A mixture of cement and plastic greeted him when light filtered past his eyelashes. With a groan, he hauled his body off a stiff cushion. Cold shot up his ankles when his bare feet slapped the bare floor. White. Everything was white, from the walls, the fixtures, and the door. The only respite was the silver crank of the door handle, the black book on the plain table, and the square packet with a bright red but blank wrapper next to it.

He strode towards the cabinet facing the door and yanked the doors. An array of black jackets and pants hung undisturbed from their rack. Below them, two pairs of laced boots waited for their owner. When he looked down, white, wide-cut trousers and a sleeveless shirt covered most of his body. The room had no mirrors, not even windows or anything glass, but curly black hair flapped into his periphery. That's everything about himself.

Where was he? It should be the question at the top of his head, but something nipped at the back of his mind. He was supposed to be here, and what here meant would be revealed to him soon. With a sigh, he changed into a black outfit, bending down to tie his shoelaces when it was time. His fingers slipped and fumbled, showing him how far his knowledge and muscle memory went. He must have not tied a lot of shoelaces before today.

Which raised the next question—where was he before today? His eyes landed on the rumpled mess of his bedsheets, pushed away when he crawled out of the bed. His hands froze. Memories...

He creased his eyebrows, his gut roiling. Before he went to bed or anything in the past beyond that...there's nothing. Just a wall of black and white, faded on some parts and a solid fill on most. Noises—clicks, beeps, and a lot of static—dominated the slate in his head. He squeezed his eyes close, picturing a life—anything—before this white room. A name, perhaps? Surely he had one of those? Would there be a rare event he would never forget? A fond memory? Something. Anything.

Nothing.

There was nothing there. A clean slate—that was what he was. A flash of light zipped behind his lids, showing him an image. A woman with flowing black hair, smiling down at him. Her lips moved, but no words reached him. Even if he tried to focus on the movement, the traces of teeth and tongue peeking every millisecond, words were distant. Understanding, even more.

He wrenched his lids open, frustration crawling in his gut. With his shoelaces stuck into the criss-crossed weaving by his ankles, he did the best he could. At least he wouldn't risk tripping on them. He went back to the table and picked up the black book and the red packet. Instinct told him he should tear the packet open and read the book.

The distinct smell of food wafted across the room when he figured out how to tear the wrapper with his teeth. What greeted his tongue was a bland gel which tasted like iron and water. If he licked the door handle, perhaps it'd have the same taste, if not the exact consistency. Next, he opened the black book on a random page to find...nothing. Again. It's like his memory. Should he take a hint or something?

He turned the book here and there, scratching a nail on pages, random spots on the front and inside of the leather cover, and the sides. Save for the lines across the pages, it was empty. He shook it, and a sheet of something slipped from the spaces between pages. His eyes followed the silent flutter of the paper until it settled face down on the floor. He snatched it from the ground and turned it over.

A woman. With luscious hair. She was smiling—at least, that was what he gathered from the half-circle scrawled on the spot on her face where mouths were supposed to be. It was a rather crude drawing, with the upper half of the face left blank. No eyes. As if...

He tucked the sheet into the black book and shut it with a thud. He was about to lay back on the bed when a stringent ring tore through the air. His heart started, forcing him to crane his head to the ceiling in search for its source. The vents? The insulation? The door?

The door.

With teeth digging against each other, he scurried towards the only exit and pulled down on the handle. It slid back, throwing the door ajar. A barrage of footsteps floated from the small opening, betraying what was going on outside. He spilled into a whiter corridor upon stepping out of his room.

Black bodies squirmed in a shuffling current past him, almost waging a war against the brightness plastered on the walls and ceiling. He pursed his lips, stuck his hands into the pockets the jacket came with, and joined in. The ringing grew louder when they passed a metal arch leading to a wider hall. The ceilings were higher, reaching a domed point meters higher from his head.

Chatter floated into the air as people beat them there before the ringing started. Some sat on the wooden tables, conversing with their peers, laughing without care when something funny came their way. All kinds of faces, complexions, and stature mingled with and flitted past each other. It made him cleave from the current he came in with and retreat to one of the corners of the hall, next to the subtle line forming in it.

"I can't wait to go home in the winter," a young girl said, fanning her face with a hand. She stood a short distance away, and she was loud. "My parents said they'll be waiting for me before they set up the decorations."

What decorations? Moreover, what was winter? As far as he was concerned, there was nothing of the sort if he couldn't see it.

The girl's companion, a boy with spiky blond hair and thick lips, crossed his arms. "Mine were out of the country with my sister," he replied. "I'm supposed to be here for a few weeks, and then they're coming to get me. Drive cross-country and all that."

Parents? Sister? His lips curled in on themselves. Maybe the woman in the drawing was his mother, and she encouraged him to enter this silly game and win it. She might have needed him to emerge the victor, but he couldn't remember why. Damn, he couldn't even remember who that woman was a while ago. He could only hope. Maybe his memories would return the longer he spent awake and walking with his feet.

