00:03:16 elapsed.
The First Draw: 26 minutes and 44 seconds remaining.
Six strangers.
One Table.
One Ace.
One King.
Four Jokers.
No second chances.
The obsidian table was wide enough to keep players out of reach but close enough to see the fear on each other's faces. Everyone kept glancing at the floating timer above the center of the table—each tick slicing away certainty like paper-thin skin.
Li Yushen sat perfectly still.
His face was unreadable, but his mind raced.
The King is watching. He's waiting to strike. If he's competent, he'll speak last. If he's emotional, he'll speak too soon.
My job is to survive. But survival alone is not the win. The real game is remaining invisible while guiding the outcome.
He folded his hands in front of his card, as if praying. His card—the Ace of Spades—remained face down in front of him. He wouldn't flip it again. Not yet.
Across from him, the sweating man in the business suit—Mr. Panicked—was fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. His eyes darted between players like a cornered rat.
To Yushen's right, the young girl in the hoodie had gone quiet again. She stared down at her hands, trying to make herself smaller. Harmless.
No one truly shrinks that well unless they've done it before.
Yushen glanced at her briefly. Then looked away.
The woman with the sharp jawline leaned forward now, her voice cutting the silence.
"Alright," she said. "Let's be honest. We're all strangers. We didn't sign up for this. We don't know the rules beyond what was read to us. But we can still make it through—if we think."
She locked eyes with the group, one by one.
Yushen recognized the strategy. Take control early. Project stability. Earn trust. She was either a Joker looking to manipulate the group—or the King, disguising analysis as diplomacy.
Her voice was calm, but her fingers tapped against the table's edge in an unconscious rhythm.
Tap-tap-rest. Tap-tap-rest. Three-count habits. Nervous, but trained. Possibly a lawyer. Possibly ex-military.
Yushen said nothing. Watching was enough—for now.
Then came the growl.
"Bullshit," said the bearded man, his voice already ragged. "This isn't a game. This is some f***ed-up experiment. Maybe you people are actors."
The sharp woman narrowed her eyes. "And what are you, the audience?"
He slammed his hand down. The card in front of him wobbled.
"I know setups when I see 'em. I did five years inside. You learn fast. You either bluff, or you break."
Yushen leaned his chin against his fist. His voice came quiet but sharp.
"You talk like a predator, but you're playing defense."
The bearded man blinked, startled.
Yushen continued, calmly.
"You just revealed your fear. You assumed we're plants. That means you already feel like a target. People who feel like targets do reckless things."
The table fell quiet.
Even the crying girl looked up.
Silence. A few seconds of stillness always reveals who's most uncomfortable in uncertainty.
The bald man—arms folded, silent until now—finally spoke.
His voice was even, with a trace of something foreign in the accent. Central Asian, maybe Kazakh.
"What happens if no one moves?" he asked.
Everyone turned to him.
Yushen answered.
"The system resets," he said. "The voice said as much."
"And if we try to flip someone else's card?"
Yushen's eyes flicked to the top right of the void, where a faint icon had appeared. A small knife and a red skull.
He pointed without moving his hand.
"I think that's what happens."
["Direct interference = death."]
The bald man nodded once. Silent again.
00:07:53 elapsed.
The timer ticked down.
It was now that Yushen noticed something: the sweat on Suit-Guy's temple had stopped.
Not because he calmed—but because he was watching Yushen.
He's building a case. Maybe he's the King. Or maybe he just needs a scapegoat.
Sure enough, the man leaned forward and broke the silence.
"I think I've figured it out," he said.
Everyone looked up. Tension surged.
Yushen didn't flinch. His voice came evenly.
"Then say it."
The man smiled, a little too eager. "It's you."
Yushen raised a brow.
"You've barely moved since the game began," the man said. "You don't ask questions. You answer them. You're analyzing everyone. Too calm. That's not normal. You're the Ace."
Beard-man snapped his fingers. "Told you! I said that earlier."
But the sharp-jawed woman looked uncertain.
Yushen folded his hands again.
"Interesting," he said. "You're either the King… or a very nervous Joker trying to eliminate the most logical player."
The man stiffened.
"I'm just being rational."
"No," Yushen said quietly. "You're being desperate."
And then, something flickered in Yushen's memory.
Not a full image—just the feeling.
That time in the exam room, second year. When he challenged Professor Liang's thesis and the professor tried to humiliate him in front of 200 students. No one stood up for him. He didn't expect them to. They weren't the ones being tested.
Back in the present, Yushen smiled faintly.
He looked at the sweating man across the table. He saw the fear. The overcompensation. The need to blame someone.
It was familiar.
"I'm not the Ace," Yushen said, still soft. "But you just made yourself look like the King."
The bald man's eyes flicked toward Suit-Guy.
The sharp woman's fingers stopped tapping.
Even the bearded man sat back, suddenly wary.
Yushen leaned forward slightly.
"If you were wrong—and you are—you've just painted a target on your own back."
00:10:12 elapsed.
Only 20 minutes remained.
The game had changed.
Now there was blood in the water.
Not real blood—not yet. But fear.
And fear was what killed people in games like these.
Yushen sat back, eyes half-lidded. Calm.
But beneath that stillness, something in him whispered the same words it always did when the world began to crack:
Don't tell them you're bleeding. Don't show them where it hurts. Not until they're already dead.