The glowing letters beneath Ethan's feet disappeared, and new words emerged. "Let's begin. Here comes the first question." Gaenna pointed her finger towards the constellation map, directing it at Thomson. "Let's start with you."
Thomson stared down at the glowing letters beneath him. A question materialized, sharp and unyielding:
"To save a hundred people, would you sacrifice one innocent life?"
His face stiffened, frozen like a marble sculpture. The weight of the question bore down on him—a dilemma that struck at the core of his identity as a police officer.
He stood silent for a moment, the room's tension mounting with every tick of the clock. Finally, he exhaled slowly and answered. "I would choose to sacrifice the innocent person."
As he spoke, memories of an incident six years ago resurfaced with relentless clarity. A bus bombing case—the day he'd miscalculated the bomb's location. It was Detective Chandler who tackled the bomber off the bus just before the explosion. He'd saved an entire busload of passengers but paid the ultimate price. Thomson could never forget the look in Chandler's eyes during his final moments. His jaw clenched tightly as beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face, evidence of the storm raging within him.
When Thomson finished his answer, the silver threads connecting the central gemstone pulsed as if carrying his words to the core. A faint glow began to spread through the gem, illuminating it from within. The ruby in the central zone lit up, casting eerie shadows across the room.
Next, it was Ethan's turn. He glanced down at the glowing words beneath his feet, his heartbeat quickening as he read the question:
"If two patients needed a kidney transplant—one a homeless child, the other a wealthy elderly man—who would you choose to save?"
Ethan's expression mirrored Thomson's, his previously calm demeanor shattered as though his very soul had been struck. His breathing became uneven, his eyes widening in a mix of dread and disbelief.
"I would choose the elderly man," he said finally, his voice low but steady. "He has the means to pay for the surgery."
It was a cold, pragmatic answer, yet one that made sense coming from a doctor. Ethan's career had exposed him to endless moral dilemmas, each more harrowing than the last. Over time, he had become desensitized to the weight of such choices, his decisions often dictated by factors beyond the sanctity of life. Yet this moment left him visibly shaken, as if an invisible hand had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.
Across the room, Halia flinched. She couldn't hide her disapproval. "But that's a child! How can you be so heartless?"
Ethan's head snapped up, his composure crumbling. For the first time that day, his voice rose in anger. "Shut up. Save your sanctimonious kindness for a situation that warrants it, reporter." His words dripped with venom as he turned toward Gaenna. "And you. Why are we being forced to answer these questions? Everyone has their own reasons for their choices." His eyes burned with frustration and something deeper—an anguish he couldn't name.
Gaenna's voice rang out, calm yet chilling. "Because… all of you are guilty. Everyone here bears the weight of sin."
The words hit like a thunderclap, leaving the room in stunned silence. Guilty? Each of them grappled with the accusation, their thoughts racing. The questions weren't random—Thomson's and Ethan's reactions proved as much. Someone knew their secrets, their fears, their failures. This wasn't just a game. This was a trial, a reckoning.
The ruby pulsed again, and the constellation light shifted to Naima, who stood near the door, idly examining her freshly done nail wraps. She hadn't paid attention to the earlier chaos, her indifference a shield against the growing tension. But when the glowing letters beneath her feet revealed her question, her nonchalance shattered.
A screen appeared before her, displaying the image of a girl—her face swollen, acne-covered, almost unrecognizable. Below the picture, a single line of text burned into her vision:
"Do you remember her?"
Naima let out a blood-curdling scream and stumbled backward, her hand flying to her chest. "No! No! I don't know her!" she cried, her voice cracking as she shook her head violently.
The others turned, startled by her outburst.
"What's going on? Why is she so terrified of that picture?" Michael whispered to Orion, who stood beside him.
Orion had been observing each question with growing unease. Now, he understood. "It's their fears," he muttered. "These questions aren't random. They're tailored to each of us. They know what we've done. Gaenna's right—this isn't just a game. It's a trial."
The image vanished, leaving Naima trembling. She touched her face as though checking for imperfections, her expression pale and haunted. "If I lost my beauty… I'd rather die. I can't see that face again. I can't…" Her voice broke, and she fell silent, consumed by her despair.
The ruby pulsed once more, its crimson glow brighter this time.
Michael leaned closer to Orion, whispering, "That picture… do you think it was her? You know, before the surgeries?"
Orion smirked faintly. "Congratulations, Michael. You're finally using your brain."
"What does that mean?"
"It means she's hiding something," Orion replied coolly. "The picture must've been her face before the surgeries. And whatever happened to her back then, it's scarred her deeply."
Michael grimaced, scratching his damp hair beneath his bandana. "I thought she was just another pretty face. Guess I was wrong. Damn, even her chest is fake. What a tragedy."
"Focus, Michael," Orion said sharply, breaking his companion's idle fantasies.
The constellation wheel spun again, its glowing light now landing on Solara, who stood motionless at her position. Beneath her feet, the question appeared:
"Do you hate your father?"
Solara's lips barely moved as she whispered, "No." Her voice was so faint it was almost lost in the tense atmosphere. Her face remained unreadable, a mask that concealed whatever storm brewed beneath the surface.
Yet, in her quiet reply, there was an unmistakable heaviness—a weight no one else could fully understand.