After 30 left, the Game Master gestured dramatically toward the massive wheel being wheeled in by two referees. It dominated the arena—a circular monstrosity emblazoned with the remaining contestants' numbers in blood-red paint.
"The next challenge," the Game Master announced, his voice echoing through the speakers, "involves this spinning wheel. As you can see, all thirty-six of your numbers are displayed."
Contestant 43 watched with dread pooling in his stomach. The rhythmic ticking that had haunted them throughout the games pulsed in the background, marking each precious second of life remaining.
"We will spin this wheel," continued the Game Master, his eyes glittering with barely contained excitement, "until sixteen of you are eliminated."
Without ceremony, he approached the wheel and gave it a powerful spin. The contestants held their collective breath as it rotated, slowing incrementally until the arrow settled on number 67.
*This is just like the death lottery*, thought 43, remembering the previous rounds where selection meant immediate execution. But something was different this time. Instead of signaling the referees, the Game Master spun the wheel again.
He turned to address Contestant 67, a tall man with hollow eyes who had remained largely silent throughout the games.
"You see, 67," the Game Master began, the ticking in the background growing louder, more insistent, "that wheel is going to land on another person, and you have two decisions to make once it does: whether to eliminate them, ending their life instantly—or to give up control of the wheel to them, risking your own life in the process by letting them make the next choice once the wheel lands again."
A tense silence fell across the arena.
This is the real Gambit.
The wheel slowed, the arrow trembling between numbers before finally settling on 55. The ticking abruptly stopped.
"Now is the time, 67," the Game Master said, visibly savoring the moment. "Make your choice. But before you decide—" he raised a finger, "—we must let 55 make his plea for his life."
A referee approached Contestant 55, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, and handed him a microphone. His hand shook visibly as he raised it to his lips.
"I want to live, 67," he began, his voice steady despite his trembling hands. He looked directly into the camera focused on 67's isolation cell. "But I cannot deny reality. You want to live as I want to live. It is not in my hands, but yours."
67's brow furrowed. "You do not want to make a plea for your life?"
"Don't feel bad," 55 replied with dignified resignation. "If I were in your position, I would have you executed."
The arena fell silent. Every contestant watched the screens showing 67's face as he struggled with his decision. The burden of another's life weighed visibly on his features. Seconds stretched into a full minute as he deliberated.
*Do I? Do I not?* But in his heart, 67 had already reached his conclusion. He was only delaying the inevitable.
"Eliminate him," he finally said, meeting 55's gaze directly through the camera. He would not be a coward about this.
A deafening crack split the air as the referee standing beside 55 fired a single shot. The bullet lodged itself in 55's head, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Before the players could process the brutality they'd just witnessed, the Game Master's voice cut through their shock.
"Spin the wheel!"
The wheel spun again, its rotation seeming to last an eternity before settling on number 47—a thin man whose face instantly contorted with terror.
When handed the microphone, 47 broke down completely. "Please," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "Please don't kill me. I have children—three children waiting for me. Please, I'm begging you."
67 stood motionless in his cell, agony etched across his features. The weight of his previous decision still fresh, still crushing.
*Not again. I cannot do this again.*
"He will stay," he finally announced, his voice barely above a whisper.
Relief flooded 47's face, and a palpable wave of exhaled breath swept through the remaining contestants.
The Game Master's smile widened to an almost inhuman degree. "Now, 47," he said, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight, "you are in control of the wheel."
The ticking resumed.
And ended
"Number 43," he managed to stutter, his voice breaking. "We're on the same team, right? We're in this together."
The other contestant's eyes softened, meeting Number 43's terrified gaze.
"Of course we're on the same team. I won't eliminate you," they promised, smiling a 43s
worried gaze. "We're in this together."
Number 43 nodded, relief washing over his face as he wiped away the remnants of tears that had left glistening trails down his cheeks. For the first time since the games began, he allowed himself to believe he might survive another day and even make it out alive.
"You know what this means, right?" That same antagonizing voice—the one 43 had come to dread—slithered into his ears. Number 42's eyes gleamed with calculated intensity. "You're in control now."
The wheel spun again, its metallic clicks echoing through the tension-thick air. As it rotated, hypnotic in its deliberate slowness, 43's thoughts raced: *All we have to do is trust one another. But I don't know these people. Giving up control is dangerous.*
His gaze swept across the room, taking in the desperate faces of strangers bound together by circumstance. Some avoided eye contact, while others stared back with silent pleas or hardened resolve. The weight of decision pressed down on his shoulders.
*I don't want to take another's life,* he realized, the thought crystallizing with sudden clarity amidst his fear. The wheel began to slow, and with it, time itself seemed to stretch as everyone held their breath, waiting to see where fate would land.
The wheel slowed, trembling between numbers before finally stopping. "66," the Game Master called out.
Number 66 released a fearsome sigh, shoulders sagging as if the weight of his fate had just crashed down upon them. His eyes, wide with desperation, locked onto 43.
