The seventh day dawned on the island not with the brilliance of the sun, but with a dense, freezing mist that seemed to emanate from the ground itself, climbing the glass and steel walls of Smith's Hotel. For the eleven survivors, waking was accompanied by the weight of a final sentence. There were no more lotteries, no more hidden games. All that remained was Smith's cruel arithmetic: two groups entered the hall, but only one would cross the exit portal.
In the presidential suite of the North Wing, Alex's group gathered around an oak table. The luxury of the room contrasted with the worn expressions on their faces. Alex stood looking out at the gray horizon through the window before turning to his companions. His presence was no longer just that of a young leader; he emanated an absolute calm—the calm of one who has already accepted fate and is now merely calibrating the tools to execute it.
"Everyone, today is the last day in this hell," Alex began, his voice steady and deep. "Whether we live or not, Smith's cycle ends here. We are in better numerical standing, but make no mistake: John's group is composed of veterans who have turned pain into fuel. Today, we all fight. No one stays in the rear watching."
He looked at each of them, pausing at Harry.
"Harry, you are our brain, but today logistics gives way to execution. You will be in charge of monitoring the documents and the exit, but the rest of us will split up to neutralize threats immediately. I will face John head-on. Foxy, you take Lance. Dante, Theo is yours. Yuki and Elisa, you handle Carina and Nicole. Choose who to intercept, but do not hesitate. I trust you."
Harry, analyzing maps and documents on the table, nodded gravely. "Understood, Alex. From the structure Smith has set up, this game will be a variation of the second arena game, but without the offerings. It is a battle of total elimination. He wants to see the 'alpha predators' destroy each other until only one lineage remains."
Preparations were made in silence. The checking of blades, the loading of magazines, the final adjustment of bandages. Exactly at noon, the doors to the grand lobby opened.
The Lobby of Final Judgment
Smith sat in a crimson velvet armchair in the center of the atrium. Before him, on a marble pedestal, rested a solid gold trophy—bizarrely common, as if it were the prize for a school swimming championship. The sight was insulting in the face of so much spilled blood.
"Welcome to the Final Act!" Smith exclaimed, gesturing with a wine glass. "Let's not overcomplicate things, shall we? The rule is the oldest in the world: survival. Fight! The group that comes out alive takes the trophy and their freedom. Let the spectacle begin!"
John, on the other side of the lobby, took a step forward. His clothes were tattered, and his arm still bore the marks of the previous battle, but his eyes shone with a suicidal determination.
"It seems the time has come, Alex," John said, his voice hoarse. "Let's end this quickly. It's nothing personal, kid, but I promised my group I'd get them out of here. Only one of us breathes the outside air today."
Without waiting for an answer, John relaxed his shoulders and controlled his breathing. His presence seemed to shrink, his silhouette becoming fluid and hard to focus on. He had entered the "Shadow" state—the elite military technique that had made him a legend.
"Let's do it," Alex replied.
To John's astonishment and Smith's delight, Alex replicated the movement. He didn't just mimic the stance; he entered the same state of flow, disappearing into the peripheral perception of anyone looking at him. John's eyes widened.
"What...?"
John lunged like a blur. In a move of pure muscular memory, he delivered a horizontal slash with his combat knife, aiming for Alex's jugular. It would have been a fatal blow for anyone, but Alex moved like a reflection in a mirror, leaning his body back with frightening ease and sliding to the side.
"How... how do you know this?" John roared, regaining his guard. "Who the hell are you, kid? This technique is a state secret!"
"My uncle taught me this when I was a child," Alex responded, his voice coming from a place of deep calm. "Or rather... he didn't teach me exactly this."
"Your uncle? What's your last name?" John asked, his irritation being replaced by a dark foreboding.
"My last name is Scott. Alex Scott."
Alex advanced. It wasn't a brute attack, but a movement of mathematical precision. He applied a cut that hit John's arm, opening a shallow wound before returning to his starting position before John could counter-attack.
"Scott?" John froze for a fraction of a second. "Wait... you were the little boy in the photo. General Scott's nephew. Who would have thought I'd cross paths with my best friend's heir in this hell!"
"You knew my uncle?" Alex shifted his stance slightly, feet now wider apart. "That explains your style. But it seems you only learned the prototype, didn't you, John?"
The Dance of Shadows and Steel
While the leaders measured each other, the lobby exploded into violence on the outskirts.
Lance lunged at Foxy wielding a heavy iron bar. "So the kid is the General's heir? What a small, rotten world," Lance commented, delivering a downward strike that cracked the marble floor.
