walls.
Dozens sat in perfectly aligned rows; some exchanged wary glances, while others stared anxiously at the black screens before them, their unease silent but palpable.
No one knew what awaited them, or what kind of game this would be. That question gnawed at every mind in the room.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a heavy silence descended—so complete it felt as if the air itself had stopped moving.
Then, the curtains at the front of the hall drew back slowly, revealing a well-dressed man in a black suit, his steps deliberate as he made his way to the stage.
He needed no introduction; from the very first glance, everyone knew—he was the owner of the game.
He took the microphone, smiled faintly, and spoke in a calm, confident voice:
"There are dozens of lucky players here today—chosen to experience our creation: The Game of the Century.
But this is no ordinary game. It's a challenge of a different kind.
Among you, only one will reach the end and claim the grand prize—one million dollars in cash.
As for the rest..."
He let out a peculiar laugh.
"...they'll soon discover that in The Game of the Century, no one leaves the same as they entered."
The cold was merciless—needles of frost stinging his face
The air was heavy with the scent of snow and damp earth, and a creeping fog wound its way through the tall trees, each one cloaked in a thick white shroud, silent and spectral, as if watching him from afar.
He muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the mist of his own exhalation.
"It's just a game... that's what they told us. But why does it feel so real?"
He couldn't answer himself.
The ground beneath his boots was hard and glazed with ice, crunching faintly with every step.
Cold seeped through his fingers despite the gloves, while the wind whispered through the pine branches in a long, eerie sigh.
"What kind of game is this?" he thought, scanning his surroundings with uneasy eyes.
Then, almost in a whisper—as though speaking to himself—he said,
"For all its realism... there's still a faint touch of fantasy that betrays it as a game.
But if it is truly real... then it can't be called a game at all."
He lifted his hands and looked down at himself—thick coat, gloves, heavy leather boots.
He froze for a moment, whispering in disbelief,
"When did I put these on? I wasn't wearing anything like this before entering..."
A pause. Then, in a low voice, like someone suddenly realizing he was a stranger in his own body, he murmured,
"In truth... I don't even know how I got here. I can't remember a thing."
His gaze drifted toward the forest ahead—the snow gleaming under a dim gray light, the trees swaying gently, as though murmuring secrets to one another.
He stood there, alone, enveloped by the silence of the game...
...a game that had only just begun.
He didn't know where to go.
He walked aimlessly, his feet sinking into the snow with every step, and the sound of his breath mingled with the wind that had begun to howl through the trees.
He thought to himself, trying to calm his unease:
"Am I alone here? As I remember... there were dozens of players. Where did they all disappear?"
He continued walking. The weather worsened, and the sky began to darken slowly, as if the night were crawling in to swallow the forest. The snow started falling heavier, and the wind began carrying a strange whistling sound, like crying.
And while he stared into the thick fog, he suddenly heard a distant sound... the sound of people talking!
His heart trembled, and he said to himself with relief mixed with astonishment:
"Finally...!"
He began running as fast as he could, the snow scattering around him with every step. He kept running until a group of people appeared before him, standing in a small circle, speaking in short bursts.
He approached closer and recognized some faces — they were the players he had seen in the hall before.
But what truly caught his attention wasn't them... it was the old man standing among them.
His face was pale, as if he hadn't seen daylight in years. His classic old coat was covered in snow, an old gray hat on his head, and in his hand a dim lantern swayed with the wind.
"Who is this?" he wondered to himself.
"Is he one of the game's characters? He doesn't seem different from ordinary humans..."
Then the old man slowly lifted his head toward him and said, "Here's another one... Follow me before darkness falls... or you will lose your minds."
His voice came out hoarse and fractured, like a broken musical instrument.
They walked in a long line through the snow-covered forest, led by the old man's slow steps.
The lantern in his hand drew faint circles of light upon the frozen path.
No one spoke a single word.
That strange silence hanging over the group felt heavier than the cold itself — even the wind's whisper seemed like an attempt to fill the void between them.
He tried to speak to the person nearest him, but stopped when he noticed that everyone was walking with blank faces, as if being led without will.
"Why isn't anyone talking?" he wondered, unease creeping into his chest.
