A typical day in the office. I stared blankly at the laptop screen, its artificial glow staring right back at me, as if challenging me to find purpose in this monotony. The hum of air conditioning and the occasional clatter of keyboards filled the air—the background symphony of a white-collar life. My name is Claude Bask, your quintessential office worker, 28 years old, and perfectly unremarkable in every conceivable way.
For many, this job would be a blessing—a dream, even. The workload was light, the colleagues were pleasant, and the dreaded beast of office politics was nowhere to be found. A quiet, predictable life. But for me, it was excruciatingly boring. To be honest, I didn't even need the paycheck. Unlike most, money wasn't my concern. This job was merely a placeholder—a distraction—to keep me from staring too long into the void of my own purposelessness. It was uninspiring, offering neither satisfaction nor engagement. Just a dull cycle: two weeks of crunching numbers, followed by two weeks of aimlessly scrolling through my phone during the inevitable lulls.
And here I was, in one of those weeks. My department's workload had dried up, leaving me wandering the office like a ghost, exchanging polite nods with colleagues, and refreshing the same old webpages on my phone.
"Yo, you got something up today?"
The voice snapped me from my daze. I turned to see Don, a relatively new hire. He was in his early twenties, tall—standing around 180 cm—with light brown hair styled into a center parting. He was the kind of guy who carried himself with an easy, youthful energy. Beside him sat Clara, another colleague, who was equally tall for a woman, about 180 cm as well. Her wavy black hair cascaded to her shoulders, though she often pinned it back with a hairclip. Clara was also in her early twenties and widely considered one of the prettiest employees in the office.
"So, what are you up to, bruh?" Don asked, smirking. He clearly knew the answer—we all did. There was nothing to do.
"What about you guys?" I replied, nodding at both Don and Clara.
They exchanged glances and laughed. We all knew the drill. Phones in hand, minds elsewhere, burning time until the clock set us free.
Resigned to the quiet absurdity of it all, I returned to my desk and sank into the chair. My thoughts drifted to the manga I'd been reading lately: The Shattered Realms. It was captivating, but unfortunately, I was nearing the end of the currently released chapters. At my pace, I'd finish the remaining eleven chapters before lunch. I started browsing for something new to dive into, already lamenting the end of a good story…
Then it happened.
My phone slipped from my hand, but it wasn't clumsiness. The floor trembled beneath me—an earthquake? Here? Now? That's impossible. It wasn't even the season for such things, and there had been no prior signs.
Screams echoed, sharp and jarring. I recognized the voices—Clara and Don.
What was the protocol for this again? The thought flitted through my mind, a reflexive grasp for normalcy in the chaos. But I dismissed it almost as quickly. What would be the point? Mechanically, I reached for my phone and prepared to duck under the desk. And then…
I blinked.
When my eyes reopened, the world was entirely different.
I stood frozen in disbelief, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. Some were young students in school uniforms, others were office workers like myself, and a few were elderly, their wrinkled faces etched with equal parts confusion and fear. A cacophony of murmurs filled the air:
"Where am I?" "What is this place?" "What the hell just happened?"
The space we occupied was enormous—a room so vast it defied comprehension. I turned to look both ahead and behind me, but the sheer length seemed endless, stretching out like ten football fields laid end to end. The scale was surreal, almost dreamlike. But what unsettled me even more was the faint, almost imperceptible sensation of movement. It was subtle, so much so that most people wouldn't notice it. But I could feel it.
This feeling… no way, right?
I scanned my surroundings. Lining the walls were countless doors, reminiscent of a hotel corridor, though their arrangement felt off, almost artificial. Each door was flanked by a figure clad in black suits, their faces obscured by masks. Their uniformity was unnerving. The sleek, dark coats gave them the appearance of professional hitmen, and worse still, they were visibly armed. Some held revolvers in plain sight, making no effort to conceal their weapons.
And then there was her.
Near the far end of the corridor stood a woman—tall and poised, exuding an aura of calm authority. Her yellow hair shimmered like gold under the strange lighting, and her piercing eyes carried an almost inhuman intensity. She wore formal attire, the very picture of elegance, but something about her presence sent a chill down my spine.
Elaine… what is she doing here? The name surfaced in my mind unbidden. Could it be… her?
The atmosphere grew heavier as the crowd's murmurs turned to nervous chatter. Fear was infectious, spreading through us like a ripple in water. Yet no one dared to make any sudden moves, as if instinctively aware that escape was not an option.
