On a-Jupiter and Mars

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𝕋ℍ𝔼 players were herded into lines, their footsteps echoing across the cavernous room. The masked figures stood like statues at the front, watching, waiting, as a long table was prepared. Sheets of paper—contracts—were laid out in neat stacks. One by one, each player stepped forward to sign.

Hana moved with the line, arms folded tight across her chest. The air buzzed with the soft scratch of pens and the restless shifting of bodies. When her turn finally came, she stepped up to the table and found the contract staring back at her, crisp and merciless in its wording.

Clause 1: A player is not allowed to stop playing.
Clause 2: A player who refuses to play will be eliminated.
Clause 3: Games may be terminated if the majority agrees.

Her eyes lingered on the word eliminated. Cold, clinical. A word that could mean anything—banishment, expulsion, or the bullet to the skull she suspected.

She lifted her gaze slowly. A circle-masked guard loomed just beyond the table, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. No voice, no hint of humanity behind that painted shape. Just an unyielding wall.

The pen waited for her on the paper. She picked it up, surprised by its weight—too heavy for something so ordinary. A symbol, maybe. A reminder that this was no simple signature. This was binding.

Her gaze flicked sideways for just a moment. Across the line of players, she caught the eyes of 456. His expression wavered between hesitation and fear, as though he were silently asking her if they were really about to do this. Hana broke the glance. She looked back at the contract. She thought of home, of her mother's voice on the phone telling her not to give up. Of debts piling like a mountain, she could never climb. Of shame she refused to wear anymore.

She pressed the pen to paper and signed. Each stroke felt like sealing a pact with the devil.

When she was done, she placed the pen down firmly, slid the paper forward, and handed it to the waiting guard. He took it without a word.

Hana gave a short nod, more to herself than to him, and stepped aside to make room for the next player.

The game had her name now.

"The Blue Danube" floated gently through the speakers, its lilting waltz both soothing and grotesquely out of place. Hana stood among the others as pens scratched across paper, the last of the contracts being signed. The players began to fall into lines, shuffling obediently, the air thick with anticipation and quiet dread.

Overhead, a woman's voice chimed through the PA, crisp and detached:
"Attention, all players. The first game is about to begin. Please follow the staff's instructions. Please make your way towards the game hall."

Hana's gaze lifted to the small speaker above them, her brow furrowing slightly. The music, the voice, the sterile calmness of it all—it scraped against her nerves like a bad dream. Still, she walked when the circle-masked guards gestured, their silent authority leaving no room for hesitation.

The group was funnelled out of the signing room and into a vast chamber of stairs. The sight made Hana pause mid-step.

Staircases climbed in every direction, painted in bold, disorienting colours of pink, green, and blue. They intersected and overlapped in impossible angles, like a child's drawing come alive or an Escher painting brought into three dimensions. Corridors led nowhere. Doors hung open on walls where no floor existed. Players ahead of her wound through the labyrinth in single-file lines, their bodies swallowed by the geometry as the circle guards directed traffic.

Eventually, Hana reached a small checkpoint where cameras were set up. Each player was told to stand, look directly into the lens, and wait. She stepped forward when it was her turn, the harsh light from the monitor glowing against her face.

"Look into the camera." The disembodied woman's voice returned.

Hana obeyed, her expression still, almost guarded. Then, a round yellow smiley face blinked onto the monitor.

"Smile."

The command made her jaw tighten. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the corner of her lips into a soft, practiced smile—one that never reached her eyes. The shutter snapped, capturing her likeness in an instant.

She stepped aside, scanning the room while she waited for the rest to finish. The colors pressed in on her again, the clashing pink walls and green corridors giving everything a surreal, dollhouse quality. When the last photo was taken, the guards moved them on. The players were herded deeper into the maze of staircases, feet thudding against the painted steps. Hana couldn't help but look around in awe, though unease settled in her stomach the longer she stared at the warped architecture.

"Hey."

The voice drew her attention back. She turned to see Player 067 walking just behind her. The young woman's face was serious, though there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

Hana gave her a small smile. "Hello."

067 gave a curt nod, then looked forward again. Neither of them spoke more as they continued walking side by side, their footsteps echoing faintly up the stairs.

Finally, they reached a set of massive double doors. When they were pushed open, bright sunlight spilled through, momentarily blinding Hana as she stepped outside.

Her eyes adjusted, and the sight before her rooted her in place.

A sprawling playground stretched out across a wide, open field. The ground was covered in fine, golden sand that glowed under the light, and in the distance loomed an enormous mechanical doll. Its oversized head and lifeless eyes scanned the area like a watchtower. A painted horizon stretched across the walls surrounding the space—blue skies and rolling hills frozen in place, a mockery of freedom.

