Previously on Captivity...

Lumin and Awandea had joined forces, pushing their way through the Preliminary Rounds, racing against time in search of the crucial books scattered across the dorms. While others relaxed, thinking there was no penalty at this stage, Lumin and Awandea knew better. They seized the moment, gathering as many books as possible, each one holding secrets that could give them an edge.

As the final bell echoed through the halls, signaling the end of the round, Lumin handed a book to Hinata from Team C. But they weren’t showing all their cards. Hidden away were even more valuable books, ones that could change the course of the competition. The others had no idea.

Then came the NPC, Adrena, cold and cutting. She laid into the other teams, mocking their complacency. “You missed the point,” she told them, “the books weren’t just for show.”

Tension surged as Camille from Team D couldn’t stay quiet. Suspicion clouded her gaze. She turned to Lumin and Awandea, accusing them of holding back, of twisting the game in their favor. But Awandea didn’t flinch. “We did what we had to do. Only the smartest survive.”

Now, with the competition growing deadlier, who will rise to the top—and who will be left behind?

GAMEFLUX
ESCAPE THE HALL LV.4

After the tense confrontation in the hall, the atmosphere became heavy with an unspoken acceptance of the truth Lumin had laid bare. No one dared look at Awandea or Lumin as they left, their footsteps echoing through the hall. One by one, the other players followed suit, shuffling back to their dorms with a new, painful understanding of the reality they were trapped in. It was as if the weight of the day’s revelations had drained all energy from their bodies.

The dorms, though meant to provide some form of respite, felt more like cages. As the players retreated to their individual rooms, the silence became suffocating. Nighttime was the hardest part of their captivity. It was when the adrenaline of survival no longer occupied their thoughts, leaving only their memories—and their grief.

Inside the small, dimly lit rooms, players would lie down on the hard beds, staring at the ceiling as the darkness pressed in from all sides. Some tried to sleep, hoping that exhaustion would bring some escape from the nightmare they were living. But instead of rest, most were met with the ache of loneliness and sorrow. Tears often fell silently in the dark, the sobs barely stifled behind clenched jaws as players buried their faces in their pillows, not wanting to appear weak, even in their solitude.

For many, sleep never came. Instead, they would sit in a corner of the room, knees pulled to their chests, their eyes glazed over with despair. The walls around them seemed to close in, every inch of space a reminder of the freedom they had once taken for granted. Thoughts of family—parents, siblings, partners, and friends—haunted their every moment. They clung to the memories of better days like a lifeline: the warmth of a hug, the sound of laughter, the small comforts of home that now felt so distant, as though they existed in another lifetime.

A few players, too overwhelmed by their grief, would whisper softly into the darkness, as if speaking to the ghosts of their loved ones, apologizing for not being there, for not being strong enough to survive, for leaving them behind. Others, too broken to cry, simply stared at the walls in a state of numbness, their faces blank, drained of all emotion. Their minds were stuck in an endless loop of hopelessness, paralyzed by the idea that they might never see their families again.

For those who couldn’t cry or scream, the nights were even worse. They sat motionless, hollowed out by their own despair, barely able to move. Their hearts were heavy with a sadness so deep that even tears couldn’t express it. They would stay like that for hours, sometimes until the sun began to rise, frozen in place, as though their spirits had already left their bodies.

The dorms were quiet, save for the occasional muffled sob or the sound of someone tossing restlessly in bed. No one dared disturb each other’s grief, knowing that each person carried their own unbearable weight of pain. The shared sorrow made them feel more alone than ever, despite the fact that they were all suffering the same fate.

In those dark hours, hope felt like a distant memory, and survival seemed more like a punishment than a victory.

IN THE REAL WORLD, TOKYO, JAPAN

Kaori sat across from the boy at the dining table, her eyes quietly scanning his face. The boy, Eichi, her younger brother, sat calmly, eating his breakfast as though nothing had changed. But Kaori knew better. The person sitting in front of her wasn’t Eichi. Not really.

She had watched it happen with her own eyes. A week ago, on a night that had started like any other, Eichi had entered the game, just as he had said he would. They had talked about it that day, him explaining every detail to her while she had listened, scared and worried. But then, after Eichi disappeared into the game, this... thing appeared in their house.

The moment he had materialized, Kaori knew something was wrong. She had been peeking from the hallway, curious about what this virtual world would lead to. But instead of seeing Eichi emerge from his room as usual, she saw a strange black swirling ball hovering in the air. Her heart had raced in her chest as she watched it shift and spin, distorting the space around it. And then, with a sudden pulse of energy, the figure of her brother had stepped out of the darkness.

Except it wasn’t her brother. Kaori was sure of that.

The boy sitting at the table moved and spoke just like Eichi. His mannerisms were identical, the way he smiled, the way he slouched slightly when he sat. Even the small, almost imperceptible habits Eichi had—like twirling his spoon absentmindedly in his soup—were perfectly replicated. But Kaori could feel it deep in her bones. This wasn’t Eichi.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her spoon as she brought it to her lips, pretending to eat while her mind whirled with questions. What is this thing? she wondered, glancing at him again. How can he be so perfect?

