"Alright, 'stallion.' I've laid my cards on the table and told you my story; now it's your turn." Yuki adjusted her posture, crossing her arms and fixing her eyes on Alex with genuine curiosity. "It wouldn't be fair for me to be the only one talking here. Besides... you're far too fast and precise for an ordinary person. What are you hiding?"
Alex hesitated for a moment, shifting his gaze to his own hands. "My story..." he sighed. "Well, I don't know if it's as exciting as yours, but here goes."
It all began with his uncle—a war veteran of few words and a gelid stare, who carried the scars of three years of intense combat on his body. For Alex, visits to his uncle's house were never about cookies or small talk; they were about survival.
"Listen closely, Alex," the man would say, cleaning a combat knife with rhythmic movements. His grey hair and piercing eyes gave him the aura of a vigilant predator. "The world isn't that colorful place they sell you in school. It's cruel, driven by hidden interests and conspiracies that crush the unprepared. You need to be strong. Strong enough so that no one can manipulate you."
"But Uncle... what kind of conspiracies?" little Alex asked, curiosity shining in his childish eyes.
The veteran stopped what he was doing and stared at him seriously. "If you're lucky, you'll never find out. But luck is a faithless mistress, Alex. Don't depend on her. Now, enough talk. The training begins now."
The Iron Regime
What followed was not a sport, but a physical indoctrination. The training was based on special forces protocols that pushed the body to the brink of exhaustion:
Brutal Conditioning: 10km runs over rugged terrain carrying heavy rucksacks, followed by endless sets of push-ups and pull-ups.
Combat Techniques: His uncle didn't teach him to "fight"; he taught him to neutralize. A focus on vital points, leverage, and using an opponent's weight against them.
Psychological Resilience: Alex was forced to maintain focus while performing complex tasks under extreme stress or sleep deprivation.
In the first month, Alex could barely climb the stairs at home. His hands were raw, and every muscle in his body protested. However, there was something in his uncle's silent discipline that kept him from quitting. He didn't dare disrespect him.
The Awakening of the Prodigy
The true test came unexpectedly. A group of older teenagers, known for terrorizing younger students at school, decided Alex would be the target of the day. They cornered him behind the gym, laughing and shoving him around.
For Alex, however, time seemed to slow down. He didn't feel fear; he felt analysis. Their stances were sloppy; their movements were slow and predictable. Before the gang leader could land the first punch, Alex acted.
In less than thirty seconds, three of them were on the ground, groaning in pain, unable to understand how a boy so quiet had humiliated them so easily. Alex wasn't even out of breath.
The victory, however, came with a bitter price. The news spread, but it didn't bring admiration. It brought fear. From that day on, the hallways parted when he walked through. Whispers followed him everywhere: "Watch out for him," "He's a maniac," "The weirdo."
He had become strong, exactly as his uncle wanted. But in the process, he had become a stranger in his own world.
"Anyway... in the end, that's basically it." Alex let out a dry laugh, devoid of any joy. "No castles or magical inheritances. Just sweat, blood, and an old man preparing me for an end of the world I thought would never come."
He paused, looking at the ceiling as if he could see right through it.
"The irony is, he was right. He said I'd only find a conspiracy if I ran out of luck... and look where we are. Thrown into a sick game, surrounded by mysteries. My luck must have run out the day I was born."
Alex's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a melancholy so deep it seemed to vibrate in the air, tightening the chests of those listening. Even Foxy, who usually maintained a cynical distance, looked away, feeling a sting of genuine empathy for the boy who was turned into a weapon before he even learned how to be a man.
"It's like your uncle predicted the future..." Dante commented, wide-eyed, processing the intensity of what he had just heard. "He wasn't raising a nephew; he was forging a soldier."
"Making a child go through military training? That's insanity!" Yuki exploded, her voice laced with an indignation she couldn't hide. She looked at Alex with tearful eyes, feeling the pain of the loneliness he had carried for years. "He stole your childhood, Alex."
Alex finally looked at her. There was an ancient weariness in his eyes, but also a cold acceptance.
"That's why I've always been alone, Yuki. In school, people didn't see a hero when I defended them; they saw a monster. They said I was more dangerous than the gang that attacked me." He shrugged, but the gesture was heavy. "But you know what? I don't care what they think anymore. If it weren't for that hellish training, I wouldn't have lasted two days in here."
He took a step forward, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. The bitterness in his voice gave way to a renewed determination.
"Two groups have already been eliminated, and we're still standing. That's what matters now." He then locked eyes with Yuki. His gaze, once distant and defensive, now burned with a new intensity—something she had always searched for and was finally there: a silent promise. "And now, I have one more reason to make it out of this hell alive."
The silence that followed was no longer one of sadness, but of an unbreakable connection that had just been formed between them.
The Theory of Hidden Games
After the dialogue, the group gathered in a corner of the shelter where the lighting flickered, casting long shadows against the peeling concrete walls. Harry was hunched over an improvised table, surrounded by scribbled papers and what looked like a technical map of the facility's structure.
"Guys, forget the exhaustion for a minute. You need to see this!" Harry called out, his voice oscillating between excitement and dread.