A chorus of awed screams rang from the biggest circle formed in the middle of the room in the past five minutes. All eyes turned to a developing show, consisting of a girl with her hands on fire and another with two copies of herself. Wait. Wasn't two. Three? Four?

No. There were twenty copies of the same person running around, evading streaks of fire thrown without care into the sky. Wouldn't that burn someone?

"Wow, fire generation is a cool power," a boy with the palest blond hair said beside him. "My information just says I have emotion regulation."

He raised an eyebrow. "Where did you learn that?"

The boy turned to him just as the fire user slammed her blazing fist into her opponent's copy. With a hiss, her opponent's entire body exploded into a shower of smoke and sparks. Cloning? "Didn't you get any?" the boy asked. "Shouldn't you have read it in the black book?"

The black book? For him, it's blank. It has nothing, but he wasn't going to say that aloud. "It's the same one that tells us the goal of this whole thing, right?" he said.

The boy nodded. "We just need to use our powers to eliminate the other sections, right?"

He kept his face steady. There shouldn't be any emotions spilling past his defenses. They were his greatest tells as much as they were his armor. "What section are you?" he asked.

"What world did you wake up in?" the boy answered, twisting around to illustrate his point. "It's there, on your jacket. And I think you can tell by the color."

The boy was right. All around them, various colors floated in and out of his periphery, and if he focused on their jackets long enough, different symbols reflected back to him. And on his jacket...

"Section M, huh," the boy muttered. "You should be with those people. They're somewhere there. Quick, before the counter starts."

Counter...?

Like what got them into this hall in the first place, another strong sound blared from hidden sound systems. Red replaced white as inactive bulbs lining the walls came to life. Then, a shadow fell over him, and his periphery registered blond hair. The boy fell on top of him, hands clawing for a handhold. Of what? His face? Temples?

Emotion regulation. Did it require physical contact? A hiss ripped off his lips as he slammed his fist into the boy's nose. A lousy tirade, but it was better than nothing. The boy wailed before trying again. What was he planning to do? Induce paltry feelings into his enemies until they bleed from the eyes?

The boy screamed, his eyes sparking orange. Was that supposed to be possible? A sign of their power being used, perhaps? Damn, why didn't he know anything? His black book, a cheat sheet and an instructional manual on how to survive this world, chose the perfect time to give him nothing.

He rolled aside, twisting against the tight hold of the boy's legs around his middle. The boy's hands slammed into the stone floor. That was his chance. His elbow slammed into the boy's cheek, sending the latter sprawling on the ground. The boy was about to stand up, when a flaming spear sailed into the fray, pierced him straight through, and dissipated with a puff of smoke. Blood spilled from a gaping hole in the boy's body, and he was dead before he even hit the ground.

What...

"Get up, kid," the fire user who had been displaying her power earlier staggered up. She put her hand on her hip. "Where's the rest of Section M?"

Ah, that was his section? Got it. He opened his mouth to answer, but a cloud of ruckus leaped out to his reality. Everyone was involved in all kinds of combat. Some battered each other with forces of nature that shouldn't have been leashed by humans, while others crossed blades and sent sparks in the air. What in the world was this? How would he get out? All this bloodshed and violence...

His collar dug against his throat as the fire girl snatched the hood of his jacket and started yanking him somewhere. "Wait—" he coughed, fingers clawing his neck. "Where..."

Metal creaked when the fire girl threw him behind a row of file cabinets and work tables with marble finishes. Pain flared in his shoulder which he cradled as he righted himself. Fire girl crouched beside him, a disapproving frown etched on her face.

"How is the situation?" he ventured. Perhaps, he could calculate the most probable route they could take to ensure a maximum survival rate.

Fire girl poked her head past the countertop and scowled. "Not good," she said. "Several dead. It wouldn't be long before it becomes us. We should keep moving."

He clenched his jaw but nodded. Not like he had a choice. This was a kill or be killed situation. Their goal was to eliminate all of the sections apart from their own, requiring teamwork. Perhaps, this was the kind of game his mother wanted him to win. She didn't feel the need to tell him it was a team effort. Shame.

But how could he win when he knew nothing about the entire thing? Information was given for everyone, and if they wouldn't talk, he wouldn't find anything. And if some of them were as crafty as a goat, then, where would that find him?

"Coast is clear," fire girl hissed. "Let's go."

He followed her through the line of cabinets and countertops. Whatever this place was, it was messy and random. Who puts marble countertops in a hall meant for other functions? There were wooden tables, arm chairs, and pews thrown in the mix, and if not for the fire girl saving him, he might have spent the past few minutes crashing into them.

The ceiling offered little clues as well. If he had to guess, this was a building divided into different rooms, but the division wasn't permanent. It was old too, judging from the patina and brown splotches staining the white walls. They might be faint, but they were there. If they were lucky, they would bring this building down before anything else.

They cleared the last cabinet. He was about to turn to the fire girl for the next step when light flashed in his periphery. Too late. A wall of energy rushed towards him.