"No way…" I muttered under my breath, my thoughts spiraling.
A familiar voice pulled me back to reality. Clara and Don had found their way to me, their expressions mirroring my own confusion and unease.
"Where is this place? What happened?" Clara's voice wavered, her usual composure replaced with raw fear.
"I thought there was an earthquake, and then…" Don trailed off, his words tinged with panic.
"Yeah… I don't know either," I admitted, struggling to mask my own uncertainty.
"Should we try to find an exit?" Don suggested, though his tone made it clear he didn't believe there was one.
Before I could answer, a voice boomed across the corridor, cutting through the chaos.
"Welcome."
A tall man in a black suit materialized in the middle of the hallway as if he had stepped out of thin air. His sudden appearance drew a collective gasp from the crowd, and one woman's terrified scream echoed loudly. Those closest to him recoiled, but the rest of us stood rooted in place, captivated by the surreal phenomenon.
"Conquer the game, and leave rich. Lose the game, and lose your life. There is no second chance." His voice carried an unnatural weight, clear and commanding despite the vastness of the space. No microphones, no speakers—just his voice, resonating as if it had bypassed our ears and spoken directly to our minds.
He raised his right arm, and in an instant, it transformed. What had been a hand became a spear-like appendage, sharp and gleaming. Before anyone could react, he drove it through the neck of the woman who had screamed moments ago. Blood sprayed across the floor, and her lifeless body crumpled.
Panic erupted. Screams filled the air as people began running in all directions, pulling at the doors, banging on the walls, desperate to escape. But the doors wouldn't budge. Chaos reigned, the crowd surging like a stampede with nowhere to go.
"It's a monster!" "Run! RUN!"
The cacophony of terror was deafening, drowning out any semblance of reason. I felt Clara and Don tugging at my arm, their eyes wide with desperation.
What now? Where do we go?
"It's a monster!!!"
"Run!! Run!!!"
The panicked cries echoed through the endless hallway, blending into a cacophony of terror. The screams grew so loud they rivaled the noise of the busiest clubs or the loudest concerts. People were running in every direction, their fear palpable and contagious.
"What should we do… should we run?" Don asked, his voice shaking with nerves.
"Yeah… but where to?" Clara responded, trying to maintain composure, but the cracks in her voice betrayed her own fear. Around us, everyone's faces were painted with anxiety, their eyes darting in every direction like trapped animals.
Suddenly, a deafening Bang resounded through the corridor.
It wasn't just one shot; it was a unified volley. The synchronized sound of revolvers firing echoed through the air, commanding instant attention. There had to be hundreds—no, likely close to a thousand—of those suited guards all shooting at once. The effect was immediate.
The tall man clapped his hands twice, his demeanor calm and collected.
"Alright, alright… Calm down, participants," he announced, his tone chillingly casual.
And, disturbingly, it worked. The chaos subsided almost immediately. People stopped running, their collective panic giving way to a forced calm. Even more unnerving, everyone somehow had a perfect line of sight to the man in the center of the hallway. It was unnatural, as if the very arrangement of the crowd had been manipulated.
His voice was strangely soothing, almost hypnotic, compelling everyone to listen despite the horrors they had just witnessed.
"This woman was noisy, so I chose her as an example. A perfect specimen to demonstrate the consequences. How dare she scream so loudly into my ears."
What he said made no sense—it was grotesque in its logic. Who kills someone simply for reacting naturally to terror? The sheer absurdity of it was sickening, but no one dared to speak.
He continued, his expression unchanging. "This will be the fate of those who break the rules. So do not break any rules. You may call me the Executive. The people in black? You can call them administrators. And as for yourselves, you will be referred to by your participation numbers. These can be found on your left sleeve."
It was only then that I noticed the strange patch sewn onto my sleeve. A bold number was printed there: 009. My participation number.
"Claude is number 9," Clara murmured, examining her own sleeve. "Don is number 61… And my number is 380…?"
The Executive resumed speaking, unperturbed by the murmurs in the crowd.
"You will now be playing games. Those who win will live extravagant lifestyles, the likes of which you could never dream of achieving in your lifetime. And now, I will explain the first game."
Although no one had asked, it was clear that the only question on everyone's mind was not about winning. Instead, it was the gnawing dread of what losing might entail. But no one dared to interrupt him. The oppressive atmosphere of fear was suffocating.
