The air in the South Wing of the hotel was so thick it felt palpable. It wasn't just the dust of decades or the smell of mold ingrained in the carpets; it was the static electricity that precedes a storm of gunpowder. John, positioned in the shadows of an ornate alcove, felt cold sweat trickling down his temples. He was no longer just a man seeking survival; he was the commander of a unit he had forged under fire.
He checked his pistol's mechanism one last time, the sound of the metal slide echoing softly in the silent corridor. Around him, the shadows seemed to come alive. Nicole was nestled in an upper niche, her silhouette almost invisible against the dark wallpaper. Carina occupied the opposite side, maintaining a clean line of sight toward the main entrance. Theo and Lance formed the rear, protecting the grotesque straw doll Smith had dubbed the Scarecrow.
"Attention everyone," John's voice sounded in a harsh whisper, laden with an authority that allowed no rebuttal. "The battle is about to begin. Prepare for immediate contact. Remember your training: controlled breathing, designated targets. No one dies today."
"Copy that!" the four responded in unison, a rhythmic whisper demonstrating perfect synchrony. In that moment, they were not terrified civilians; they were an extension of John's will.
Outside the heavy oak double doors isolating the South Wing, Marcos's group moved with the arrogant confidence of predators who believed they had already cornered their prey. Alen, the group's chemist, approached the lock. He carried no firearms, but rather a belt of glass vials containing substances capable of melting steel or suffocating armies.
With a sadistic smile illuminating his face under the weak beam of the flashlights, Alen pulled out a vial of acid solution.
"Watch science at work, boys," Alen murmured. He poured the amber liquid over the locking mechanism.
The sound was immediate: a fizzing hiss accompanied by foul-smelling white smoke. The high-security lock's metal began to bubble and disintegrate as if made of sugar. In seconds, the mechanism gave way with a dry snap.
Marcos stepped forward and, with a violent kick, threw the doors wide open.
Victor and Salde entered first. They moved with the technical posture of special forces agents, stocks pressed to their cheeks, muzzles sweeping every inch of the entrance hall. The hotel's emergency lights flickered at irregular intervals, creating a stroboscopic effect that distorted distances.
"Clear!" Victor barked, his voice echoing through the empty atrium. He detected no heat signatures or immediate movement.
They began to enter the room slowly, boot soles creaking over the moldy carpet. Alen followed close behind, already preparing a second vial to ignite whatever stood in their way. Marcos brought up the rear, eyes fixed on the end of the hallway where he expected to find John's group cowering in fear.
What they didn't realize was that the silence of the South Wing was not the silence of abandonment, but the silence of a set trap. John and his group watched them through slits millimetrically carved into the plaster and wood walls. They saw every step, every head movement.
The first sound to break the tension was not a war cry, but the dry, solitary crack of a precision shot.
John did not hesitate. Through a small opening in the false wall, he aligned his sights with Alen's temple. The chemist still had the vial in his hand when the bullet struck. Alen's head snapped to the side, and he collapsed instantly. The acid vial hit the floor, shattering and beginning to eat away at the carpet, but the enemy's most dangerous variable—the man who could incinerate their defenses—had been removed in the first seconds of combat.
Organized Chaos
"Ambush!" Marcos screamed, diving behind a reception counter as bullets began to pierce the walls around him.
Nicole and Carina opened crossfire from their elevated positions. These were not uncontrolled bursts; they were short, double-tap shots focused on keeping Victor and Salde pinned down. The sound of the gunfire in the enclosed space was deafening, each ricochet off the marble columns sending sparks and stone chips flying.
"Theo, Lance, flank now! Pincer movement!" John ordered via the radio.
Lance, driven by an adrenaline rush that seemed to sharpen his senses, slid through a side service corridor. He moved with a lightness that surprised even himself, flanking Salde's position. Just as the attacker prepared to hurl a grenade toward Nicole's position, Lance emerged from behind a heavy tapestry.
Lance's burst was surgical. Salde fell before he could even pull the pin.
"Salde's down!" Victor shouted, trying to retreat while firing blindly toward the ceiling. "Marcos, we have to get out of here! They're in the walls!"
But Marcos, consumed by blind fury, ignored the warning. He sprinted toward the center of the room, spraying his submachine gun in every direction.
"SHOW YOURSELVES!" Marcos bellowed. "SHOW YOURSELVES AND FIGHT LIKE MEN!"
John stepped out of the shadows. He didn't run; he walked with the calm of an executioner. The flickering light illuminated his face, which looked as if it were carved from granite. When Marcos turned to fire, John already had the barrel of his pistol aligned.
Two shots hit Marcos's shoulders, disarming him instantly. Victor tried to intervene, but a shot from Carina caught his leg, bringing him to his knees.
