While the South Wing of the hotel breathed in the scent of sandalwood and the momentary relief of Alex's group, the rest of the island remained plunged in a functional, frigid gloom. The iron and concrete structure of "Smith's Hotel" seemed to pulse with a cold energy, like an organism feeding on the despair of those who remained. With the elimination of Kevin and Zack, the power hierarchy within the game had undergone a tectonic shift, and the survivors now reorganized like animals in a cage that grew smaller by the hour.
In Sector B, where John's group was stationed, the atmosphere was one of almost monastic military efficiency. Unlike the luxury offered to the winners of the secret game, their quarters were functional and rigid. John sat on a wooden bench, his bare torso revealing the marks of his brutal struggle against Kevin. Theo, the group's informal medic, moved with precision, cleaning cuts and applying bandages with steady hands.
"Smith's information was very useful," John remarked, his voice coming out hoarse but carrying a renewed authority. He held the electronic device that had been his reward. "With the exception of Alex's group, which remains untouched with six members, the other two groups are in a dire situation. In the previous game, they were already down members; now, they've lost their leaders and one more member each. Both only have four people left."
Lance, who was cleaning a tactical knife near the window, let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"The weirdest part isn't the numbers, John. It's the attitude. I saw the look on their faces when Smith announced the losses. They didn't seem the least bit worried about losing people. It's as if those who died were just 'excess,' the weakest of their groups. Or, what's worse... they simply don't care about each other. They're playing a game of internal elimination as much as external."
Nicole and Carina, who were organizing ammunition and ration supplies, stopped what they were doing and spoke almost in unison—a habit they had developed to cope with the stress:
"This place is truly terrifying."
"It's not just Smith," Nicole continued. "It's what Smith does to anyone who spends too much time here. Zack and Kevin were psychopaths, but the ones left... their hearts seem made of stone."
"The next game will probably be much worse for those with fewer people," Theo commented, tightening the bandage on John's shoulder. "I have a gut feeling. Smith likes scales. If the groups are shrinking, he'll force a scenario where the number of arms and legs counts more than individual technique. Watch yourselves, because tomorrow the board is going to be shaken."
At the highest point of the island, far from the concrete walls of the hotel, the wind howled between naked rocks. There was no comfort of electric lights or the scent of disinfectant here. Marcos's group sat around an improvised campfire, its snapping flames casting long, distorted shadows against the night's darkness.
Marcos, a man of severe features and economical movements, watched the embers lick the dry wood.
"Now it's just the four of us," Marcos said, breaking the silence. "We need to prepare well for the next game. We'll focus on John's group. With their leader injured and worn out from the fight against the Artist, they are the most obvious target. A military structure collapses when the head is cracked."
Alen, a red-haired man with expressive brown eyes, sat on a flat stone. He wore a wool vest over a dress shirt—a curiously elegant outfit for someone surviving in the open air. In his hands, he held a thick organic chemistry book, using the flickering firelight to read formulas.
"Will the next game be in divided groups or a total confrontation?" Alen asked, adjusting his glasses. "Chemically speaking, the instability of this environment is reaching ignition point. Smith won't keep four groups around for much longer."
"It will likely be a direct elimination confrontation," Victor replied, his voice sounding like cracking ice. He was crouched near the fire, assembling and disassembling a pistol with mechanical speed. "There are only two days left. Smith will make sure that in tomorrow's game, only two groups remain for the final. Whether it will be us or the military group depends purely on our ability to be more ruthless than them."
Victor looked at Alen through the flames, his gaze devoid of any empathy.
"Alex's group is an anomaly. They have numbers, they have luck, and they have that kid, Dante, who seems to have awakened something dangerous. But they still have feelings for one another. That is a weakness we can exploit. But for now... let John bleed first."
Far from the mountain bonfire, in the depths of the hotel's supply depot, Vane's group gathered amidst metal crates and dense shadows. The silence there was broken only by the metallic dripping of a refrigeration pipe. Vane, a woman with a serene and calculating gaze, sat atop a container, observing her three remaining companions.
"It doesn't matter what the next game is," Vane broke the silence, her voice calm, which made her even more frightening. "We are going to focus on those kids. Alex's group."
She leaped from the container with feline grace.
"They are the most dangerous now. They still have six members, even after going through all this. Winning that first game gave them an absurd resource advantage, but what worries me is what we didn't see. They participated in some hidden game of Smith's. They're getting perks we didn't even know existed."
Vane walked to a metal table where a rudimentary map of the hotel was drawn in chalk.
"Perhaps we should have explored this place more thoroughly at the beginning, after all. We were complacent, thinking Smith would follow a linear script. But those kids... they're playing on a different frequency."
"Indeed, it's the best choice," Dan commented, leaning against a stack of tires. "Alex's group has the luck factor, and luck is more irritating than skill. If the next game is what I imagine, their numbers will make them everyone else's target."
Max, who was sharpening an iron bar to turn it into an improvised spear, shrugged, indifferent to the companions who had died.
"They're children playing at being survivors. That Dante kid got lucky against Zack, that's all. But when real hunger and exhaustion hit, that 'friends forever' unity will crumble. I want to see who Alex sacrifices when Smith pushes the button."
Dan and Max began chatting about random topics, laughing at inside jokes about their past before the island, demonstrating a total detachment from the dead. For them, the game was not about human loss, but about asset management.
As the groups planned their betrayals, the island continued to reveal its dark nature. The survivors were beginning to realize that the "Hotel" and the mountain were not just backdrops; they were part of a total monitoring machine. Thermal sensors hidden in the mountain rocks picked up the heat from Marcos's fire; directional microphones in the depot recorded Vane's plan.
The hotel was a machine for grinding down personalities. Marcos's and Vane's groups had already been processed—what remained were functional shells that felt neither grief nor remorse. John's group was in the process of military hardening. Only Alex's group, isolated in the luxury wing, still held the "contamination" of humanity.
Smith, from his central office, watched the cameras. He saw the glow of the bonfire atop the mountain and the shadows in the depot.
"Three groups of predators and one group of poets," Smith murmured to himself, savoring an expensive wine as he watched Dante sleeping on the plush sofa through a hidden monitor. "Tomorrow, we shall see if poetry survives the teeth of nature."
The stage was set. With sixteen survivors divided unequally, the scales of the game were about to tip toward absolute brutality. The calm in the South Wing was merely the eye of the storm; outside, the wolves had already decided who would be the next meal.