Hana's throat went dry. This was no playground. It was a stage.

The first game was about to begin.

The field was unnervingly quiet, sunlight pooling across the painted walls where the rolling hills and blue skies stretched endlessly. It was all too perfect—too fake. Hana kept her eyes moving, cataloguing the mechanical doll standing ahead, its oversized head looming like some twisted guardian, two circle-masked guards stationed on either side of it.

Beside her, Player 067's voice broke the silence.
"Do you know what we are doing?"

Hana shook her head slowly. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice hushed but steady. "But I think we'll find out soon."

067 gave a faint nod before both women stilled, their attention pulled upward as the PA system crackled to life.

"Attention, all players. After you enter the game hall... please stand behind the white line drawn on the field and await further instructions."

Hana felt the weight of hundreds of feet shifting around her as the players shuffled forward. The line of white paint stretched across the golden sand like a silent boundary, one no one dared to cross just yet.

"Once again, will all players please stand behind the white line and await further instructions."

They obeyed. Low murmurs rippled across the crowd, nervous laughter mingling with forced bravado. Hana's gaze lingered on the doll, on its wide, painted eyes and frozen smile. Something in her stomach twisted.

"Damn," a voice broke the tension—Player 250, loud and careless. "That thing's got a freaking huge head."

Player 324 snorted, the kind of laugh born more from fear than humour.

Then the PA spoke again, the words sharp and cold:

"Here is the first game. You will be playing Red Light, Green Light."

The doll turned slowly, pivoting at its waist until its back faced the players. One massive arm lifted against the painted tree beside it, as though shielding its eyes.

"You are allowed to move forward when 'it' shouts out, 'Green Light.' Stop when 'it' says, 'Red Light.' If your movement is detected afterward... you will be eliminated."

The word echoed inside Hana's chest. Eliminated.

118 leaned toward her, brow furrowed. "Red Light, Green Light?" he asked, almost in disbelief. "Like... the game we played as kids?"

Before Hana could answer, the PA interrupted, repeating the rules in the same detached tone. Hana exhaled and muttered under her breath, just loud enough for 118 to hear, "That's what she said."

Some players chuckled nervously. Others shifted on their feet. But the laughter was brittle, paper-thin.

"Those players who cross the finish line without being eliminated within the five-minute playtime will pass this round. With that... let the game begin."

A digital timer on the wall flickered to life, beginning its merciless countdown.

"Green Light."

The doll's voice was childlike, high, and sweet. Players surged forward, their shoes scraping the sand. Hana moved carefully, her eyes on the ground, until—

"Red Light."

Everybody froze, breaths held like fragile glass. Hana stiffened, her muscles screaming for release. A man just ahead of her wobbled on his heels, arms pinwheeling.

"Player 324. Eliminated."

The voice had barely finished when the sound cracked through the air. A gunshot.

Hana's heart lurched violently against her ribs. 324 collapsed in a heap, blood staining the sand.

Far above, in one of the squared recesses built into the walls, Joon-Seok lowered his eye to the scope of his rifle. He exhaled, steady, his finger still warm on the trigger. His gaze swept the crowd, methodical, until it snagged—familiar, sharp—on her.

Hana.

Her body was rigid, frozen in perfect stillness. His breath caught, and against all reason, words slipped from him in a whisper no one else could hear.
"Don't move, Hana."

The doll turned again.

"Green Light."

Movement surged forward. Controlled. Careful. Fear thick in the air.

"Red Light."

The mechanical head snapped back, its lifeless eyes sweeping the field. Silence again. Until—

250 broke. He bolted backward, panic written across his face. The shot rang out clean, dropping him mid-stride. His blood sprayed across Player 306, who stared down at her stained clothes before she screamed.

The sound shattered the fragile order. Chaos erupted. Players stumbled, shrieked, ran for safety that didn't exist. The snipers opened fire in unison, bullets tearing through the crowd.

Joon-Seok's finger pulled, shot after shot, but his scope never left Hana. He tracked every panicked movement around her, firing at anyone who stumbled too close, anyone who might collide with her and break her stillness.

Through the chaos, Hana's eyes screwed shut. She forced herself into stillness, every nerve screaming to run.

"Don't move, love," Joon-Seok murmured under his breath as his rifle cracked again and again. "Don't move."

And through the storm of gunfire, she didn't.

The world seemed to fall into silence after the storm of screams and gunfire. Smoke still hung in the air, the metallic scent of blood thick on Hana's tongue. Her lungs burned as she forced herself to steady her breathing, fighting the tremor in her chest. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Not far away, a player clawed desperately at the dirt, dragging himself forward on shaking elbows. A single crack split the air, and his body went limp, face buried in the sand. Hana flinched but didn't dare move.

