The screen flashed
"Player Count: 300 remaining "
The red warning still flickered on the wall:
"TRUST NO ONE."
Then, the screen glitched.
Once. Twice.
And then it changed.
"GAME 5 INITIATED: COUNTDOWN TO DEATH"
A mechanical grinding followed — like the entire facility was shifting beneath their feet. The room shook. Panels slid open, revealing a circular arena with 300 chairs, arranged like a giant clock.
Each chair had a metal strap, a number glowing on its back, and a digital screen hovering overhead.
"Please sit."
No explanation. No threats. Just that voice — eerily calm.
Lyra hesitated. Rhea gave her a nod and moved toward chair 021. Lyra sat in 109.
The moment her back touched the chair, cold metal cuffs clamped around her wrists and ankles.
She tensed.
Then the rules appeared midair.
GAME RULES
1. Each player is assigned a countdown timer between 1 and 10 minutes.
2. When your timer hits zero — you die.
3. To reset your timer, you must steal time from others.
4. Time can only be stolen by answering questions displayed on the screen.
Correct answer = steal 1 minute from a random player.
Wrong answer = lose 30 seconds from your own timer.
5. When a player dies, their remaining time is distributed randomly among survivors.
6. Top 200 players with time remaining will proceed.
CONSEQUENCES:
Timer reaches 0:00 ➤ Instant death by neural surge.
Answer too slow ➤ Time penalty.
Refuse to play ➤ Timer drains 2x speed.
You can't choose whom to steal from — the system decides.
A timer appeared on Lyra's screen:
[ 06:00 ]
She inhaled sharply.
Rhea had [ 03:30 ]
The silver-eyed boy had only [ 01:00 ]
The game began.
A question blinked in front of her:
"Which of these is NOT a prime number?"
A) 17
B) 19
C) 21
D) 23
She tapped C.
Correct.
"+1:00 acquired from Player 182."
Her timer rose to [ 07:00 ]
Someone else's dropped.
Then came the screams.
Panels in chairs snapped open, and Player 182's body went limp. No visible blood. Just... stillness. Silent death.
"Player 182: ELIMINATED."
Across the arena, players scrambled to think, to guess, to survive.
One by one, minutes vanished.
Some cried. Some laughed — madly. Some tried to beat the system with random guesses, only to watch their countdowns plummet.
"Player 254: ELIMINATED."
"Player 120: ELIMINATED."
"Player 013: ELIMINATED."
Lyra kept her focus.
Her screen flashed again:
"Which element is liquid at room temperature?"
A) Mercury
B) Sodium
C) Oxygen
D) Hydrogen
A. Mercury.
Correct. +1:00 from Player 297.
She didn't know these people.
But she was taking their time — literally their life.
And she'd do it again.
The silver-eyed boy wasn't panicking. His fingers moved fast, eyes locked on his screen. Questions after questions.
From 01:00 he clawed up to 05:00, stealing minutes with precision.
Lyra couldn't stop watching him.
He was playing like a machine.
Or maybe like someone who'd done this before.
"PLAYER COUNT: 270 REMAINING."
"FINAL 60 SECONDS."
The remaining players fought like trapped wolves.
Some gambled. Some gave up.
"Player 099: ELIMINATED."
"Player 045: ELIMINATED."
The countdown for Player 276 hit 0:00.
The chair sparked.
Gone.
Finally, the arena lights dimmed.
The voice returned.
"Game Over. 267 players have survived."
"PLAYER COUNT: 267 ."
The chairs unlocked.
Bodies slumped.
Minds reeled.
And somewhere in the system, the timer reset again.
Ready to kill.