The pale morning light filtered through the gaps in the hotel's dusty curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. In the center of the room, the metallic sound of bolts and springs provided the only rhythm. John, with mechanical and precise movements, disassembled and cleaned the group's weapons. To him, this routine was a prayer; a survival ritual where the failure of a single part meant the end of a life.
Theo, sitting on the edge of the bed, applied a fresh bandage to Lance's arm. He watched John's dexterity, observing how the scars on his hands seemed to tell a story that the man's mouth rarely dared to utter.
"John..." Theo broke the silence, his eyes fixed on Lance's wound, which was already showing marked improvement. "What's your real story? Someone with your level of training doesn't just fall into a place like this by accident. What are you? An ex-mercenary?"
John paused for a second and let out a short sigh, his gaze losing focus on the present as he dove into memories of gunpowder and hot asphalt.
"I didn't just have 'military training,' Theo. I was in the army," John replied, his voice raspier than usual. "Special Forces. I enlisted when the world still looked like it could be fixed. I wanted to be like an old friend... someone I used to call a hero."
Years ago...
The midday sun beat down on the asphalt of the Fort Blackwood military camp. Young John, his face still clear of scars, stood tall in formation. Around him, the smell of sweat and packed earth was suffocating. At the front of the squad, Captain Miller paced back and forth, his boots clicking against the ground.
"Attention, you maggots!" Miller shouted, the vein in his neck bulging. "The Commander is entering the courtyard. If one of you so much as blinks at the wrong time, I'll personally make sure your life is a bigger hell than it already is. Understood?"
"YES, SIR!" The recruits' unison shout echoed off the concrete walls.
The atmosphere shifted instantly as Scott's figure emerged onto the command balcony. He didn't just walk; he advanced like a force of nature. His grey hair was cropped close, a scar ran across his face like a dry riverbed, and most striking of all was the black leather glove on his right hand, which he periodically clenched. His gaze was icy, carrying the weight of a thousand battles.
"Are these the new candidates, Captain?" Scott's voice was a contained thunder, heavy with raw authority.
"Yes, Commander!" Miller saluted, stepping aside.
Scott walked down the first row, stopping for a brief second in front of John. The young recruit felt as if he were being weighed on an invisible scale.
"I am Commander Scott," he said, turning back to the group. "Here, names do not exist. We use last names. My first name is a privilege only those who prove themselves worthy will ever know. Good luck. You're going to need it."
Without looking back, he left. Miller's order followed immediately, sharp as a whip:
"Forty-five laps around the complex! Now! If anyone stops, everyone starts over!"
The training was a physical massacre. John felt his lungs burn as if he had swallowed live embers. Beside him, recruits collapsed, vomited, or simply blacked out under the scorching sun, being dragged to the infirmary like useless cargo. John, however, fixed his gaze on the horizon and ran. Every step was a denial of pain.
By the end, few were still standing. Miller observed the survivors, who were struggling to catch their breath.
"Look at you..." Miller scoffed, though there was a glint of approval in his eyes. "Congratulations to those who didn't faint like brides. But know this: today was the easiest day of your lives. From here on out, your training serves to ensure you don't die just for being useless. Dismissed!"
Later, in the command office, the silence was absolute, broken only by the scratching of a pen. Scott sat behind a heavy oak desk. In a discreet corner sat a framed photo: a smiling little boy at a Sunday lunch. A brutal contrast to the man now analyzing war reports.
Miller entered and snapped his heels together. "Sir! First-day report."
Scott didn't even look up. "Any diamonds in the gravel, Miller?"
"One, sir. Recruit John. Above-average endurance, unshakable focus. With the right training, he'll be a lethal weapon."
Scott finally put down his pen and looked at the Captain. "John, huh? I'll keep him under observation. If he's what you say he is, we'll put him in the 'Shadow' program."
The Invitation
Two weeks later, the courtyard was emptier. Only the best remained. Captain Miller walked through the ranks, handing out soldier insignias.
"You are now soldiers of the Federation," Miller announced. "Honor this uniform. Soldier John? The Commander wants you in his office. Immediately."
John walked through the cold corridors to the oak door. He knocked three times.
"Enter," Scott's raspy voice authorized.
As he entered, John snapped the most perfect salute of his life. Scott stood looking out the window.
"John..." Scott turned slowly. "I've been watching you. You don't run like the others. You don't fight like the others. There is a thirst in you that common training won't satisfy. I am forming an elite unit. Special Forces. The training will make what you've endured so far look like a vacation. Do you accept?"
