Next, it was Halia's turn. Beneath her feet, the question illuminated in the constellation-like pattern on the floor read: "Have you ever fabricated facts in your reports?" Halia took two steps back, her eyes darting nervously between the others. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "How should I answer? This has always been my secret pain."
Her hand instinctively reached for the press badge hanging around her neck. She closed her eyes briefly, as though replaying a moment she desperately wanted to forget. Finally, two words escaped her mouth, trembling yet resolute: "I have."
Her mind drifted back to that fateful assignment. It was a report on industrial wastewater. The factory owner had bribed her editor, and she—cornered by the leverage her editor held over her—had accepted the fake test results provided by the factory. The report claimed there was no contamination. What she hadn't anticipated were the consequences. Within months, countless residents near the factory fell ill. Many lost their lives. The thought of it made her fists clench tightly.
"I didn't think... I didn't realize how many people would suffer because of me," she muttered under her breath, her voice choked with guilt.
The silence that followed was heavy, but it was soon broken. The next to step forward was Professor Elton. Beneath his feet, the question revealed itself: "Have you ever betrayed your marriage?" His face turned beet red as the words seemed to cut through him like a blade. His lips parted, but it took a moment before he could muster a response.
"I was wrong," he murmured, over and over, as though in prayer. "As a professor, I was wrong."
His mind, however, was far from silent. He was back in the sweltering heat of a summer eight years ago. She had been one of his PhD students—brilliant, shy, and hardworking. They spent long hours in the lab together, pouring over research, discussing progress. One evening, as they finalized her thesis, he had leaned in and kissed her. She hadn't pulled away.
"I betrayed my wife," Elton whispered, lowering his head in shame. The memory of that night had haunted him ever since, a constant reminder of his weakness and failure.
The weight of the room shifted once more as Michael stepped forward. His question appeared underfoot: "Did you kill your own brother?" The room seemed to hold its breath. Michael turned his head slightly, his face a mask devoid of emotion.
"Yes," he said, his voice low and gruff. "When I was eighteen..."
He stopped there. No explanation, no justification. His words hung in the air, unanswered and incomplete, like a broken thread that no one dared to pull.
Finally, it was Orion's turn. He glanced around at the others. Each one seemed weighed down, their spirits crushed by the questions that had unearthed their darkest truths. Orion's question illuminated beneath him: "Will you stay here in this castle forever?"
He raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the unexpected simplicity of it. He'd anticipated something about his ambitions or motivations. This, however, was different. It reeked of Granna's manipulation.
"I refuse," Orion said, his voice calm and steady. He lifted his gaze toward Granna, who lounged lazily on her throne-like chair. Her long legs, smooth and pale as porcelain, were propped up on the edge of the table. The slit in her red gown revealed just enough to unsettle.
Michael, snapping out of his earlier gloom, smirked. His ability to bounce back from heavy emotions was uncanny, if not infuriating. "You didn't catch on yet, buddy?" he quipped, jerking a thumb toward Granna. "She's got her eye on you. Look at her! With a body like that, what's there to refuse? Plus, this place is practically a palace. She's probably some wealthy widow."
Orion shot him a sharp look. "I have my reasons," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the banter like a blade. "Reasons you wouldn't understand."
High above, Granna shifted her posture. She pulled her legs back and sat upright, her expression a mixture of amusement and boredom. "Such a dull answer," she sighed. "But no matter. That was just the warm-up. Now, let's begin the real game."
Orion's gaze didn't waver. "Granna," he said, crossing his arms. "If we win this game, will you answer one of my questions?"
Granna tilted her head, intrigued. "Oh? A bargain?" She chuckled softly. "How bold. But do you have anything of value to offer?"
"I do," Orion replied smoothly, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Sleep with me."
The room fell into stunned silence. The women blushed, some averting their eyes. Granna, however, was not embarrassed. Quite the opposite. Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she bit her lower lip, leaning slightly forward. "Very well," she said, her voice sultry. "You have a deal."
At that moment, the massive ruby at the center of the constellation disk began to glow, flooding the entire castle with crimson light. The base of the ruby spun, setting the entire disk into motion. The participants staggered as the ground beneath them turned faster and faster, their surroundings a dizzying blur. Just when it felt like the spinning would never end, the disk ground to an abrupt halt.
As the world steadied, the ruby dimmed to reveal what lay beneath it: a book and eight masks, each corresponding to the identities they had drawn earlier. The group hesitated before stepping forward, each selecting their respective masks. Michael picked up one symbolizing power, the bold lines of the mask fitting his persona perfectly.
Orion stepped toward the book, his eyes narrowing as he took in its pristine appearance. The cover was unmarked, void of any title or insignia. Its presence alone felt heavy, as though it carried the weight of everything they had endured thus far.
"This book..." Orion murmured, his voice calm but laced with conviction. "This is the key."