Benson woke to the sound of a bell echoing through the halls, loud and jarring.
It wasn't a pleasant chime, more like a fire alarm on its last legs. He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and blinked at the flickering light above him.
It took a moment to remember where he was. The Fold. The Overseer. The trial he barely survived.
His stomach growled loudly, cutting through his thoughts. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but the hunger was sharp and insistent now.
"Get up."
The voice wasn't Greed. It was Malik, standing in the doorway, already dressed and ready. His smirk was back, casual as ever.
"Breakfast is this way. You don't want to be late."
Benson swung his legs over the edge of the cot, his body aching as if he'd been hit by a truck. He followed Malik down the narrow hallway, his footsteps heavy and slow.
The halls were alive with movement. Other players, as Benson had started to think of them, moved purposefully toward the same destination.
The energy in the air was a mix of exhaustion and guarded determination.
The dining hall was massive, its walls lined with steel panels that reflected the barely visible light. Long, utilitarian tables stretched from one end of the room to the other, already packed with people.
The smell of food hit Benson as soon as he walked in—a mix of meat, spices, and something unidentifiable but strangely appealing. His stomach growled again, louder this time.
"Get used to it," Malik said, gesturing to the tables. "This is the only time you'll get real food. They keep you hungry on purpose."
Benson frowned but didn't ask questions. He grabbed a tray and joined the line. The food was simple: a hunk of bread, some kind of stew, and a piece of fruit. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
He found a spot at the far end of one table, away from the louder groups. Malik sat across from him, already digging into his meal.
As Benson ate, he let his eyes wander. The room was a hive of activity, conversations overlapping, creating a low hum of noise.
He saw players with scars, tattoos, weapons strapped to their backs. Some looked like they'd been here for months, maybe years. Others, like him, still had that wide-eyed uncertainty, glancing around like they didn't belong.
Years…. But "The Rot" is recent.
"You're staring," Malik said, not looking up from his food.
"Sorry," Benson muttered, looking down at his tray.
"Don't be. Observation's smart. Just don't make it obvious. People here don't like being watched."
Benson nodded, though he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.
As breakfast wound down, a new sound filled the hall—a mechanical hum, followed by a sharp beep. Everyone fell silent, their attention shifting to a screen that descended from the ceiling.
Benson squinted at the screen, which displayed a grid of names and numbers.
"Rankings," Malik said before Benson could ask. "They update every morning. Top players are rewarded. The rest of us? We just hope we don't fall too far behind."
Benson scanned the list, looking for his name. He found it near the bottom, just above the players who hadn't survived the previous trial.
Benson Lovejoy – Rank: 482
His chest tightened.
"Don't stress about it," Malik said, finishing off his bread. "The rankings don't mean everything. They're just… a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
Malik's smirk faltered, just for a moment. "That you're expendable."
After breakfast, the players were herded into the main hall, where the Overseer waited.
She stood at the front, flanked by two guards in sleek black armor. Her posture was as rigid as ever, her expression unreadable.
"Today's focus is on orientation," she announced, her voice cutting through the chatter. "You are here to become stronger, to adapt, to survive. But survival requires understanding. Today, you will learn the rules of the Fold."
Benson felt a shiver run down his spine.
The players were split into groups, each assigned to a guide. Benson ended up with Malik, along with a few others he hadn't met yet. Their guide was a man named Rhea, tall and imposing, with a voice that brooked no argument.
He led them through the compound, explaining as they went.
"This is the barracks," he said, gesturing to a series of doors. "Your rooms. Basic, but functional. Don't bother complaining—it won't change anything."
They moved on.
"The armory. You'll have access to it once you prove yourselves. Until then, you're stuck with whatever you can scavenge."
Benson glanced at the weapons through the reinforced glass—blades, guns, even things that looked more… experimental.
"Training grounds. This is where you'll spend most of your time. Combat, strategy, survival skills. If you're not bleeding by the end of the day, you're not trying hard enough."
As they walked, Benson tried to take it all in. The Fold was larger than he'd expected, a maze of steel and concrete. It was efficient, but soulless, like it had been designed by someone who didn't care about comfort or humanity.
He felt small here, insignificant.
"What's the point of all this?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else.
"To survive," Malik said, his tone unusually serious. "You think the Rot's bad now? It's just the beginning. The Fold's been here for years, waiting for this. Preparing. We're just the latest recruits."
Benson frowned, his footsteps slowing. "What does that even mean? Survive what? The Rot?"
Malik glanced at him but didn't answer right away. The silence stretched just long enough to make Benson's chest tighten.
"You don't even know what that is, do you?" Benson pressed, his voice rising slightly. "You've said it twice now—Rot this, Rot that. What is it? Is it why the world's like… like this?"
Malik sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, man, I don't have the answers you're looking for. None of us do. The Fold doesn't exactly hand out explanations. They just throw us into the fire and expect us to figure it out."
"That's not good enough!" Benson snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. "You've been here longer than me. You have to know something."
Malik stopped walking, turning to face him. For the first time, his smirk was completely gone, replaced by something colder.
"All I know is the Rot is the reason we're here," Malik said quietly. "The reason the Red Moon came, the reason everything went to hell. It's bigger than you, me, or anyone in this place. You want details? You won't find them here. The Overseer and her lackeys keep that stuff locked up tight."
Benson felt his head spinning, a thousand questions fighting for attention. If the Rot was so important, why wasn't anyone talking about it? What was it? A disease? A force? Something else entirely?
"Then why are you still here?" Benson asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Malik looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Because out there, I'd already be dead."
The words hung in the air, scary and final. Benson swallowed hard, the pressure of everything pressing down on him.
He didn't know what the Rot was, and apparently, no one else did either. But one thing was clear—it was the reason the world was broken. And it was the reason he was here.
By the time the tour ended, Benson's head was spinning.
He returned to his room, exhausted but restless. He sat on the cot, staring at the flickering light above him.
"You're wasting time," Greed said, its voice sharp.
"Not now," Benson muttered.
"Always now. This place is a distraction. A cage. You won't survive if you keep following their rules."
"I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
Benson clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
For now, he'd play along. He'd learn the rules, figure out how this place worked.
But deep down, he knew Greed was right.
The Fold wasn't a refuge. It was a test. And he wasn't sure he was ready to pass it.