Miles mutters, “Fuck.”
“Here’s how it works,” he continues, tone still polite. “In a moment, each of you will step forward and draw a card from the deck. When it’s your turn, you’ll reveal your task. And then…” He smiles wider. “You do what the card says.”
He gestures toward the guards stationed at the corners of the room. “Some tasks are physical. Some are… behavioral. Some require endurance. A few may require assistance.”
Sophie’s eyes light up at that.
Elliot keeps going,. “Most tasks are survivable. Butnot without… modification.”
He lets the silence sit for a moment, then steps in closer, lowering his voice.
“If you refuse your card, you’re flagged for elimination. In case you’ve forgotten, elimination is not symbolic.”
He looks toward Enzo, who remains motionless with the gun raised at his side. Enzo cocks the gun with a slow, deliberate click and raises it without a word. Elliot gestures casually toward him, like presenting a show prop.
“You will complete your task, or you will be eliminated. There are no redraws. There is no opting out.”
His gaze sweeps over them, assessing. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
“First up, Sarah!” Elliot announces cheerfully, as if he is calling roll in a classroom instead of orchestrating a goddamn torture game.
Sarah flinches at the sound of her name. Her entire body trembles as she steps forward, arms wrapped around herself like they might keep her from falling apart. Her fingers barely hold the edge of the card as she turns it over.
A picture of shattered glass, scattered across blood-streaked tile.
She goes pale.
Elliot grins. “Walk it.”
Her lips part, like she might beg or argue, but nothing comes out. Just the shallow rasp of her breathing.
She takes one step toward the strip of jagged glass waiting on the floor.
The first shard pierces the arch of her foot. She gasps, body jolting, blood beading immediately, then spilling down in a hot line. Her toes curl instinctively, but there is no safe place to step.
Another step.
A shard lodges between two toes and slices upward as her weight shifts. Her breath hitches. Her teeth clench so hard her jaw visibly locks. Blood smears across the tile as she keeps going.
By the fourth step, her heel slips in her own blood.
She goes down hard.
Her knees slam into the glass. The crunch is wet and immediate, shards driving through skin and straight into bone, slicing deep until they stick. She screams, the sound bouncing off the cold, concrete walls.
She tries to crawl.
Her hands meet the glass, and it tears straight through the pads of her palms, puncturing the skin until red drips steadily from her fingertips. Her breath comes in panicked bursts as she drags herself forward, sobbing and bleeding.
She doesn’t make it far.
Her arms give out. Her body collapses onto the pile of glass, twitching.
Two guards step forward, grab her by the elbows, and drag her away. Her blood streaks across the tile in long, broken smears. Small shards cling to her skin, embedded too deep to fall free.
Elliot claps once, slow and sarcastic. “Well, she gave it her best shot.”
No one else moves. The silence is heavy. Dread thickens the air like smoke.
