"Where… where am I?" Halia's voice quivered as she sat up, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. The cold, sterile air around her felt suffocating.
Her wrists and ankles were shackled with heavy metal cuffs, each connected to a small iron box displaying a flickering countdown. She stared at the digits, their relentless march downward clawing at her nerves.
The room was vast, unnaturally so, its white walls curving endlessly upward until they met at a distant ceiling. No windows. No doors. Just a featureless void that seemed to mock their confinement.
"Hello?" Halia called, the word barely escaping her throat.
Her voice shattered the silence like a hammer striking glass, jerking the others in the room to life. Eight strangers lay sprawled across the floor—some curled tightly as though shielding themselves from the unknown, others staring blankly as reality seeped in.
Among them, a tall man stirred, his muscular frame marked by scars and tattoos. He sat upright, his sharp eyes scanning the room. "What the hell is this place?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the unease tightening his jaw.
Halia flinched as movement caught her eye. Across the room, a figure stood. He was tall, his form obscured by shadows, but what stood out was the grotesque mask he wore—a battered samurai visage, its eyes weeping crimson streaks that glistened in the dim light.
"Welcome," the man said, his voice a low rumble, carrying an almost inhuman resonance. He stepped forward, the sound of his polished shoes echoing ominously. With him came an overwhelming stench—rotting flesh and corroded metal.
"What do you want?" the tattooed man snapped, rising to his feet. His presence was imposing, a force of raw defiance.
The masked man chuckled, his laughter jagged, like a blade scraping against stone. "What I want is irrelevant. What you want is survival. And that…" He paused, his head tilting slightly as if savoring their fear. "…is entirely up to you."
The strangers exchanged nervous glances. Some whispered frantically, others remained silent, their expressions betraying the same question: Why us?
"Let me make it simple," the masked man continued. "You have two choices. Play the game, or…" He gestured to the iron boxes bound to their limbs. "Wait for those timers to reach zero."
A young man, lean and sharp-eyed, stepped forward. "And what happens at zero?"
The masked man's silence stretched like a taut wire. Then, with a sudden flick of his wrist, he threw a small object onto the floor—a knife.
"Why don't you find out?" he said.
The sharp-eyed man, Orion, locked eyes with the masked figure. Something in the man's calm demeanor unnerved him more than the threat itself. Orion knelt and picked up the knife, the cold steel heavy in his hand.
"Enough games," Orion said, his voice firm. "Who are you? Why are we here?"
The masked man leaned closer, the crimson streaks on his mask almost glowing. "You want answers?" He turned to the group, his voice rising. "Then earn them. Among you is a traitor—a liar. Expose them before the timer hits zero. Fail, and none of you will leave this room alive."
The group erupted into chaos. Voices overlapped, accusations flew, and panic surged like a tidal wave. Halia pressed herself against the wall, her heart pounding.
Then, the first explosion.
A man near the edge of the room, desperate and trembling, lunged at the masked figure. Before he could even close the distance, his iron box detonated, filling the room with a deafening blast.
Halia screamed, shielding her face as blood sprayed across the pristine walls. The man's lifeless body collapsed to the floor, smoke rising from his charred remains.
"Let this be your only warning," the masked man said coldly, his voice slicing through their terror. "Time waits for no one."
The room descended into silence, the countdowns on their wrists the only sound. 10:00.
"Find the liar," he repeated, his voice dripping with menace as he melted back into the shadows. "Your time is running out."