At that moment, a girl he hadn't seen before came closer to him.
Her steps were soft, her face half-hidden beneath a gray shawl.
She whispered in a barely audible voice:
"The old man said we should avoid unnecessary talk... it attracts evil creatures."
Then she quickly stepped away before he could reply.
He followed her with his eyes for a moment — she was beautiful in a strange way.
Her brownish-golden hair shimmered under the lantern's light, and her deep brown eyes reflected a hidden fear that could not be mistaken.
Her fair skin stood out against the blackness of the forest, as though she belonged to another world entirely.
They kept walking.
They saw the frozen river stretching far into the distance, gleaming under the lantern's light like a shattered mirror.
Its glassy layers cracked slowly each time the wind passed over, producing a faint sound, as if the earth itself was breathing beneath the ice.
In some places, the ice was transparent enough to reveal what lay beneath — dark shapes moving slowly, as though something was swimming in the dead depths.
And on the river's surface, strange figures had formed — intersecting and circular lines carved into the ice itself, impossible to tell whether they were born of nature or a human hand.
On the other side of the path, abandoned houses stood half-buried in snow, their black windows like eyes staring into emptiness.
Some of the walls bore faded carvings — repeating symbols identical to those on the river, as if they were part of a forgotten language.
The group kept moving in suffocating silence, each quickening their pace without uttering a word.
The tense glances they exchanged said more than words ever could:
Something in this place was watching them — waiting for the moment they stopped walking.
Time no longer had meaning; none of them carried a watch, and the sun no longer rose to guide them.
All they knew was that the cold was deepening, and night was approaching fast.
At last, after a long and exhausting march, a two-story wooden building appeared ahead of them, faint light glowing through its windows.
The old man raised his lantern and said in his coarse voice:
"Get inside... before darkness falls."
And as he stepped toward the door, he caught a glimpse — out of the corner of his eye — of a woman's shadow peering from one of the upper windows.
He froze for a moment, blinked to make sure... but the window was empty.
He said nothing, and simply followed the others inside — while the wind howled behind them, as if trying to close the door itself.
As soon as they entered, they froze in place.
From the outside, the house had looked small and worn out, but inside it was unbelievably spacious. A high ceiling, corridors stretching into unseen depths, and wooden walls so clean they seemed to have been built yesterday.
"This... can't be the same house," someone muttered, looking around in astonishment.
The place was strangely warm, even though the wind was still howling outside. Silence lingered for a few moments, then murmurs began to rise — as if the group, suppressed from the start, had suddenly regained the ability to breathe.
One of them said, grumbling as he took off his gloves:
"Damn that old man! If we'd been a minute later, we'd all have frozen solid!"
Another laughed and said:
"If that walk had gone on any longer, I was going to quit the game altogether."
At the mention of the word quit, Mike stopped moving. Quit the game? he thought in surprise.
Why didn't anyone tell me that was possible?
While he was lost in thought, the girl with the light brown hair approached him. She was holding a wooden cup, steam slowly rising from it.
She said softly:
"It seems you don't know... they explained that to us during the lecture about the game's rules and regulations."
He raised his eyebrows in surprise and said:
"Really? I had no idea... honestly, I was asleep at the time. I thought it was just one of those boring parts, like the pop-up windows in games that ask you to agree to the terms, and you just click agree without reading anything."
She chuckled lightly and said:
"Looks like you missed a lot, then."
A brief silence settled between them, broken only by the crackling sound of the fire in the fireplace.
Then she said with a faint smile:
"By the way... what's your name?"
"My name's Mike."
"And I'm Julia."
They exchanged a short glance.
Things stayed that way for a short while.
No one knew what they were supposed to do, nor what awaited them after that long walk through the snow.
Some sat near the fireplace, trying to warm their hands, while others simply stared at the walls of that strange place, which seemed endless.
Suddenly, one of the side doors opened softly, and a woman in her thirties entered.
She was wearing an old-fashioned maid's uniform — a long black dress with white trims, and a small apron neatly tied around her waist.
She smiled broadly and said in a calm voice:
"Welcome, dear visitors."
One of the players — a stout man with a face flushed from the cold — replied:
"I'm starving! When will this game finally begin?!" he said, his voice sharp with irritation.
