"Congratulations, Number 30," the Game Master announced, his voice echoing across the chamber with calculated precision. "You now stand as the first liar. You get your money, and you keep your life."
The words hung in the air like poison. Number 30 didn't respond—couldn't respond not after what he had done. His throat had constricted to the point of pain, his mind still processing the weight of what he had done. The metallic scent of blood clung to his nostrils, though he couldn't tell if it was real or merely the product of his imagination. His hands trembled slightly, and he clenched them into fists to hide the weakness.
The other contestants watched in silence. Some with fear, others with a newfound respect—or perhaps it was simply recognition of what they might soon become themselves. The harsh fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the marble floor, giving everyone's face a ghostly pallor.
Number 30 finally gathered the courage to look up toward the elevated podium. The Game Master sat there, immaculate in his tailored black suit, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Behind that practiced smile lay something cold and calculating—something that fed on the desperation in this room.
"I want to leave now," Number 30 said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The Game Master's eyebrows raised slightly, the only indication of his surprise. "Sad to see you go so soon," he replied, that same mocking intent lacing his words. "You really have potential. The way you manipulated the situation was..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...inspired."
Number 30 felt bile rise in his throat. Each compliment was another nail in the coffin of his former self.
"If you wish to leave now," the Game Master continued, examining his nails with casual indifference, "we will have one of the guards escort you out."
"Yes," Number 30 cut the Game Master off, finding sudden strength in his voice. "I want to leave now." The words came out more forcefully than he intended, as if his body was desperate to escape before his mind could change.
A ripple of silent curses spread through the remaining contestants. Nobody had ever walked away alive during the game but now 30 had. The prize money sitting in a steel briefcase near the Game Master's feet would be enough to change Number 30's life forever. Yet here he was, turning his back on it all.
"Very well," the Game Master said, the slight edge in his tone suggesting he wasn't accustomed to being interrupted. He waved his hand to the referee standing to the right of him, signaling to take Number 30 out of the games.
The referee—a towering figure in a crimson uniform—descended from the podium and approached Number 30 with measured steps. Up close, Number 30 could see the referee's eyes were empty, devoid of judgment or compassion. This was simply another task in a long day of tasks.
"This way," the referee said, gesturing toward an opening in the left-hand corner of the room.
Number 30 fell into step beside the referee, acutely aware of the eyes boring into his back. The walk seemed to stretch into eternity, each step echoing loudly against the polished floor. The air grew colder as they approached the exit, or perhaps it was just the chill of realization seeping into his bones.
As he walked, his mind raced with doubt. Should he turn back? What would he regret more—staying and becoming further entangled in these games, or leaving and carrying the weight of what he'd already done? Would the money help him forget? Or would it simply be a constant reminder, tainted by the methods used to obtain it?
The opening loomed before him now, a rectangle of darkness against the stark white walls of the chamber. Beyond lay either freedom or another kind of prison—one constructed of memories and guilt rather than physical barriers.
For a brief, agonizing moment, Number 30 considered looking back—to face the consequences of his actions, to see the people he had kill, to acknowledge the line he had crossed. His neck muscles tensed with the effort of restraint.
As he was walking he thought to himself, should I turn back, or may I regret, is it better to be ignorant to the chaos I created with my own hands, or shall I die here brave with what honour remains, but today was the day honour had died, in the end he did not look back, he would never see the monster he had become.