Alex approached, his body still tense from his previous story, followed by Yuki, Dante, and Elisa.
"What is it, Harry? Did you find an exit or more problems?" Alex asked, narrowing his eyes at the drawings in front of him.
"Maybe both. Look at these ducts on the floor plan." Harry pointed to a series of complex lines snaking through the basement of the map. "See these pipes? They aren't just ventilation; they're the nervous system of this facility. If we can access the main ducts, I believe they'll lead us straight to the command center... straight to Smith."
A heavy silence fell over the group. The mention of the game master's name always brought an unwanted chill.
"I'm certain this is a hidden game," Harry continued, his eyes shining behind his glasses. "It makes no sense that Smith never 'found' Salazar's hideout. He sees everything; he controls everything. He allowed us to find it."
Elisa crossed her arms, leaning against the cold wall. "That fits his profile perfectly. We've seen how he enjoys manipulating expectations. He's willing to change the rules mid-way just to see how we react. It's almost certain that there are levels he will never announce over the loudspeaker. Games we need to discover on our own... or die trying."
Harry began drawing rapid vectors, calculating distances and camera blind spots, showing the approximate location of where Smith would be hiding. "It's our chance to flip the board. Do you want to try?"
Alex took a step back, his expression hardening. His uncle's military prudence screamed in his mind. "Wait a second. This is crazy. 'Almost certain' isn't good enough for me, Harry. We can't risk our lives in an unknown structure based on a theory with no technical foundation. If you miscalculate, we'll be crushed or suffocated in those ducts."
Harry took a deep breath, holding Alex's gaze. There was a rare confidence in his stance. "Actually, Alex, it's almost mathematical. Remember the reward he gave us when we pointed out the flaw in the game count. He wasn't angry; he rewarded us for 'seeing beyond.' He's testing us to see if we're just rats in a maze or if we're capable of looking up and seeing who's holding the cheese."
He pointed to a specific spot on the map, an area marked with a red circle. "That strange structure you spotted on the way back from the beach... it's not decorative. It's an access point. We need to investigate."
Harry began outlining an infiltration plan, his hands moving with agility while the rest of the group watched, torn between the fear of the unknown and the hope of finally confronting the man who destroyed their lives.
The Banquet at the Summit
The mountaintop was a wind-swept plateau, but there, in the center of a natural clearing, the air seemed submissive to the will of five individuals. While the rest of the island struggled in the mud, they sat around a bonfire whose flames burned with a bluish hue, fed by some unknown chemical compound.
The view from up there was privileged and terrifying: the vastness of the island stretched out like a sleeping beast, dotted by the distant lights of Smith's traps.
Marcos, the leader of the group, slowly swirled a crystal glass between his fingers. The red wine, thick as blood, reflected the glow of the flames on his impeccably tailored clothes. He brought the glass to his lips, savoring the liquid before breaking the silence.
"It's invigorating to be able to quench our thirst without the deplorable restrictions the others face," Marcos said, his voice carrying a frigid authority. "The next game... we will participate for certain. It is our turn to move the pieces."
He looked at the embers, his expression becoming austere.
"That man's group, Sora, has also suffered casualties. They're vulnerable, down by one. But our biggest concern, without a doubt, is that group of kids." Marcos gripped the stem of the glass. "They're completely unscathed. It's an insult. Even John and his mercenaries had trouble, but these youngsters... they walk as if the game belongs to them. We can't let our guard down. We don't know what kind of absolute shit Smith has hidden in the shadows of this cursed island."
"A lot. More than your imagination would be able to process without breaking."
The reply came from a man sitting further to the right, almost merged with the shadows beyond the ring of fire. He wore a refined black suit whose fibers seemed to absorb the firelight rather than reflect it. His posture was one of absolute, almost predatory, relaxation.
Marcos leaned to the side, staring at the stranger with a glint of suspicion.
"You seem to know intimate details about this hell, outsider. As if you helped draw the map."
The man in the black suit poured himself some wine, his movements slow and precise.
"I know much more than most who breathe this air," he replied in a calm, almost didactic tone. He extended a gloved hand toward the precipice. "From up here, the perspective is different. Those kids... they're discovering the hidden layers bit by bit. They're the only ones truly exploring the island's vitals, while the others just try not to die during the next announcement."
He paused, observing the distant lights of the coast.
"Though their hideout remains a mystery, it's obvious they chose a strategic location. They move with an unnatural speed across the island. While we waste hours descending the slopes of this mountain for any incursion, they seem to sprout from the ground wherever they please."
Marcos fixed his eyes on the man, his patience wearing thin in the face of such ambiguity.
"And what would your name be, 'island connoisseur'? You share secrets but hide your own identity. Who are you on Smith's board?"
The man finally raised his face, allowing the firelight to reveal an enigmatic smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"My name is Victor," he said curtly.
After pronouncing the name, Victor returned to his sepulchral silence, watching the dance of the flames as if he could read the fate of every person on the island through the heat. Marcos felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the mountain wind; there was something about that man that made him feel, for the first time, that he was not the most dangerous person in the room.