The maid laughed lightly and said:
"Game? What game are you talking about, sir?"
She looked at him with strangely gleaming eyes, then continued:
"We have a game room if you wish — with chess and billiards... and of course, we have a dining area."
The moment she said the word dining, the stout man's expression changed completely, his features softening.
She gestured with her hand and said:
"Come, I'll show you around."
They followed her through a long corridor lit by candles. At first, the candles gave off a white glow, but it gradually shifted into a faint bluish hue the farther they got from the entrance.
The corridor seemed endless, its walls shimmering under the flickering candlelight. Every step made a faint creak against the wooden floor, yet the air was much lighter than outside.
Some of the players began exchanging comments. One of them pointed to a painting and joked:
"If anyone steps out of one of these pictures, I'm quitting first!"
A few laughed, others tensed, but the atmosphere became less grim.
Julia was walking beside Mike, looking around in awe.
"Wow, this place feels more like a five-star hotel than a survival game!"
Mike smiled and said:
"If the prize includes staying here, I'm fine with losing."
Julia chuckled.
"Then don't bet on the million — bet on the free breakfast!"
They kept walking amid scattered laughter and chatter .
They passed through a large game room with an elegant billiard table and a stone chess set, then down a short hall leading to a small bar in the corner.
Mike raised his eyebrows.
"A bar? In a game? Looks like the designer really knew what players want."
Julia replied lightly:
"Or maybe he wants us to forget we're in a game at all."
They exchanged a quick look and laughed, while the others entered the warmly lit bar, filled with a faint scent of roasted coffee.
After leaving the bar, they continued walking —
But what caught his attention more than anything else were the paintings hanging on the walls. They weren't ordinary artworks; their composition was... wrong.
In each painting appeared people with closed eyes, their faces motionless — as if asleep... or dead.
What drew his attention most, though, were the ornaments painted in the upper corners of each frame:
Human hands, finely detailed, extending from the corners as though gripping the frame, and two arms raised upward — as if the painting itself were hanging from them.
For a moment, it seemed those arms weren't merely painted, but sculpted — slightly protruding from the canvas.
Their shadows shifted faintly with the blue candlelight, until it seemed the fingers trembled.
He blinked, but nothing changed...
Yet a cold sensation crept down his neck — as if something within those paintings was alive, silently watching them from behind the walls.
It seemed as though the paintings hadn't caught Julia's attention at all, even though she was walking right beside him.
He tried to draw her attention to them, but stopped when he noticed the maid suddenly raise her hand and clap twice, softly.
From almost nowhere, a small girl appeared at the end of the hallway.
No one had heard her footsteps, nor seen her enter through any door — she was simply there.
She held in her hands a bundle of pale yellow papers and began handing them out to the players one by one, in complete silence.
The maid said with a calm smile:
"A map of the place... so you don't get lost in the corridors.
You'll find the numbers of your rooms written beside the bar."
And the moment she finished her sentence, she turned to leave.
But in the next instant, she was completely gone.
No sound of footsteps, no door opening or closing — nothing.
The players exchanged puzzled looks before Julia said softly:
"Let's go to the bar... maybe we'll find someone there who can explain what's going on."
He hesitated for a moment, then thought to himself:
Everyone will head to the bar now. It's better if we do the opposite.
He lifted his head and said quietly:
"No — let's go to the dining hall first."
Julia looked at him with surprise, but didn't object.
Perhaps she realized he was thinking differently from the rest.
They walked toward the hall through the long corridor, and the place was quieter than they had expected.
It didn't seem like anyone had been there before them... until they reached the long table at the center of the room.
There sat the stout player who had shouted earlier in the main hall.
He was eating ravenously, as if he had completely forgotten they were inside a game.
On the table lay all kinds of food — steaming soup, roasted meat, and freshly baked bread releasing gentle wisps of steam.
Everything looked too normal — disturbingly so.
They sat on the opposite side of the table, watching him in silence.
He never looked up at them, not even once, nor did he stop eating for a single moment.
"Does this look... normal to you?" Julia whispered.
He answered quietly, without taking his eyes off the man: "Definitely not..."