Foxy dodged with an acrobatic spin, his pocketknife gleaming like a silver fang. He cut Lance's forearm on the counter-attack. "Forget the others, Lance," Foxy hissed, removing his sunglasses and revealing eyes that were completely black, his pupils dilated to the extreme. "Or you'll turn into ham before you realize the lights went out."
They traded frantic blows. The sound of the pocketknife clashing against the iron bar echoed like funeral bells. Foxy moved like a dark smudge, attacking Lance's blind spots with methodical brutality. Cuts appeared on Lance's arms, back, and chest.
"Oh, come on," Foxy mocked, spinning the blade between his fingers. "If I knew you were this slow, I would have asked to fight the doctor."
Lance, blinded by rage, charged haphazardly—a fatal mistake. Foxy ducked under the blow and, in a lightning-fast move, pressed the pocketknife against Lance's throat, making a shallow cut that drew blood.
"Died once," Foxy whispered with deadly sarcasm before pulling away, toying with his prey.
On the other side, Yuki and Carina faced off. "We meet again, Yuki!" Carina taunted, trying to keep her guard up.
"Unfortunately for you, it's the last time," Yuki replied.
Yuki moved with a speed Carina hadn't seen in the previous days. With a deep cut, she disabled Carina's weapon arm. "It's not personal," Yuki said, a sweet and terrifying smile appearing on her face as she drew her own pistol. "But I refuse to die here. Not now that Alex has finally started to see me."
Yuki fired. The shot hit Carina with frigid precision. Without hesitating, Yuki spun her body and fired at Nicole, who was fighting Elisa. Nicole fell lifeless before Elisa could even complete her own attack.
Dante's fight against Theo was brief. The doctor, devoid of any real martial skill, tried to retreat, but Dante was now a predator trained by Foxy and Alex. With a sharp movement, Dante slit Theo's throat. There was no pleasure in the act, only the realization of a task completed.
Elisa, seeing that Nicole had already been struck down by Yuki, sheathed her weapon and watched the perimeter, ensuring no one interfered with the main duel. Lance, seeing his companions fall, bellowed in pure hatred.
"I'm taking at least one of you with me!" He ran toward Foxy.
"Let's end this. I want to see Alex's show," Foxy said. In a nimble movement, he intercepted Lance in mid-air, cutting his jugular with a definitive strike. Lance's body collapsed, and silence fell over the lobby, except for the sound of Alex and John's breathing.
"It seems the show is now down to the two stars," Smith commented, leaning back in his chair. "Or rather, the two shadows."
The Masterpiece
John kept his guard up, but sweat poured down his face. He saw his dead allies around him, but his focus was locked on Alex. "What do you mean, 'prototype'?" John asked, his voice trembling.
"It's better if I show you," said Alex. "From here on, words have no place."
Alex closed his eyes. He didn't just control his breathing; he seemed to shut down his human consciousness. He entered a state of active unconsciousness, where the body reacted purely to the flow of energy and movement in the environment. It was the final form of the technique General Scott had developed—something the army could never replicate.
Alex moved. John tried to predict the attack using everything he had learned in decades of service, but he failed miserably. Alex was too fast, too fluid. A cut opened John's chest. John managed to strike back, cutting Alex's arm, hoping the pain would make the youth retreat.
But Alex didn't even blink. He ignored the wound as if his nervous system were disconnected. With lethal precision, he delivered the final blow. Alex's knife found John's jugular in a movement that, for a millisecond, made John see the image of General Scott before him—young and relentless.
"What..." John murmured, blood bubbling.
He fell to the floor, motionless. The great soldier, the man who had survived wars and betrayals, was finally defeated by the masterpiece his old friend had left behind.
The silence in the lobby was absolute. The six survivors of Alex's group stood tall, surrounded by the bodies of those who, for a brief moment, had been their allies.
Smith rose slowly from his armchair, setting his wine glass aside. He began to applaud—a dry sound that echoed off the marble walls.
"Ladies and gentlemen... we have our winners."
Alex opened his eyes, the light of consciousness returning to them. He looked at John on the floor and then at his friends. They were alive. Harry's neck was intact, Yuki smiled at him, Dante and Foxy cleaned their blades, and Elisa kept watch.
The seventh day ended there. The final game was concluded. But as the hotel doors opened to the outside world, Alex knew the shadow he carried within him would never leave. They were the winners, but the price had been leaving their innocence behind, pinned to the chests of those who fell along the way.