Your captains have been chosen. This is where things get interesting.
"Before we begin," the Game Master said, his voice cold as winter steel, "I'd like to offer a wild card."
The players leaned forward, eyes narrowing, breaths caught in anticipation.
"If one of you can correctly guess how the games will end—and survive until the end—you will win automatically. No need to fight, no need to betray. One answer. One chance."
The room went still, the silence heavy with possibility.
"The devices mounted in your cells have now activated," the Game Master continued, gesturing to the blinking panels that had sprung to life on the wall. "You'll find a single question displayed: How do you believe the game ends? You may type your answer at any point, but be warned. You only get one submission. If you die before the end, your guess dies with you. But if you live, and your prediction is right..."
He smiled faintly, the expression never reaching his eyes.
"You walk away. Alone. Free and victorious."
The silence was deafening. Some players exchanged glances, while others stared at their devices, minds already racing with possibilities.
"Now, let us continue," the Game Master announced, spreading his hands with theatrical precision. "To the game of life and death."
His voice dropped an octave, becoming almost intimate. "We're going to offer increasing amounts of money. And if any captains accept the offer, their entire row will be executed... and they will walk away alive. This is the ultimate game of betrayal and trust."
The first offer came, displayed in glowing digits on the central screen.
"Ten thousand derins," the Game Master said, watching the captains' faces with predatory intensity.
Tension erupted like a storm.
"Don't do it, 42!" Number 54 shouted, her voice cracking with desperation.
Number 42 leaned back in his seat, regarding her with detached amusement. "I'm not going anywhere," he replied with a smirk. "What's wrong? You think I'm a liar?"
"I'm not moving!" Number 30 yelled defiantly, pounding his fist against his chest. But something flickered behind his eyes—calculation.
"Please, 14," begged Number 11, desperation in his voice as he reached out, fingers trembling. He met 14's eyes, searching for reassurance.
"I'd never betray my team," Number 14 said calmly, her steady gaze never wavering.
That settled something in Number 11's heart—but only briefly. The deeper truth settled in behind the silence:
Their lives were no longer in their hands.
They were now pawns.
Puppets in a brutal game of loyalty, deception... and survival.
"This is getting interesting," the Game Master murmured, his voice rippling through the speakers. "Offer number two: fifty thousand derins."
Once again, pleas from the players came to the captains—but this time, the voices were more desperate, a chorus of fear and hope intermingled.
"This is fun, isn't it?" Number 42 said, a faint smile curling on his lips as he surveyed the chaos.
Number 43, shocked, turned to him with widening eyes that betrayed a rare flash of genuine emotion. "How?" The single word escaped as barely more than a whisper before rising to a crescendo. "How is this fun in any way? Just look around you—"
He gestured with a trembling hand at the huddled figures pressing themselves against the walls, their numbered designations obscured by shadows and terror. Some had already collapsed, limbs quivering with the strain of prolonged fear.
"People are starting to grow weak with fear. They're breaking. Is that what you wanted to see?" Number 43 stepped closer, searching Number 42's impassive face for any flicker of recognition, any sign that something human still lurked beneath 42's carefully constructed persona.
Number 42—tilted his head, studying Number 43 as one might study an interesting insect. "We're all insignificant creatures, 43. There's no need to anger as I did long ago." His voice took on a dreamlike quality. "I remember the past. I remember when I feared, grieved, cried. Those emotions are now long gone. The tears never helped, cries never heard, so I persevered. I became stronger, something better. I never stopped. This is who I am, this is my unique character, my torturous burden. "Zeal Kaguro's insanity."
Number 43 now inspected Number 42 the way one might inspect a venomous serpent, wary and calculating. In twenty years of life, he had never encountered anyone like him. He wondered, *Am I seeing his true face?* He looked away, catching a glimpse—just for a second—of what lay beneath the mask.
And it was truly terrifying.
"Fifty thousand derins," the Game Master repeated, but now in a slightly mocking tone, savoring each syllable. "No takers? How disappointing."
The captains didn't budge, but the strain was evident in their rigid postures, the sweat beading on foreheads, the way their eyes darted between the display and their team members.
"Your humanity or your victory," the Game Master continued, his voice a silken caress. "Challenging indeed."
The screen flickered, numbers changing with dramatic flair.
"One hundred thousand derins."
For the first time, one of the captains showed eagerness. Number 30 stood transfixed, his eyes never leaving the price since it first appeared. He stared at the display, visibly weighing the pros and cons, his lips moving in silent calculation. *I don't owe these people anything*, the thought was practically written across his face before he seemed to master himself, rationality briefly prevailing.
Seeing this, the Game Master's interest peaked. A predatory smile spread across his face—he loved to strip a man of what made him human.
"One million derins."
The number hung in the air, impossible to ignore, seductive in its enormity.
Number 30 began walking slowly toward the acceptance panel, as if in a trance. His mind was numb, focused only on what there was to gain. Each footstep echoed in the silent chamber.
Number 42 leaned in, watching Number 30's approach with unveiled interest, a connoisseur appreciating a particularly fine performance.
On the second day, Number 30 had walked out.
Betraying his team.
"Do not blame me," declared the Game Master with theatrical sorrow, raising his hands as if in supplication. "You chose your Reaper."
The Game Master now pointed at the condemned row, his gesture precise and final. "Blood," he commanded with a passionate yell.
A storm of bullets erupted, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. The entirety of Row Three collapsed where they stood, eliminated in cold blood, their screams cut brutally short.
In the sudden silence that followed, Number 30 stood alone, victorious and damned.