The first thing I felt was the cold. Not the air. The air was perfect—a constant, artificial seventy-two degrees. This cold was inside. It sat in my chest like a swallowed stone. I opened my eyes to the white ceiling. Morning light—fake, but convincing—spilled through the fake window. My body ached in places it shouldn't. Memories from last night surfaced in sharp, unwelcome flashes: Laura's hands, the sounds from next door, the feeling of giving up. I turned my head. She was asleep beside me, curled on her side facing me. One arm tucked under her pillow, the other resting lightly between us. Her hair was messy, strands sticking to her cheek. In sleep, she looked younger. Softer. The girl from the river, not the woman who’d whispered It was fun. Guilt didn’t hit me like a wave. It didn’t drown me. It just settled. Heavy. Final. I’d crossed a line I told myself I’d never even approach. And the worst part—the part that made my stomach twist—was that part of me wasn’t sorry. Par

I turned back to the fake view. The perfect river, the sun that never set. A cage painted to look like freedom. Would there even be a way out? The question didn’t feel hopeful this time. It felt like a math problem. An equation with too many unknowns. The system tracked everything. One wrong move in a game, and you exploded. One moment of hesitation, and you were gone. It saw everything. It saw everything during the games. But here in the lobby… My thoughts snagged. A memory, sharp and clear: the man with the dumbbell. The sick crack of bone. The body on the floor. We’d all waited. For the voice. For the punishment. Nothing. Just the attendants cleaning up the mess. And the participant count ticking down by one. It tracked the result—the death. But it hadn’t intervened in the action. A cold, clear click happened in my mind. A single piece sliding into place. “I got it,” I muttered, the words quiet but sure. Laura turned her head. She didn’t ask. She just watched me, her e

We spent the remaining hours of our rest period watching the attendants. It felt like a dead end. Every question, every accidental spill, every prodding comment just bounced off them. Their replies all tied back to the same loop: Your comfort. Your safety. Enjoy your rest.Before we knew it, it was evening. The last night before the next game.Back in the room, the silence felt heavier. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to trace a path in my mind that didn’t end at a locked door or a timer counting down to zero.The bathroom door opened.I didn’t look over until she was halfway to the bed. Laura walked out wearing a shirt. My shirt. One of the plain grey ones the system had magicked into existence in the wardrobe.It was big on her, hanging off one shoulder, the hem stopping high on her thighs. My eyes went straight to the smooth skin there, then darted away, a hot flush crawling up my neck.“You’re wearing my shirt,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.She

The heavy door sealed shut behind us with a final, hydraulic hiss. The sterile light of the prep room was gone, swallowed by the oppressive gloom of the Ironclad Asylum.We stood in a high-ceilinged corridor of rusted metal and stained concrete. Pipes snaked along the walls, dripping with condensation. The air was cold and smelled of wet rust and something faintly chemical. A giant digital timer was projected in the air at the far end of the hall, its numbers glowing a sickly green:47:55:43Forty-eight hours to become killers, or be erased.“This way,” Mason whispered, his voice all business. He led, crossbow raised, sweeping the shadows. We followed in a tight, nervous cluster.The sounds began almost immediately. Not the ambient groans of metal, but active, human sounds. A sharp cry echoed from a level above, followed by a wet, crunching thud—like a baton hitting something soft. Then silence.Chloe whimpered, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I… I can’t do this,” she breathed, her v

We’d become efficient. Ruthless in a bloodless, quiet way.Our strange pack of eight moved through the rusted arteries of the Asylum with a grim rhythm. We’d collected our first Keys. Mason and Chloe had their second target, LOCK-14G. Me and Laura, Jude and Blaire—we’d all scanned our first Locks. We’d even helped Lena and Sam get theirs. No one else had to die. Not yet.Our size was our weapon. We’d corner a pair, our group spilling into a room or blocking a corridor. Mason would stand front and center, crossbow not quite aimed, but not quite not aimed either. His face said everything: Compliance or carnage. Your choice. It was always compliance. They’d press their trembling palms to ours, hear the chime of their own death sentence, and we’d move on, leaving them hollow-eyed and alive.The timer on the distant wall glowed, a constant reminder in the gloom: 41:15:53.We had time. But time was just another form of pressure.We were walking down a wide access tunnel when Chloe broke th