Erika

Questions swirled like venom in my mind.

Is this a trap? What kind of twisted game is this place? Who are the people huddled near me? And worse—is this nightmare just another shadow of Vincent’s hellhole? Will they drag us into something illegal, something darker?

I swallowed the thoughts, too dangerous to voice. Instead, I mirrored the others’ moves, creeping forward into the vast, suffocating building.

The entrance hall roared with life—a hive of black-and-white uniforms darting among us, herding, barking commands that echoed off the cold stone walls. Their faces were unreadable masks beneath harsh fluorescent lights, and the whole place reeked of sterile bleach and stale fear.

It smelled less like a home and more like a prison dormitory.

Separate wings had been carved out for men and women, distanced by sharp shadows and cold corridors. A young woman—barely more than a girl—stepped forward, pressing a small slip of paper into my clammy hand without meeting my eyes.

I traced the hallway with trembling steps until I found my room—a narrow wedge of space, the very definition of bare-bones: a bunk bed nailed upright against a whitewashed wall, a wooden single-door closet half open, and a bathroom cramped into the corner.

A double-paned window stared blankly into nothingness.

Opening the closet was a quiet act of dread—I found two starched white uniforms, two sets of nightwear folded neatly, two towels stacked, and two translucent packets of unfamiliar lingerie that made my stomach knot.

I wasn’t alone here.

I grabbed what I could, face set, and slipped into the bathroom. The unexpected normalcy hit me—rows of toothpaste tubes, toothbrushes, soap, shampoo, conditioner, even a loofah. A small mercy in a sea of despair.

“At least they’re a hell of a lot better than Vincent,” I muttered to the threatening hiss of the shower.

Then, a door creaked. Faint feet on cold tile.

Heart slamming, I wrapped a towel tight around my dripping hair and stepped out.

“Hey... um, hi,” said the voice—curious, bold.

She was a striking contradiction: barely twenty, dressed in black shorts layered over mesh stockings, a tight tube top clinging to a tattooed, pierced body. Pink-streaked bob cut framed sharp eyes that danced with mischief and danger. A Dead Angle tattoo claimed her hip, a mark of rebellion or allegiance—I couldn’t tell.

Eyes scanning the bed, then locking on mine as if I were a puzzle.

I extended my hand, but she didn’t take the formal route—she stuck out her pierced tongue and framed her eyes with a mocking V sign.

Inside, I cringed. The audacity. The attitude.

She screamed chaos and dangered freedom, but judging wasn’t an option. Not here, not now. Survival was all.

“Aubrey, but call me Ry,” she said with a grin that promised trouble. “The top bunk’s mine. I hope you don’t mind.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a decree.

“Bottom’s fine,” I said flatly. The words felt heavy and hollow.

Without missing a beat, she claimed her territory and vanished into the small bathroom.

I exhaled hard—exhaustion and nerves tangled tight—and let my body settle into the bottom bunk. For a moment, the cruel world beyond those walls faded. Here, at least, I could try to breathe. Try to rest.

Suddenly—sharp and demanding—Ry’s voice thundered through the room.

“Hey! Wake up! Dinner time. Move it!”

Beep! Beep!

I groaned, shielding my eyes from the shrill alarm. Ry was already pulling on a jacket, fierce and impatient.

“How do you know?” I grumbled. “And that awful noise? It’s like prison here.”

She tossed the jacket at me, eyes flashing with a secret I hadn’t earned yet. “Follow me. I’ll explain everything.”

I slipped into the jacket, cold and unsure, and fell in step behind her as we navigated the dim hallways.

“All these candidates,” she whispered urgently, “you, me, everyone here—they’re being sorted for the world’s most feared mafia. Some are petty criminals, gangsters with nothing to lose. Others—like me—were invited. Handpicked.”

In the cramped elevator, walls closing in, she added in a low voice: “This is the main building, but there are two more. This is round one. You can still walk away now. But clear round two? You’re trapped. No one leaves.”

Her words landed like a hammer.

The elevator opened, and harsh light flooded a massive, industrial dining hall—an arena masked as a cafeteria. The smell was a mixture of cheap food, sweat, and desperation.

People from scattered lives filled the tables. Lost, hopeful, broken.

Ry and I piled trays with bread, pasta, the barest comfort of a meal, and retreated to a corner booth where shadows swallowed us.

Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper: “They say no one ever comes back from round two. No one. Dead.”

Her eyes suddenly shone brighter than before, fixed on a huge LED screen overhead.

The image: a man standing proud at a podium. Handsome, powerful. He commanded the room even through the grainy broadcast.

“Who is he?” I asked softly.

Ry’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You didn’t read the catalog?”

I shook my head.

“That’s Alexis. Right-hand man to Mr. King.” Reverence dripped from her voice. “They say he’s the most handsome man after the King himself. But no one’s ever seen Mr. King’s face…”

I sighed—a cold, bitter sound.

Fuck Mr. King. Fuck Alexis. Fuck this place and their games.

For now, I ate. Quietly. Eyes sharp. Mind racing. Planning. Waiting for the moment to vanish.

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