With time slipping away, 66 raised a tentative hand, waving at 43 in a last-ditch effort to forge a connection—to remind the man with power that he too was human. 43 returned the gesture automatically, his mind racing through impossible calculations.
"I know," 66 began, voice cracking. "I know it's a hard decision for you, 43. But I want to live." He swallowed hard, desperation rising in his tone. "*I want to live.*"
Those words sliced through 43's conscience like a blade. This was no child's play—it was brutal arithmetic of survival.
"If you let him stay, he gets controlled," 42 whispered in a sing-song voice, materializing beside 43 like a devil on his shoulder.
43 flinched at the sudden intrusion. Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he faced 66.
"66, I'm sorry," he began, voice steadier than his conscience. "In this game, there are only winners and losers. I can't give up control." Each word seemed to drain something vital from him. "I hope you understand. You are eliminated."
The words had barely left 43's lips when the shot rang out. 66 collapsed, crimson blooming across his chest—denied even the dignity of final words.
A chilling understanding rippled through the remaining players like a cold current: ruthlessness was currency here. Mercy was a luxury none could afford.
42 rapped his knuckles against the glass partition, eyes gleaming with twisted delight. "I'm *so* proud of you," he purred, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
43 turned away, refusing to acknowledge the man or the sick praise. Not now. Not when the echo of the gunshot still hung in the air.
"Listen, 43," 42 pressed on, "we're at war. There's no need for such punitive emotions."
"Of course. I know," 43 murmured, head bowed low as he sat on the edge of his bed. Today he was become something he never thought possible—a liar, perhaps
The wheel spun again, its mechanical whirring the only sound in the chamber. "57," it landed on.
"There's no need to hesitate, 43," 42 whispered. "You don't even know 57."
57 looked at 42 as if facing a hideous monster incarnate in human flesh. His eyes then turned to 43, silently pleading.
"57," 43 said, voice hollow, "you are eliminated."
"Wait!" The scream tore from 57's throat—but like those before him, his pleas evaporated into silence as the shot rang out. Another body. Another elimination.
"You know the drill," the game master's voice echoed. "Spin the wheel again."
This time it landed on 65. 42 began to chuckle, pantomiming holding a sniper rifle, taking aim at 65 with childish sound effects. 43 pronounced the sentence with mechanical detachment, and another life was extinguished.
When the wheel spun again, something changed. The atmosphere in the room grew heavier, more oppressive. "11," announced the game master.
11 was unmistakably a child—fourteen at most. Small, with tousled brunette hair and wide eyes that hadn't yet learned to hide fear. The game master deliberately slowed his approach, savoring 43's mounting anguish as he extended the microphone to the boy.
"Is that 11?" 42 asked, then laughed quietly to himself when he confirmed it was. "This should be interesting."
"Don't cry yet," the game master said, his voice dripping with manufactured sympathy. "There's still a chance. Take the mic. Make your plea."
The boy's eyes welled with tears, but he managed to steady his voice. "You are a kind person," he said directly to 43. "And you are kind enough to not eliminate me."
"Save 11," contestant 14 began chanting, and soon the room filled with a chorus of voices. "Save 11! Save 11!"
The mounting pressure triggered something in 43—his breathing quickened, hands trembling as panic climbed up his throat.
"Don't do it," 42 hissed. "Now is not the time to develop a heart. Okay?"
"Okay," 43 replied, not looking at him. Then he covered his eyes, unable to witness his own decision. "11, I'm sorry. Perhaps in the next life, you can forgive me, but I have to eliminate you."
The shot silenced the chanting.
"Now I have become a liar,"
No, You did not *become. This is what you always were.
43 stared at 11's small, crumpled form. The regret was there, undeniable—but alongside it grew something unfamiliar, something that hadn't existed before.
"17," the wheel declared next.
43, no longer bothering with the pretense of deliberation, simply announced, "Eliminated."
When the wheel landed on 16, 43 didn't even give them a chance to speak. "Eliminated."
"I'm proud of you," 42 thought, studying his monster with satisfaction. "I'm proud, my genius pawn."
The game accelerated, names called and lives ended in rapid succession, without 43 acknowledging their pleas—63, 79, 52, 76, 93, 83, 75, 100, and finally 62.
62 scoffed when his number was announced, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. Unlike the others, he made no attempt to beg. He simply stood, eyes distant, already reflecting on the life he was about to lose.
"Really?" the game master asked, eyebrows raised. "You don't want to make your case? You don't even want to try?"
"I have nothing to say," 62 replied with quiet dignity. "I know this place is where my life ends."
"Hey, 62," came that familiar voice—charming yet venomous. "I just want to let you know I'll miss your snoring."
"What did you say, villain?" 62 snapped, glaring at 42.
"I said I'll miss your snoring," 42 repeated with mock innocence.
62's anger deflated, replaced by something like understanding. "No, I'm not mad at you, 42. Now I'm starting to feel your pain... but you're just cruel."
Not taking him seriously, 42 replied with theatrical sorrow, "I miss you already."
As 62's body joined the others, a collective hatred had crystallized among the survivors—directed at the 40s group, but especially toward 42 and 43.
On to the next game.