"Poker," the Executive declared, a smirk curling on his lips.
The announcement sent a ripple of confusion through the crowd.
"It's a game I trust everyone knows," he continued, "but for the sake of clarity, I will explain it simply. Each of you will receive two cards. Then, three more cards will be revealed face-up for everyone to see. The only difference from standard poker is that all three cards will be revealed at the same time as your initial two cards."
"What???" The thought flashed through my mind. Doesn't that just ruin the purpose of the game? Poker is built on bluffing and the suspense of gradually revealed cards. This format seemed nonsensical.
The Executive continued as if he had anticipated our confusion. "You will use the best five-card combination from your two cards and the three community cards to make the strongest hand. As each card is revealed, you may choose to Check, Raise, or Call. All of you currently have three coins in your right pocket. Please, check and confirm."
I instinctively reached into my right pocket, and there they were. Three coins, cold and metallic against my fingers. But… how? I hadn't felt them earlier. When had they been placed there? The unsettling thought sent a shiver down my spine.
I pulled out three coins, each one a distinct blue. Clara and Don did the same, revealing coins that were red and green, respectively. The questions swirling in my mind had no answers, but there was no time to dwell.
"The game is simple," the Executive continued. "Enter any playroom you see along the hallway to begin. The minimum bet to participate is one coin. To advance to the second floor, you must possess three coins of different colors. For every additional coin you collect, your rewards will increase exponentially. We are talking about millions of dollars! Or… you could… save a friend." He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through the silence.
For reasons beyond comprehension, some people seemed momentarily captivated by his words, as if wealth outweighed their mortal peril. Perhaps they were clinging to optimism, believing that winners with surplus coins might spare their lives.
"Once you reach the second floor," the Executive elaborated, "you will enjoy a lifestyle beyond luxury: five-star cuisine, massages, anything you can imagine. You may leave once all participants have completed their games, should you so desire. And now… the rules."
His tone shifted, adopting an eerie mix of professionalism and derision.
"1. No violence is permitted in the playroom.
Only those with three coins or more of different colors may proceed to the second floor. Each game requires an automatic bet of one coin. You may raise further if you believe in your chances. You cannot participate without at least one coin. A minimum of three players is required for each game. Aside from these rules… anything goes.
And… should you feel the urge to… test the rules…"
The final words dripped with menace, his voice taking on an icy tone that sent chills through the crowd. No one needed clarification. The punishment for breaking the rules had already been made terrifyingly clear.
"That concludes my explanation. Please, enjoy the game," the Executive said, his tone deceptively cheerful. With that, silence fell once more, leaving us to grapple with the grim reality of our predicament.
The Executive ended his speech, leaving an eerie silence in the air. Slowly, the hushed quiet gave way to murmurs as people began talking amongst themselves. The conversations were filled with worry and uncertainty, questions overlapping in a chaotic symphony of dread. Some whispered about the rules, others speculated about strategies, and more than a few simply repeated their desire not to die.
Finally, after several seconds of tense hesitation, a voice rose above the din.
"What would happen if we lost?! Will we die?!" A man in his thirties shouted, his voice trembling but loud enough to demand everyone's attention.
The crowd fell silent once more, every ear straining to catch the Executive's reply. This was the question on everyone's mind, the question no one dared to ask until now. The oppressive atmosphere thickened, and the man's bravery felt like a tiny candle flickering in a vast, dark void.
The Executive's response was calm and measured, yet laced with an unsettling edge. "You do not want to find out…" he said, his voice soft but dripping with menace.
A shiver ran through the crowd. The words carried a chilling finality, a warning more terrifying than any explicit threat.
"The game has begun," the Executive declared. "The time limit is five hours. Anyone with fewer than three coins of different colors after the time limit will be deemed a loser. Please… enjoy the game."
The Executive's words hung heavy in the air, and despite his invitation to start, no one moved. Fear rooted everyone to the spot, their minds replaying his cryptic warning. You do not want to find out. The phrase gnawed at their thoughts, amplifying the terror already instilled by the memory of the woman's swift and brutal execution. Armed guards lined the hallway, silent reminders of the consequences of disobedience.
"What the hell is going on…" Clara muttered, her voice barely audible.
"I don't know," Don replied, his fear evident in the tremble of his voice. "Should we play? What if they kill us in the room… They have guns…"
His voice cracked as he finished, his anxiety spilling over. He looked to me for reassurance, his eyes wide and desperate. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to project a calm I didn't feel.