It was almost maddening how convincing the duplicate was. Anyone who hadn’t seen the real Eichi disappear would never suspect that something was wrong. And that was the scariest part. If this was happening in their home, then what about other families? What if every person who entered the game had their own double? Kaori shuddered at the thought. Families everywhere could be living with these replicas, completely unaware that their real loved ones were trapped in the game, suffering through whatever horrors lay inside.

The boy looked up from his bowl, catching Kaori’s gaze. He smiled that familiar smile, warm and disarming, the same one Eichi had always given her when he knew she was lost in thought. She forced a smile back, her heart sinking as she turned her attention to the dishes.

“If Eichi hadn’t told me about the game, I would’ve been fooled by this imposter,” Kaori thought, placing her bowl in the sink. “But... does Eichi know? Does he realize that there’s a fake version of him living his life in the real world?”

The idea of it sent a chill down her spine. She quickly scrubbed the plates, trying to focus on the task in front of her, but her mind refused to quiet down. What would happen if this imposter figured out that she knew the truth? Would it act differently? Would it become dangerous?

Kaori glanced over her shoulder at the boy now lounging on the couch in the living room, watching television as if it were just another ordinary Sunday. The sight was so unsettling. The way he mimicked Eichi’s every movement, down to the way he absently tapped his foot to the rhythm of the music on the TV.

But she couldn’t forget what she had seen that night—how he had appeared out of thin air, stepping from that black swirling mass as though he had been summoned from another dimension. The memory of it was burned into her mind. The moment he had emerged, she had felt a strange, unnatural energy in the air, something dark and menacing. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to scream when she watched him materialize.

Thank god he didn’t see me, she thought, rinsing the last of the dishes. If he knew that I had seen him appear... She couldn’t even finish the thought. The only thing that comforted her now was that the duplicate didn’t seem to know she had been there, peeking from the hallway that night.

With the dishes done, Kaori dried her hands, trying to compose herself. For now, she had to act normal, keep up the facade that everything was fine. She couldn’t risk tipping the imposter off. She had no idea what it was or what it was capable of, and the last thing she wanted was to provoke it.

As she walked past the living room, the boy looked up from the television and smiled again, his eyes twinkling with that same familiar warmth.

“Thanks for dinner, Oneechan,” he said, his voice gentle and playful.

Kaori forced herself to smile back, even though it felt like ice was running through her veins.

“No problem, Eichi,” she replied, her voice steady, but her heart thundering in her chest. She quickly excused herself to her room, her mind racing with thoughts of what her next move should be.

Once inside her bedroom, she locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, her back pressed against the cool wood. She had no idea what was happening, but she knew one thing for sure: that thing in the living room wasn’t her brother. And somehow, she had to figure out a way to get the real Eichi back.

PENNSYLVANIA, PHILADELPHIA

Awinita paced back and forth across the small living room, her brow furrowed in deep concern. It had been a full week since Awandea had vanished from her room, without a single trace. The memory of that day was burned into Awinita’s mind—the long afternoon when she knocked on her half-sister’s door, only to be met with an eerie silence. At first, she hadn’t thought much of it. Awandea often kept to herself, lost in her world of games and wild daydreams. But something had felt off.

Awinita had waited, expecting Awandea to come out for dinner as she usually did, but when the hours stretched into the evening with no sign of her, worry had set in. She had called out to her, knocked harder, but no response came. That was when the knot of fear had truly tightened in her chest. She had pushed the door open, heart thudding, only to find the room empty. Awandea was gone.

Since then, Awinita had reported her disappearance to the police, but each passing day only deepened the gnawing anxiety inside her. The officers had been kind enough, asking their questions, taking notes, and assuring her they would do everything they could. But she could see it in their eyes—the doubt. A runaway teen, they likely thought, nothing more. Awandea had her quirks, after all. Perhaps she had taken off on a whim, a rash decision made in the heat of the moment. But Awinita knew better. Awandea wouldn’t just disappear. Something had happened, something terrible, and no one was taking it seriously.

Awinita sighed deeply, her pacing halting momentarily as she sank onto the edge of the worn couch. Poh, their loyal dog, shuffled over, sensing her distress. His large brown eyes gazed up at her as he pressed his furry body against her legs, offering silent comfort. She absentmindedly ran her fingers through his soft fur, though her mind was far away, racing through the possibilities.

Her relationship with Awandea had always been complicated. Born from different mothers, they were half-sisters, but that didn’t erase the fact that they shared the same blood. Awinita’s feelings toward her younger sister were muddled—tainted by the anger and resentment she held toward her father, the man who had left their family behind to be with Awandea’s mother. The wound of that betrayal had festered for years, and Awandea’s very existence had sometimes been a painful reminder of it.

