The scene shifted with a sudden intensity. Heavy boots echoed across the dimly lit metallic corridor as uniformed Game Agents marched through the holding chambers. The players, still dazed from the earlier events, were forcibly yanked from their waiting zones. No explanations. No warnings. Just the cold grip of power and a chilling silence.
Each contestant was escorted down separate hallways, their arms restrained, and faces shadowed by confusion and fear. They were brought to a large facility where an eerie setup had been prepared—one designed not for comfort, but for psychological dissection.
A strange architectural blueprint revealed itself: one giant hall had been broken into dozens of identical enclosed rooms, each divided precisely in half by two thick concrete walls. In the center of those walls was a square-shaped hole, just large enough for voices to pass through—but nothing else.
Inside each split chamber, a single bed, a metal desk, and a cold steel chair awaited. Four cameras—one in each corner—blinked ominously, tracking every twitch, every breath. Surveillance was absolute.
Each half-room would house one player, unknowingly paired with another competitor. No names, no faces—only voices would bridge the isolation.
As the players were pushed into their respective halves, a faint hiss filled the air. Without warning, a potent sleeping gas was released into the chambers. One by one, the players collapsed into unconsciousness. Their limbs fell limp, bodies slumping against the sterile surroundings. The entire facility, once filled with muffled resistance and struggle, went completely silent.
Moments—or perhaps hours—passed before consciousness began to return. One by one, players blinked into wakefulness, groggy and disoriented. The effects of the gas had worn off, but confusion lingered. None remembered being brought here. None understood where "here" even was.
They discovered a strange setup on their desks: a set of multiple cards—each inscribed with symbols, instructions, or numbers they didn't yet recognize. No further guidance. No voice over the intercom. No hints at what came next.
Only silence—and the faint sound of breathing or murmured voices coming through the square opening in the wall.
Some called out cautiously."Hello?""Can you hear me?""Where are we?"
Others remained silent, choosing to observe first—calculate before speaking. Trust was not easy to give, not in a place where everything felt like a trap.
The small square hole became the only thread of communication between two strangers. It was narrow enough to prevent the passing of objects, but the clarity of voices was crystal. Every word could be heard, every emotion felt.
But the true horror was yet to be revealed.
This wasn't just a test of wits.This was a test of trust, deceit, empathy—and betrayal.And though the players didn't know it yet, the game was designed so that more than half of them would not make it past this phase.
This was the beginning of a silent purge—where decisions made with incomplete information, through anonymous voices, would determine who would survive and who would vanish.
The cameras turned, the GAC officials watched in silence, and somewhere far above, the Game Master smirked.
Let the next phase begin.