"We got lucky," I said, attempting to steady my tone. "Let's play."
Don's brows furrowed in confusion. "Lucky? What do you mean?"
"We need three coins, each of a different color," I explained, holding out my hand. My three blue coins gleamed under the artificial lights. "Take a look at yours."
Don and Clara hesitated before obliging, each revealing their own coins. Red and green. Different from mine. Relief flickered in their eyes as they grasped the significance.
"Let's go," I said firmly, standing up and heading toward one of the nearby doors. The rest of the crowd watched us, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, envy, and fear. Clara and Don followed close behind, their steps uncertain but determined. When we reached the door, I grabbed the handle and turned it. To my surprise, it opened easily. I had noticed earlier that the doors were locked; it seemed they had been unlocked when the game began.
Inside, the room was sparse but functional. Three administrators stood in silence, their black suits immaculate, their faces unreadable beneath their masks. They carried the same air of menace as the guards outside, their hands resting casually on their holstered revolvers.
"Even more armed men here," I muttered sarcastically, scanning the room. "What's the manpower cost for this shitty game event?"
Neither Clara nor Don laughed. It wasn't surprising; humor seemed impossible in this stifling atmosphere. We entered the room fully, and I glanced around for a lock. There wasn't one.
"Lock the room. We'll play with just the three of us. Is that fine?" I directed the question at one of the administrators.
Don's voice rose in protest before the administrator could reply. "What?! Are you crazy? If you lock the door, how can we run if they start shooting us?"
I sighed, turning to him with a grim expression. "If they wanted to kill us, we'd already be dead. Run? Run where? They're everywhere."
My words were harsh, but they were the truth. Don flinched, his fear bubbling over into frustration, but he didn't argue further.
Clara, sensing the tension, tried to offer reassurance. "It's fine. We're all safe… right, Claude?"
Her voice wavered as she glanced at me, her attempt at confidence transparent. It was clear she was trying to convince herself as much as Don. I turned back to the administrator.
"So… can you lock the door?" I asked again, my tone firm.
The administrator nodded curtly. "It's locked. Now, do you want to play?"
I sat down, motioning for Clara and Don to do the same. "I have a plan," I said, my voice low but steady. "We'll all make it."
Clara leaned forward, her eyes bright with hope. "What's the plan?" she asked eagerly. Don also stared at me, his fear momentarily giving way to curiosity.
"It's simple," I began. "We all bet one of our own colored coins. When the first card is out, the two of you will fold. Next, we'll bet another coin of our own colors, and Don and I will fold. Finally, Clara and I will fold."
They blinked at me, their expressions blank as they tried to process the explanation. I could see them visualizing the sequence in their minds, their brows furrowing as they pieced it together. After a moment, understanding dawned.
"By folding strategically, we're just exchanging coins," Clara said, her voice laced with realization. "That way, we'll all have one coin of each color."
I nodded. "Exactly. That's why I said we were lucky. We all have different colored coins, so the plan works perfectly. And that's why I wanted the door locked. If anyone else joined, it would ruin everything."
The simplicity of the plan was almost laughable, but in the chaos and fear gripping everyone, it was clear that rational thinking was in short supply. Clara's face lit up with newfound determination.
"Let's start," she said, her voice filled with excitement, as if the weight of the situation had momentarily lifted.
Don, on the other hand, remained skeptical. "Are you sure this will work?" he asked, glancing nervously at the administrators.
"We're not breaking any rules… right?" I directed the question to one of the administrators, meeting his impassive gaze.
"No rules were broken," the administrator replied. His tone was deliberately vague, but the meaning was clear. This strategy wasn't against the rules, and they had likely anticipated players exploiting such loopholes.
I smirked, feeling a small surge of confidence. "Let's start the game," I said, locking eyes with Clara and Don. "We'll all make it out."
The game proceeded, and the tension in the air was palpable as two cards were dealt to each player. Moments later, three community cards were revealed: Ace of Spades, Eight of Diamonds, and Jack of Diamonds.
"Player 9, please announce your move," the administrator called out, his voice cold and mechanical.
I didn't bother looking at my cards, nor did I give Clara and Don a chance to check theirs. Without hesitation, I pushed all my chips forward.
"Raise. All in."
Clara and Don stared at me, their confusion evident. This wasn't part of the plan we had agreed upon. I could feel their eyes questioning my motives.