The PA crackled again.

"I will now repeat the rules. You are allowed to move forward when 'it' shouts out, 'Green Light.' Stop when 'it' shouts, 'Red Light.' If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated. I will repeat the rules again."

But the words melted into nothing for Hana. Her ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. The world was reduced to that sound and the thundering of her heart.

"With that, let the game resume."

The doll began to turn, its joints creaking.

Hana's eyes darted across the field—and froze. Gi-Hun lay pinned beneath a corpse, his face pale, his chest heaving as he struggled to push the weight off.

"Green Light."

No one moved. Fear rooted them in place. No one except Player 001, who shuffled forward with an almost childlike smile, as if the chaos meant nothing to him.

Hana swallowed hard and forced herself to move. She crouched low, reached for Gi-Hun, and tugged at the blood-soaked body crushing him.

"Red Light."

She froze mid-motion, her breath caught in her throat. The doll's lifeless gaze swept the field.

"Green Light."

Hana yanked harder, heaving the body off Gi-Hun's chest. The old man inched ahead, still smiling.

"Red Light."

Stillness again. Hana's muscles screamed. Her heart hammered so loudly she feared the doll would hear it.

The game rolled on, the rhythm merciless. Green Light. Red Light. Each round claimed more lives. Each shot echoed like a hammer striking steel. From above, Joon-Seok followed her through his scope, every nerve focused on the thin figure with number 455 on her chest. Whenever someone stumbled too close, he adjusted, firing with deadly precision. His heart wasn't steady like his hands—no, it twisted and throbbed every time she moved.

"We've got to move," Hana whispered, crouched low, hair curtaining her face as she spoke to Gi-Hun. Her voice shook, but her resolve didn't. "You'll die if you stay on the ground. If we don't cross the line, who knows what they'll do to us?"

The doll sang again—"Green Light."

Hana helped Gi-Hun to his feet, guiding him forward. Fear drove her to strategy. She slipped behind a taller man, using his frame as a shield.

"Red Light."

The man in front stiffened. Behind them, two screams were cut short by gunfire. Hana forced her gaze forward, blinking sweat from her lashes. The timer ticked above the field: 02:12.

"Green Light."

Her legs carried her faster now, her steps precise, measured.

"Red Light."

Her body locked in place, though her balance faltered. She could hear the shots rain again. The smell of iron was thicker now.

"Green Light."

She surged forward, teeth gritted. Then—her foot caught. She nearly toppled.

She looked down in horror. A man, bleeding out on the sand, clutched her ankle with trembling fingers. His eyes were wide, wet with tears.
"Help," he whimpered. "Please... I don't wanna die."

"Red Light."

Hana froze, breath caught between her teeth. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

High above, Joon-Seok's jaw clenched. Through his scope, he saw the hand on her ankle, the plea in the man's eyes. His finger didn't hesitate. One shot. The man went limp, blood pooling beneath him.

"Green Light."

Hana staggered forward, free. She bit down hard, refusing to think, refusing to feel.

The doll's head twisted again and again, the song of death ringing through the speakers. Fly Me to the Moon played cheerfully overhead, a cruel contrast to the field of bodies.

"Green Light."

A hand caught hers. She turned. It was Player 067, her dark eyes fierce but focused. Together, they pushed forward, their strides syncing.

The game blurred into flashes: Hana's lungs tearing for air, the blur of players collapsing under gunfire, the tug of 067's grip keeping her moving.

The final moments came in a rush.

"Green Light."

They ran. Together.

The doll's head began to turn—"Red Light"—but Hana and 067 leapt, bodies colliding with the dirt past the white line. Safe. The world didn't stop. Behind them, other players hurled themselves over the line in a desperate scramble. The timer blinked down: 00:03... 00:02...

And then the doll faced forward.

Gunfire erupted.

Those who hadn't crossed in time were mowed down where they stood, their bodies falling in waves. Hana collapsed onto her hands and knees, panting. Sweat streaked her face, mingling with dust. She turned, just in time to see the last player fall.

The game was over.

And high above, through his scope, Joon-Seok exhaled a long, shuddering breath. Relief. She was still alive.

Hana stared ahead at the field of bodies, her chest heaving, but no one dared to speak. The silence pressed down on them—broken only by ragged breaths—until a deep grinding noise rumbled above. Heads snapped upward. The massive mechanical ceiling began to slide shut, sealing off the last glimpse of blue sky. Hana dragged her hand across her cheek; when she looked at her fingertips, they were smeared with blood. Her gaze hardened, narrowing as the last sliver of light disappeared.

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By: SilverMist707

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