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PROLOGUE
MatthewSwimBikeRun was sitting on the sofa staring at what was unfolding on his laptop. One Lucky Winner, a reality show his coworkers were droning on and on about, was streaming. He had listened to them endlessly babble about the show for the past four days. From what he gathered, the contestants were competing for ten million dollars. Curious, he decided to tune in.
On-screen, a group of four people, dressed in the same white outfits like some kind of cult, were sitting on a fancy outdoor patio drinking wine. Another woman, dressed in a white high-necked halter top, appeared and seemed to be holding court. Riveting stuff. He glanced at the comment section on the right-hand side of his screen.
They are going too far.
You think this is real? Nothing on TV is real.
Have you even been watching? It is real! And someone is going to die if they aren’t careful.
This got Matthew’s attention. Someone could die? How? Why? What was this? Squid Game?
He set the laptop on the coffee table in front of him, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and examined the contestants more closely. Based on the bruised, angry faces he saw on the screen, there was some kind of drama happening. One of the women had her face buried in her hands and one of the men, fist balled, banged on the table, causing the glasses of wine to jump. At the sudden sound, Matthew jumped too.
“Speak or shoot?” the woman in the white halter top asked calmly. “The choice is yours.” The man didn’t respond at first. Simply stared at the woman, the muscle in his jaw pulsing.
Wait a second, Matthew thought. He knew halter-top lady. Knew the host of the show, though he couldn’t remember her name. They’d lived in the same building in New York for about a year. If he recalled, she was an intern on some big-time network show. Wow, he thought. She ended up making it big. Impressive.
That’s when Matthew saw it. Sitting right in the center of the table, atop the white linen cloth, long-barreled and glinting in the candlelight.
Is that a gun? Matthew typed.
Just tuning in, huh? someone responded.
It was a gun. A Ruger with hardwood grips, and a seven-and-a-half-inch satin stainless steel barrel. This was a gag, right? Why was there a gun sitting in the middle of the table for anyone to grab?
Someone should call 911. This is getting out of control.
No! came the swift responses.
It’s fine. It’s just part of the game.
I don’t think so...
She’s handling that asshole perfectly.
Yeah, don’t screw up the show by calling the police.
Matthew had to agree. He was hooked. Let’s wait and see what happens, he added to the mix.
Is that a bruise on her neck? someone typed.
I think it’s just a shadow, said another.
“Speak or shoot? The choice is yours,” the woman in the halter top said.
The man reached for the gun. Lifted it from the table and, despite himself, Matthew gasped.
“I choose shoot,” the man said, calmly getting to his feet and pressing the gun to his temple.
OMG! Don’t do it!
Someone call the police.
Someone DO something!
Just stop! You don’t think this is real, do you?