"Both of you should fold. Just as planned," I said firmly, cutting through their hesitation.
After a brief pause, they complied, folding their hands. Inside, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Now, I had five coins: three blue, one red, and one green. Clara and Don were left with two coins each of their original colors.
The strategy was working. By carefully betting and folding, I would only need to lose two blue coins to ensure I still had a combination of three unique colors—a guaranteed path forward.
The administrator collected the old cards and replaced them with a new deck. The next round began, and this time, Don was the first to act. The community cards revealed were Jack of Spades, Queen of Diamonds, and Ten of Clubs.
"Raise," Don said, his voice steady as he threw two chips onto the table. He had glanced at his cards and found confidence in what he held: Nine of Spades and King of Hearts. A straight. A strong hand.
Clara's confusion was immediate. "What? You were supposed to fold," she said, her voice laced with fear and disappointment. Her eyes darted to Don, seeking an explanation that didn't come.
I intervened quickly. "It's fine. Don and I will fold next round for you, Clara."
My attempt to reassure her didn't entirely succeed. Her body language screamed unease. The slight tremble in her hands, the way her gaze lingered on her remaining coins—it was clear she was unraveling. Clara realized the stakes. After this fold, she would be left with only one coin. And if Don deviated from the plan again, her fate was sealed.
"Fold," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible. The weight of her decision hung heavily in the air.
Immediately after, I followed suit. "Fold."
The chips moved to Don, who now had four coins—two of his original color and two unique ones. Clara was left with a single coin, and her despair was evident. She stared at her last chip as though it were a death sentence, her expression a mixture of fear and resignation.
I glanced at Don and noticed something unsettling. A faint smile tugged at his lips, barely perceptible but undeniably there. It wasn't a smile of joy or relief—it was the kind of smile you'd expect from someone who had just gotten away with something deceitful. The kind of smile a villain wears in the shadows of triumph. Even Don himself might not have realized he was doing it.
This… this was what I meant when I thought of humans as greedy and ugly by nature. It was why I had taken the initiative in the first round, raising all in and directing the others to fold. The structure of the game was intentional. The creators of this twisted scenario knew exactly how people would behave. They had designed it to exploit human greed and fear.
In this strategy, the person who folded twice would inevitably end up with only one coin, while the other two players secured their paths forward. Don had been consumed by the fear that Clara and I might abandon him, the image of the Executive killing the woman earlier fueling his paranoia. And now, Clara found herself in the same position, her mind strangled by fear and anxiety.
The administrator shuffled the cards and dealt a new hand. The community cards were revealed: Ace of Spades, Ace of Hearts, and Three of Diamonds.
"As folding would result in an automatic loss, Player 380's first move is defaulted to Call," the administrator announced.
Curiosity piqued, I glanced at my cards. Two more Aces. Four of a kind. The strongest possible hand. There was literally no combination that could beat it.
"This game… is so rigged," I thought, suppressing a bitter laugh. It was clear that the administrators had deliberately given me this hand, and I knew why.
In a surveillance room filled with monitors, a group of administrators and a corpulent man in a suit watched the game unfold. The man—the Game Master—let out a hearty laugh, his voice booming through the room.
"Just as you predicted, Game Master," one of the guards said.
"These dirty animals," the Game Master sneered. "They form plans to move forward together, but all it takes is a little push. Fear of losing. Greed for winning. Give them a strong hand, and they'll betray each other without hesitation."
He laughed again, a deep, guttural sound. "Exactly as I thought. Disgusting creatures. Humans act like intelligent beings, but they're not. They're just greedy dogs. HAHAHAHA!"
The Game Master's entertainment came at the expense of our lives. He had rigged the game, ensuring betrayal was inevitable. It wasn't about fairness; it was about watching us tear each other apart.
"They live rat-race lives," he continued, "and when the right pressure is applied, they devour each other like wild animals. No pride, no dignity. Worthless beings. Truly a spectacle to watch!"
Back in the playroom, I placed my cards face-up on the table for everyone to see.
"Four of a kind," I announced, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "So this is the kind of game you're running, huh? We're not beating the allegations…"
I locked eyes with one of the administrators, my gaze challenging. His expression betrayed nothing, but I could tell my words had struck a nerve.