"Without hesitation, sir!" John replied, chest puffed out.
Scott smirked—a rare and dangerous gesture. "Good. I like those who do not fear the abyss."
John finished sharpening his combat knife with a final stroke. He looked at Theo and Lance.
"After that, Scott and I became a single blade. We fought on fronts the world didn't even know existed. He became the country's decorated hero... and I became the Captain who cleaned up the blood trails he left behind."
He stood up, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.
"But heroes have a habit of falling from very high pedestals, Theo. Anyway. We have a long way to go today."
The revelation of Scott's name seemed to make the air heavier inside the room. Nicole, who had only been listening until then, leaned forward, her eyes shining with an almost morbid curiosity.
"I see... so that explains the discipline, the way you anticipate danger," Nicole murmured, processing the story. "And did you ever find out? His real name? The name he said only the 'worthy' would know?"
John finished adjusting his weapon's sling, the metallic click of the buckle finalizing the conversation. "It was Francis. Francis Scott," he replied, his voice dry as sandpaper. "But that's enough digging up graves. The past won't protect us from bullets in the present. What matters is the here and now, and we have no idea when the next game will be."
As if fate had a perverse sense of humor, the silence that followed was shattered by the static hiss of the speakers scattered throughout the hotel and the island. The sound was agonizing, preceding the voice they had all learned to hate.
"Hey, everyone! Missed me?" Smith's voice overflowed with artificial enthusiasm, reminiscent of a Sunday talk-show host, but with a subtext of sadism. "I have the great pleasure of announcing the next game! And look at that—for a certain little group, the concept of this 'challenge' is nothing new... Oh, and my congratulations on winning our little secret game. A satisfying reward will be delivered to you soon."
Lance frowned, exchanging a confused look with Theo. "Great, now this island has 'hidden games'? Who would this little group be?"
"Isn't it obvious?" John replied, eyes narrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife. "It must have been those kids. They've been moving differently lately."
Through the speaker, Smith let out an affected giggle. "Who won only matters to the winners, after all... it's a secret! But let's get to what matters to everyone. I'm pleased to announce that tonight, we will begin the Game of Death. A classic name, don't you think? The rules are of a poetic simplicity: two enter an arena, only one survives. One on one. Blood against blood."
A chill ran down Nicole's spine, but Smith continued, relentless: "Don't worry, the loser's team won't be completely eliminated... but you will certainly lose a member. Literally."
"An individual battle..." John clenched his fists, a dark expression crossing his face. "I knew the forced diplomacy between the groups wouldn't last forever. I was just wondering when the culling would start."
"Anyway!" Smith exclaimed, and the sound of drums began to echo through the speakers, creating a cadence of anxiety. "The fights will be decided by a draw, like almost everything in this little paradise of ours. Here we go, here we go... let the betting begin!"
The sound of an electronic roulette spinning, identical to TV prize draws, echoed across the island. John's group stood paralyzed, listening to fate being decided by a random algorithm. The roulette stopped with a high-pitched ding.
"Well, since we have four groups, we'll draw one from each! And the first lucky ones are... John versus Kevin!"
A recorded track of applause and whistling echoed, celebrating the match. John didn't react; he only tightened his jaw. It would be a fight of endurance against brute force.
"And the next fight will be between... well, well, looks like we'll see something truly interesting forming here. The draw has decided: Dante versus Zack!"
In the corner of the room, silence fell over the group. Zack's true strength was completely unknown, but likely formidable. Dante, on the other hand, had always been the weak link, the boy who trembled at the sound of any gunshot.
"Yikes..." Foxy let out an ironic laugh, leaning against the wall and looking at Dante with disdain. "Looks like the golden boy is in trouble this time, huh? Better start writing your will, kid."
Everyone expected Dante to collapse. They expected tears, trembling hands, the panic that had defined him from the start. But what they saw was something else. Dante slowly raised his head. His eyes, once clouded by fear, now held an icy glint—a spark of something beginning to burn.
"Me?" Dante asked, his voice coming out steady, without a single trace of hesitation. "Great."
He stood up, brushing the dust off his pants with a calmness that startled even Foxy.
"It's time to test what I've learned. Maybe you'll be surprised by me tonight," he said, in a tone of confidence that bordered on coldness.
The change was palpable. The fearful boy was being replaced by something forged by the necessity of survival. That night, the arena wouldn't just witness an execution; it would witness the birth of a new kind of soldier.