The Host's Judgement

16. The Price of Absolution

The silence that followed the Host’s voice was almost worse than the noise of the gears crushing the acrylic. We stood at the beginning of a wide corridor, the walls covered in a dark, almost black wallpaper that seemed to absorb the little light from the crystal chandeliers above us. Ten survivors. Ten uneven, noisy breaths sharing the same rarefied air.

Marcus wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his crumpled suit jacket, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the iron doors that had just locked behind us. He let out a nasal laugh, a dry sound with no humor in it at all.

“Ten million…” Marcus murmured, shaking his head. “We went through all of this because of an empty promise of ten million reais.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jonas asked.

“I mean we’re idiots, journalist,” Marcus spat on the carpeted floor. “Who guarantees that this money even exists? Who guarantees that this whole damn thing isn’t just some broke sadist watching us on security screens, laughing while we throw ourselves into concrete pits? I know the market. No one moves ten million in cash or ghost funds without leaving a trail that the Federal Revenue or the Central Bank would catch in seconds. This money is fake. It’s a carrot on a stick to make us run ourselves to death.”

“If it’s a lie, we’ll die for free,” Melissa whispered, hugging her own body, her bare feet still dirty with acrylic dust.

Before any of us could debate Marcus’s theory, a heavy hydraulic sound resonated ahead of us. A double leaf of solid wooden doors, carved with a stylized design of flames, slowly slid open to the sides, revealing the next hall.

“I think the Host didn’t like your skepticism, Marcus,” Lucas commented, adjusting his glasses as he took a step forward.

We entered the room warily, shoulders tense, expecting the next trap. But what we found in the center of the hall made even the pragmatic Marcus freeze in his tracks.

The space was circular, decorated like an ultra-luxury living room, with button-tufted leather sofas and mirrored walls. Right in the center, resting on a black marble table, was a nearly one-meter-wide armored glass case. Inside it, arranged in perfectly symmetrical stacks and sealed with bank security tapes, were hundreds of packs of hundred-dollar bills.

The green of the notes shone under a spotlight aimed exclusively at the case.

“Holy shit…” Roberto murmured, his former-cop posture wavering for a second before that sight. “It’s real.”

The Host’s distorted voice echoed, this time coming from speakers built directly into the mirror frames, surrounding us from every side.

“Skepticism is the shield of cowards, Mr. Marcus. But in this hotel, every promised cent is as real as the blood staining your hands. What you see before you are, in fact, the ten million dollars. The consolation prize for whoever survives the purgation.”

The electronic display above the marble table flickered, changing the survivor count to a pulsing red glow.

“However… justice is malleable. And I am an understanding businessman.” The Host’s voice took on an almost whispered, intimate tone that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. “I know the burden of guilt is heavy. I know that some of you would rest your heads on the pillow much more lightly if you knew you had received absolute forgiveness for what you did at the Eclipse Nightclub.”

Elena Vance took a step forward, her eyes narrowed toward the armored glass.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, her voice cold.

“There is no catch, Doctor Vance. There is only an alternative route. An emergency exit for those who grow tired of playing by the group’s rules. I offer, at this exact moment, the Traitor’s Redemption.”

The light of the spotlight on the money shifted slightly, flickering in a reddish tone.

“A solemn promise: one of you can be forgiven. One of you will leave this hotel free of charges, free of guilt, with a clean record and with every cent of this case in your hands. But forgiveness has a very specific exchange rate. You will have to pay with the blood of absolutely everyone else in this room.”

Gabriel took a step back, colliding against Diana’s chest, who held him firmly by the shoulders.

“What does he mean by that?” the boy whimpered.

“,It means, young Gabriel, that if one of you decides they want the forgiveness and the money only for themselves… all the other nine survivors have to die. Every life taken by the hands or the decisions of the Traitor will accelerate their absolution. The moment the last heart stops beating, the outer doors will open for the sole winner. Think carefully… Look around you. Is the person beside you playing to save the group… or have they already started calculating the price of your head?”

The sound of a metallic click resonated against the walls, and the wooden doors closed behind us, locking us inside that circle of mirrors, gold, and distrust.

I looked to the side and saw Marcus staring at the armored glass, his eyes fixed on the stacks of money, with an expression that made me take an involuntary step back. Elena did not blink. Lucas kept his eyes fixed on the reflection of all of us in the mirror, as if trying to guess who would take the first false step.

The seed of paranoia had been planted. And in that hotel, the Host’s seeds usually grew very quickly.