgery and temporarily replace the skull. With dust and debris everywhere, leaving her head exposed would have been fatal."
"But I hadn't anticipated how hard it would be to do that under the circumstances. I couldn't even stand steadily, let alone properly reposition a tiny piece of bone."
"The nurse beside me stumbled and knocked into me, sending us all reeling. Nobody could keep their balance. In the chaos, I grabbed a sterile sheet to cover the patient's head and immediately turned to evacuate everyone. That's when a rolling medical cart slammed into my leg, knocking me to the ground."
"Before I could get back up, the OR ceiling split open, and everything went black."
By the time Dr. Clarke finished his story, the group was visibly uneasy.
His account was full of medical jargon—complex enough that if even one term was fabricated, it would likely go unnoticed.
"Dr. Clarke, where are you from?" a burly man asked abruptly.
"I don't feel obligated to answer that," Dr. Clarke replied curtly. "I've told my story."
The burly man opened his mouth to say more but stopped.
"My turn?" A bespectacled young man, eyes darting nervously, broke the silence. "I'm Damien Reid, and I'm a—"
"Wait." Basic Gemini interrupted abruptly.
Damien flinched, looking back in confusion. "What... What is it?"
"It's intermission time," Basic Gemini said with an awkward smile. "Take a twenty-minute break, everyone."
The group exchanged puzzled glances. Intermission? Now?
Elliot Hayes glanced at the clock in the center of the table. Half an hour had passed since they had woken up. It was now 12:30.
"So, the 'break' is mandatory," Elliot mused silently. "At 12:30, no matter who's speaking, we're forced to stop for twenty minutes."
But with the game only thirty minutes in, why impose a twenty-minute break already? Elliot frowned. He knew this wasn't something he could rationalize. The game's orchestrator was clearly a lunatic—thinking logically was futile.
He began silently rehearsing his introduction: "I'm James Miller from Orlando."
He repeated it in his head over and over. When his turn came, he had to be ready to speak flawlessly.
The group sat tensely, waiting.
Despite being a "break," the atmosphere was heavier than ever.
"Um... Can we talk during this time?" the burly man asked Basic Gemini.
"Oh, of course," Gemini replied. "You're free to do as you please right now. I won't interfere."
The burly man nodded and turned to Dr. Clarke. "Dr. Clarke, where exactly are you from?"
Dr. Clarke's expression darkened. "I've noticed you've had it out for me since the start. Why do I need to tell you anything?"
"Don't misunderstand—I mean no harm," the burly man said in a steady voice. "The more you share, the stronger your story's credibility. Everyone else has mentioned their hometown. There's no reason for you to keep it a secret."
"The more you share, the stronger your credibility?" Dr. Clarke scoffed, shaking his head. "All I know is that 'the more you say, the more mistakes you make.' If the rules are absolute, there's no issue with my story as it stands. Besides, I don't trust a single one of you."
"That's a bit harsh," the burly man replied. "There are nine of us, and only one liar. If we work together, we can root them out. But the more you withhold, the more suspicious you become. This is the second time I've asked—are you going to keep hiding it?"
The burly man was relentless, pressing Dr. Clarke into a logical corner. His implication was clear: only the liar wouldn't trust anyone because they already know their own identity.
If Dr. Clarke continued to withhold information, he'd paint a target on his back.
But Dr. Clarke, a seasoned neurosurgeon, wasn't easily cornered. He smirked and shot back, "Fine. Let's turn the tables. Who are you, and what do you do?"
"Me?" The burly man seemed caught off guard by the sudden reversal, his expression faltering.
"That's right. Since you've hounded me after my turn, it's only fair I ask you before yours," Dr. Clarke said with a faint smile. "Fair, isn't it?"
The burly man considered this, then nodded. "You're right. I have nothing to hide. My name is Logan Carter, and I'm a police officer."
At his words, the group collectively turned to him.
"A cop?" Dr. Clarke echoed, stunned.
No wonder Logan had been interrogating them from the start. He was also the first to insist they all needed to survive. Maybe he truly wanted to get everyone out alive.
Dr. Clarke's demeanor softened noticeably. "If that's the case, I apologize for my earlier attitude. I'm from Greensboro."
Vincent Moretti, the tattooed man, scowled. "Dr. Clarke, you're actually going to trust this cop?"
"Hmm?" Dr. Clarke looked at Vincent, puzzled. "What are you implying?"
Vincent drummed his fingers on the table, his voice flat. "This is 'Storytime.' In other words... anyone here can lie."