Yet, as much as she hated what had happened, Awinita had never blamed Awandea. How could she? The girl hadn’t asked to be born into this mess, hadn’t chosen to be a symbol of her father’s infidelity. No, her resentment was directed solely at her father and his choices, not the innocent child who had come from it. Yet, her anger was always directed towards Awand a somehow. Awandea was... different. She had a way of letting her intrusive thoughts slip out, often blurting things that made Awinita afraid or roll her eyes in frustration. Their personalities clashed in so many ways, and at times, it had felt like they were more strangers than siblings.

But now, with Awandea gone, Awinita realized how much she actually cared. The complicated feelings, the unspoken tension, none of it mattered anymore. What mattered was that her sister, no matter how distant or strange their relationship, was missing. And every day that passed without an answer felt like a lead weight pressing down on her chest.

"Where could she be?" Awinita muttered under her breath, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. It was already late, the moon casting long shadows through the windows. Another day gone, another day without Awandea. Poh whined softly, nudging her leg with his nose, trying to comfort her. She stroked him absently, feeling a sharp pang of sadness in her heart.

CAPTIVITY

In the vast, dimly lit council room of the NPCs, Adrena trudged forward, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. The air felt oppressive, thick with the weight of unseen forces, and the only sound was the quiet shuffle of her shoes as she approached the imposing figure seated at the far end of the room. She stopped just before the dais, her eyes cast downward, knowing full well the consequences of failure in this place. Her knees bent, and she lowered herself onto one knee, bowing in submission. She sighed inwardly, trying to steady her trembling hands. There was no turning back now.

Before her sat the same god of games she had reported her earlier blunder to, a being cloaked in shadow, their face obscured by a mask that was neither human nor beast. The mask was adorned with ancient symbols, the meaning of which had long been lost to time, but it was the hollow voice that sent a chill down Adrena’s spine. "Speak," the god commanded, the word slicing through the silence like a blade.

Adrena swallowed hard, her mouth dry as her mind raced through the consequences of what she was about to reveal. What punishment awaited her for delivering such news? She had no way of knowing, but she had no choice but to report the error. In this twisted world, obedience was absolute, and the cost of silence was far greater than the fear that gripped her now. She forced herself to nod, her head still bowed low, and finally spoke, her voice trembling with a mixture of dread and duty.

"A player from my hall… did not have their clone replace them back at their residence," Adrena said, her words laced with the gravity of the situation. This was no ordinary mistake—this was a catastrophic failure of the system. Each player trapped within the game was supposed to have a perfect replica, a clone, seamlessly take their place in the real world to ensure that no one suspected their absence. It was one of the fundamental rules of this twisted game. But now, a player was missing from their life in the real world, and if anyone found out… the entire system could collapse.

The god of games remained silent for what felt like an eternity. The weight of their gaze, though hidden behind the mask, pressed down on Adrena like a physical force. She could feel it in the marrow of her bones, the palpable displeasure radiating from the figure before her. The room, already cold, seemed to drop in temperature as the tension mounted. She didn't dare to look up.

Her mind wandered briefly to the players themselves, trapped within this nightmare. She hated being part of this, hated the role she had to play in their torment. But there was no choice—none of the NPCs had a choice. They were bound by the rules of this twisted game, much like the players themselves. Adrena had always believed herself different, though. She didn’t want to see the players die. She didn’t take any joy in their suffering, unlike some of the others who reveled in their power over the weak. She clung to the only solace she had—the rule that NPCs must not reveal players’ identities until they passed the preliminary rounds. That rule had saved her today. The god of games wouldn’t know who the missing player was, and for now, that player was safe.

But Adrena knew this respite was temporary. The rules were clear—once the players moved beyond the preliminary halls, she would lose all power to protect them. For now, she could only hope that the error went unnoticed in the real world, that the absence of this player wouldn’t trigger suspicion. But deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before someone caught on. This was a dangerous game, and any crack in the system could spell disaster.

The god of games finally spoke, their voice colder and more distant than before. "A failure of the system," they murmured, more to themselves than to Adrena. "This cannot be tolerated. The game must remain undetected."

Back in the dorms, the air was heavy with the uneasy quiet that had settled over the players. The atmosphere remained tense, as though the walls themselves were holding their collective anxieties. Lumin lay still on his bed, eyes closed, his body relaxed yet his mind alert. It had been a restless few hours of half-sleep, interrupted by the occasional shuffle of footsteps or a muffled sob from the other rooms.

The silence was abruptly shattered by the soft chime of a notification. A sound he had become far too familiar with, piercing through the stillness like a distant alarm. Lumin’s eyes snapped open. The screen embedded into the wall beside his bed glowed faintly, casting a ghostly light across the room. His heart didn’t race—he had conditioned himself to remain calm in these moments—but he could feel the shift in the air. The fourth level of round one was about to begin.