Clara stood up abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground behind her. Her face was a storm of emotions—fear, shock, anger. She looked at my cards and felt the crushing weight of betrayal. For a moment, her body moved on instinct, raw and unfiltered. She wanted to hurt me, to make me pay for what she perceived as my treachery.
The administrators reacted instantly. Two of them forced her back into her chair, one pressing the barrel of a revolver to her temple.
"No violence is allowed in the playroom," one of them stated flatly.
Clara slumped in her chair, her expression broken and hollow.
"Fold," I said, my voice steady.
The room fell into stunned silence. Even the administrators looked momentarily taken aback. Clara's despair began to lift, replaced by a fragile glimmer of hope. A small, almost hesitant smile formed on her lips.
But then her eyes turned to Don, and that glimmer shattered.
"… Call," Don said, his voice weak and uncertain.
The administrators revealed the cards and declared Don the winner. His hand—three of a kind—secured him the victory. The chips moved to his side of the table: six in total. I was left with three, one of each color. Clara… had none.
"Don… DON, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!" Clara screamed, her voice raw with rage and despair. She lunged at him, but the administrators restrained her once more.
The room unlocked as the game was over, and also since the game couldn't be played by less than three players as per the rules. Don raced out without any hesitation, leaving Claude and Clara behind in the room.
Claude watched, his mind racing. Clara had no coins left, yet she hadn't been killed. This wasn't mercy—it was calculated. "At some point," he thought grimly, "violence will be encouraged."
"Stay in this room. Don't leave, you'll be safe," Claude said softly to Clara.
"Shut the fuck up," Clara whispered, her voice laced with venom.
"Huh?" Claude's confusion was evident.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Clara screamed, suddenly standing and delivering a sharp slap across Claude's face. Her expression was a storm of anger, despair, and hopelessness. "You… it was your fault and your shitty plan. You… you fucked me over…"
Her voice grew weaker with every word until she no longer had the strength to stand. She collapsed back into her chair, her eyes dull and lifeless, her mind seemingly shattered. It was hard to tell if she was even still conscious.
"I'll think of something. Just stay here," Claude said, trying to steady his voice. He turned and left the room. As he glanced back one last time, he saw Clara, sitting motionless, her expression hollow. She looked almost lifeless.
Walking down the hallway, Claude's thoughts churned. "I didn't take Don for that sort of coward," he mused. "Or… is that normal?"
He recalled Don's behavior back at the office. Don had always seemed like the accommodating type—thoughtful, considerate, the kind of person who avoided conflict and sought compromise. But perhaps his evaluation had been wrong.
Claude tried to put himself in Don's shoes. In a state of fear, survival instincts often took precedence over morality. Don had been afraid of ending up with nothing, so he had acted to protect himself. It was human nature, after all.
"For most humans, self-preservation is paramount," Claude thought. "Don't let yourself get into a desperate position, and when greed tempts you, take the win. That's what Don did. When he raised in the second game, it was fear. When he called in the third game, it was greed. Humans are ugly creatures."
He sighed, his mind heavy with these grim reflections. The hallway was quieter now, with only about a tenth of the initial participants remaining. Most people were playing, and the timer displayed prominently at the end of the corridor showed 2 hours and 15 minutes left. Claude was wandering the hallway in search of something, or someone.
Claude's gaze lowered from the timer, and his attention locked onto a figure ahead.
"Oh," he murmured, a smirk forming on his lips. He had found what he was looking for.
A rather fat man caught his attention. The man's name was Kenneth. In his thirties, Kenneth had messy hair, glasses, and an arrogant expression that practically oozed mockery. His smug smile seemed to taunt the defeated, as though he reveled in their misery.
Kenneth sauntered toward one of the corner rooms, entering what appeared to be the men's bathroom.
"Didn't even realize there were bathrooms here," Claude thought. "Well, obviously there have to be. Where else would people go? On the floor?" He entertained himself with his inner monologue as he followed Kenneth inside.
Outside the bathroom door, Claude could hear Kenneth's laughter—loud, obnoxious, almost manic.
"AHAHAHAHA!!! Stupid… STUPID FUCKS! ALL OF YOU ARE SO STUPID! Only I am smart. It was so easy! AHAHAHA!" Kenneth's voice echoed off the tiled walls.
Inside, Kenneth continued his tirade, unaware of Claude's presence. He had amassed a total of 52 coins, a treasure trove he considered his ticket to unimaginable wealth.