In less than five minutes, the attack that should have been a quick sweep had turned into total annihilation. John stood before Marcos, who groaned on the floor, clutching his bloodied shoulders. Around them, John's group emerged from their positions. Nicole and Carina descended from the rafters with the ease of gymnasts; Theo and Lance approached with weapons drawn, but with expressions of pure relief.
They were all there. Alive. Unharmed.
"How... how did you know?" Marcos stammered, looking at the faces of the youths he had underestimated. "You were just... kids in the lottery..."
John looked down at him, his gaze devoid of satisfaction or hate. It was merely the coldness of a duty fulfilled.
"We didn't know, Marcos," John replied, his voice echoing through the now-silent hall. "We simply prepared. You came here for a game. We were here to survive."
John finalized the confrontation with the efficiency needed to ensure there would be no counter-attacks. The South Wing was secure. The Scarecrow remained intact, wearing its straw smile over the carnage.
The Gathering of the Eleven
Smith's voice ripped through the silence immediately following. There was no music, no fanfare. There was only a note of deep, genuine amusement in his voice.
"Magnificent! Absolutely splendid!" Smith applauded from the other side of the sound system. "Two wings defended with a precision that would make generals blush with shame. Vane and Marcos's groups have been officially erased from our seating chart. It is time, my dear survivors... it is time to meet our great Finalists!"
Pneumatic doors separating the wings slid open with a heavy hydraulic hiss.
John led his group into the immense central lobby of the hotel. They walked like veterans of a war no one asked to fight. John in front, with his unshakable aura of command; Lance and Theo right behind him, providing emotional support; and Nicole and Carina, the silent sentinels, closing the formation. They were covered in dust and soot, but the gaze of each one held a temper that steel does not possess.
On the opposite side of the lobby, the North Wing door opened.
Alex's group emerged. The sight was equally impressive, but for different reasons. Alex walked with a lethal lightness, a "Perfect Shadow" that seemed to absorb the light around him. Beside him, Foxy distractedly wiped blood from his hands with an old rag, wearing the smile of someone who had just walked out of a successful bar fight. Dante followed close behind, head held high, eyes fixed and determined—reflecting the evolution from an ordinary boy to a skilled combatant. Harry, Elisa, and Yuki completed the six, each carrying the invisible mark of the carnage they had just witnessed.
Eleven people. Eleven souls who refused to break.
The two groups stopped ten meters apart in the exact center of the white marble atrium. Overhead spotlights snapped on, focusing on them as if they were actors on a macabre theater stage.
"You managed to keep everyone alive," Alex said, his gaze meeting John's. There was no challenge in his voice, only an acknowledgment of respect.
"You too," John replied, observing that Alex's group remained with its original six members. "Smith won't like this. He wanted us to be killing each other by now."
"Smith wants entertainment," Alex said, glancing at the hidden cameras in the ceiling. "What he doesn't realize is that the best entertainment is watching his board be destroyed by the pieces."
Smith appeared on the second-floor balcony, wearing an immaculate white suit that gleamed under the lights. He leaned over the gold railing, looking down with the satisfaction of a collector who has just acquired the rarest pieces in the world.
"Ladies and gentlemen, behold our Finalists!" Smith spread his arms. "On my right, John's Group: the unbreakable wall, the example that discipline overcomes chaos! On my left, Alex's Group: the lethal shadow, the proof that evolution is the engine of survival!"
He descended the stairs slowly, the sound of his patent leather shoes clicking on the marble like a countdown.
"Only eleven of thirty remain. An odd number, an imperfect number, but oh-so-exciting! Tomorrow at noon, Smith's Hotel will close its doors forever. There will be no more 'Scarecrows,' no more programmed defenses or attacks. Tomorrow, we will have the Final Act: The Truth."
Smith stopped a few meters from them, his expensive cologne battling the smell of gunpowder emanating from the survivors.
"Only one group will leave. Only one ideal will prevail. Rest in your luxury rooms, eat the best food this hotel can offer. Enjoy each other's company, because tomorrow... tomorrow fate will decide who is worthy of freedom and who will become an immortal legend in the foundations of this island."
He gave a theatrical bow and withdrew, the lobby lights dimming gradually until only a twilight glow remained.
The two groups did not move immediately. Dante looked at Nicole, who gave him a discreet nod. Harry and Theo exchanged a look of mutual exhaustion. Between Alex and John, there was a silent pact of no immediate aggression, but both knew that tomorrow would be the turning point.
"Let's eat," Alex said, turning to his group. "We need every bit of energy possible."
"Lance, Theo, Nicole, Carina..." John called his own. "Regroup in the room. Let's review the equipment."
As they headed to their respective rest areas, the tension in the hotel was almost visible, like a dense fog. They were the finalists. They were the monsters who survived the monsters. And deep within each of them, a question echoed: how far would they be willing to go to be the only ones to cross the finish line?
Smith's Hotel awaited noon. And the hungry island awaited its final sacrifice.