The Host's Judgement

2. The Banquet of the Condemned

The silence that followed the Host’s announcement was suffocating. No one moved for almost a full minute. The crystal chandelier, now bathed in that sickly red light, cast long, distorted shadows across the walls of the foyer. I glanced to the side and saw Marcus.

His square jaw was clenched tight, fists buried in the pockets of his expensive but worn suit jacket. The initial arrogance had evaporated, replaced by cold calculation.

“This is ridiculous,” shouted a fat man in a suit that looked three sizes too big, wiping sweat from his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. “This is kidnapping! They can’t lock us in here! I’m calling the police.”

He yanked his phone from his pocket. Several others did the same. I already knew the result before I even pulled mine from my jacket pocket.

No signal. Not a single bar. Not even for emergency calls. The hotel was completely isolated, blocked by some kind of frequency jammer built into the stone walls.

“It’s no use,” said the woman in the fake fur coat the one whose bitten nails I had noticed earlier her voice trembling. “We’re trapped. He said thirty minutes… Thirty minutes until dinner. We should go.”

No one had the courage to be the first to move, but the thought of standing still in the foyer under that blood-red light was worse. Like a frightened herd, we headed toward the massive double doors that opened by themselves on the left, revealing the dining room.

If the foyer was imposing, the dining room was a masterpiece of macabre opulence. A long, polished solid mahogany table stretched down the center of the hall, large enough to seat exactly twenty high-backed chairs. On it lay a feast fit for kings: silver platters of roasted meats, pastas, exotic fruits, and bottles of wine that cost more than a full year of my rent.

In the center of each porcelain plate was a small black card with a name written in elegant silver calligraphy. Below the name, a single line described the person’s profession or what was left of it.

We began circling the table, searching for our seats like children playing musical chairs, terrified the music would stop at any moment.

I found mine in the middle of the table. To my right sat the doctor, Elena whose name I learned from her card and to my left, the fat man who had tried to use his phone. Marcus sat near the head of the table, arms crossed, staring at the food with suspicion.

“No one touches anything,” Marcus ordered, his voice echoing with the authority of someone used to giving commands. He picked up his own card and read it aloud with scorn: “Marcus. Senior Entrepreneur and Investor. Yeah. And I’m bankrupt. Happy now? If this psychopath put poison in the food, he wants us to kill each other before the game even starts.”

“If he wanted to poison us, he would have done it in the sedan that brought us here,” Elena shot back with a cutting coldness that caught my attention. She turned her own card face down on the table. “Elena Vance. Chief Surgeon. He wants a show. Poison in the food is boring.”

She brought the glass to her lips and took a long sip of red wine. Everyone held their breath, waiting for her to drop dead. Nothing happened. Her gesture broke the spell of collective fear but ignited another need: to know who we were and what we were doing there.

“If we’re going to die, I want to know who I’m sharing the coffin with,” muttered the fat man to my left, wiping sweat from his neck and looking at his own card. “Arthur. I… I used to own a chain of lottery shops. I lost everything.”

“Thomas. Former Military Police Captain,” declared the tall man in the olive-green jacket from across the table, his voice harsh.

Next to him, the woman in the fake fur let out a nervous laugh, her fingers raw from biting her nails.

“Letícia. Former international model. And that one at the end is Beatriz, architecture student. I saw her card.”

The atmosphere of distrust grew even heavier. One by one, eyes crossed the table as the cards were revealed, exposing a bizarre sample of professional decay.

“Sofia. Digital Influencer,” said the young woman in the hoodie, adjusting her hair with trembling hands.

“Diana. Criminal Lawyer,” the woman in glasses and an impeccable suit merely nodded, icy.

“Lucas. Systems Analyst and IT Security,” the youngest guy smiled sideways, looking almost bored.

“Gabriel. Student,” the boy at the back whispered, shrinking in his seat.

“Clara. Retired Civil Servant,” the middle-aged woman in the corner barely lifted her eyes.

“Roberto. Former Civil Police Investigator.”

“Daniela. Luxury Real Estate Broker.”

“Hugo. Former Event Security Chief.”

“Samuel. Civil Engineer and Structural Calculator.”

“Melissa. Jewelry Designer.”

“Jonas. Journalist and Editor-in-Chief.”

“Clarice. Hospital Administrator.”

“Daniel — Former Getaway Driver / Professional Driver.”

All nineteen pairs of eyes finally converged on me. I felt the weight of my own card between my fingers.

“Kurt Hayes,” I answered, keeping my voice as steady as desperation allowed. “Writer.”

Within minutes, the accumulated hunger and panic of those twenty miserable people spoke louder. The sound of cutlery clinking against porcelain and glasses ringing filled the air, but there was no joy. It was the feast of the condemned. Eating as if it were the last meal.

I tried to focus on the food, but my stomach was in knots. Twenty strangers. Different faces, but the same cornered-animal look. The Host had said we were indebted, liars, survivors of our own ruins. What did those professions hide? And more importantly, what did the Host know about my past as an author?

My thoughts were interrupted by a mechanical click from the ceiling.

I looked up just in time to see a small security camera swivel toward me, its dark lens gleaming like an insect’s eye. In the center of the dining table, a gap opened in the mahogany. A metal pedestal rose slowly, bringing with it a digital timer with giant red numbers.

[ 00:05:00 ]

Five minutes remaining.

“Time is running out,” I murmured, catching Elena’s attention.

“The real game is about to begin,” she replied, wiping her lips with the linen napkin. Her eyes met mine, and I noticed a shadow of pure terror behind her calculated facade. “Hayes, the writer. If I were you, I’d start thinking about how to survive the first line of the next chapter.”

The timer continued its merciless countdown. The seconds fell. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly; the food was abandoned. Some people began to cry softly. Others, like Marcus, stood up and started searching the walls for hidden emergency exits.

[ 00:01:00 ]

Sixty seconds.

The sound of heavy gears began to resonate from the floor beneath our feet, making the crystal glasses vibrate on the table. The doors we had entered through slid shut with a dull, pneumatic thud. We were locked in again.

[ 00:00:10 ]

Ten. Nine. Eight.

I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turned white. Cold sweat trickled down my neck. The cracked photo in my backpack felt like it weighed a ton on my back.

[ 00:00:00 ]

The dining room lights went out completely, plunging us into absolute darkness. Panic screams started immediately. In the blackness, the Host’s modified voice echoed directly from the speakers embedded in the walls, louder and sharper than before:

“The banquet is over. Time to pay the bill. Proceed to the east wall. Your first choice awaits.”

A violent white beam of light suddenly turned on, focusing on a section of the wall that had previously appeared to be solid stone but now revealed two large brushed-metal doors, like those of an industrial crematorium. Above each door, a word glowed in neon:

On the left door: COOPERATION.

On the right door: BETRAYAL.

A metallic snap echoed, and the floor beneath our chairs began to tilt slightly backward.