Kenneth's strategy was simple yet deceitful. Like Claude, he had proposed cooperative plans to other players. He pretended to have only three coins, convincing his victims to follow his strategy. But Kenneth would always hide his winnings and raise during the second game, exploiting his larger stash of coins. By forcing his victims to fold, he consistently walked away with four to six coins per game. His targets—often elderly participants—were easy prey, too frightened or demoralized to resist.
But Kenneth's strategy succeeded not just because of his deceit. Unknown to him, the game itself was rigged. The game master deliberately ensured that the first winner in any group received consecutive unbeatable hands, like a four of a kind or straight flush. This setup guaranteed that the first victor would dominate, creating a snowball effect that crushed the losers and bred suspicion, anger, and ultimately violence. Kenneth had stumbled upon this truth after his second scam, realizing that his growing pile of coins made him nearly invincible in subsequent games.
The game master's intention was clear: to incite chaos. By giving one player an overwhelming advantage, he sowed seeds of distrust among the participants, ensuring that any alliances formed would collapse under the weight of greed and desperation. Violence wasn't just allowed—it was encouraged, albeit silently. The administrators turned a blind eye to any conflicts outside the playrooms, reveling in the drama that unfolded.
"I think that's all the senile stupid fucks around here," Kenneth muttered to himself, counting his coins. "Fifty-two coins… If each one is worth millions, then fifty-two must be billions! AHAHAHA!"
His laughter grew louder with each calculation, though his math was as cocky as it was flawed. Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, and Kenneth's laughter stopped abruptly.
"What… what?!" Kenneth stammered as he turned to see Claude walking in.
"You sure seem happy," Claude remarked, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of menace.
"I… I finally got three coins of different colors. I can move on!" Kenneth exclaimed, feigning excitement. Internally, he was panicking, afraid someone might discover his true hoard.
"Yeah, me too," Claude said with feigned relief.
Kenneth's unease grew. "Hahaha… congrats, bro." He tried to sound casual as he edged toward the door. "Well, if you'll excuse me…"
Claude's hand shot out, grabbing Kenneth by the collar and pushing him back. The larger man stumbled, his confidence crumbling.
"Relax, dog. What's the hurry?" Claude's voice turned sharp, his cocky tone igniting anger in Kenneth.
Kenneth's confusion deepened. "What the fuck just happened? I'm bigger than him… I'm like 110 kilos! How did he push me back with one hand? This skeleton boy?"
"What the fuck do you want? Fuck off, bro!" Kenneth spat, his irritation giving way to panic. His mind raced, plotting his escape.
"Fifty-two minus three… forty-nine. Give me forty-nine coins, and I'll let you pass," Claude said, his tone dripping with arrogance.
Kenneth froze. "How does he know? How the fuck does he know I have fifty-two coins?!" Fear turned to anger, and anger turned into desperation. He decided to rely on his size, planning to charge Claude and escape to the nearby stairs.
"FUCK OFF, LITTLE BRO!" Kenneth roared, barreling toward Claude.
In an instant, the bathroom floor was painted red. Kenneth's lower body crumpled to the ground. Blood gushed from the severed torso, pooling rapidly. The upper half of his body was… gone. There were no organs, no lungs, no head—just blood and the remnants of his legs.
Claude kicked the remains aside, crouching to retrieve the coins from Kenneth's pockets. He counted them silently, his expression unreadable. Then, he glanced at the surveillance camera mounted in the corner.
He waited. Seconds passed. No alarms. No announcements. Nothing.
"As I expected," Claude thought, a smirk forming on his lips. "Violence is allowed anywhere… except the playroom."
Exiting the bathroom, Claude's mind raced. "Killing is allowed. Stealing coins is allowed. What was the point of my strategy? We could have just traded coins without playing."
The truth was clear: the game was rigged from the start. The rules were designed to manipulate human behavior, exploiting fear and greed. The game master reveled in this. Watching participants struggle within the constraints of their own assumptions was his greatest pleasure.
In the surveillance room, silence filled the air. The game master reviewed a report handed to him by one of the administrators.
"I see… so there's two of them, huh?" he murmured, flipping to the first page. A file detailing Claude Bask's personal particulars stared back at him.
"Player 009…" The game master's voice dropped to a low, deliberate tone. "I saw it with my own eyes. In that bathroom… even I couldn't follow it. He threw a punch…? Whatever it was, this guy… Participant 009… Claude Bask… is definitely… one of us."