The town's radio echoed relentlessly through every alley and corner, its static voice barking out orders like a commander.
"Time is money, villagers. Please make sure your hygiene is up to standard..."
"Room inspections will be conducted during working hours..."
"Maintaining the cleanliness of Verne is the responsibility of every citizen..."
Lucas walked slowly through the main path back to his assigned house. His eyes, however, were focused upward. He deliberately scanned the rooftops and telephone poles. As he expected, discreet surveillance cameras peered out from hidden nooks, their cold lenses silently recording every move.
"A town that's constantly monitored, like a giant open-air prison," Lucas muttered as he lowered his gaze.
He stopped in front of his residence. The plaque next to the door didn't list an address but instead displayed the occupant's name:
"/B...."
Suddenly, a loud gush of water came from the adjacent yard. Curious, Lucas turned his head.
There, on his hands and knees, a neighbor was frantically scrubbing a small section of tile near the doorway. Beads of sweat poured from his face as he whispered in a frantic, almost broken tone:
"If you can't wipe it clean... how can you not wipe it clean..."
He scrubbed harder, more desperately. Lucas narrowed his eyes. A tiny black spot marked the tile—barely visible, yet treated like a stain on one's soul.
The man's name was never shared, but Lucas could sense something unhinged in him. He looked like a man on the verge of collapse, tormented by expectations no one else could see.
Lucas sighed and stepped inside his own home, quickly checking the cleanliness of every surface.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., the town bell rang out from the center plaza.
"The day's work is about to begin. For the prosperity of Verne, every citizen must dedicate themselves to labor!"
The contrast between the radio's enthusiastic voice and the villagers' expressions was jarring. The streets were filled with dull, lifeless figures trudging along like puppets with their strings barely intact.
They moved with mechanical obedience, heading toward their designated workplaces.
At a registration table in front of the administrative office, a staff member called names aloud:
"Daniel, garment factory."
"Ellie, food production."
"Jason, distribution center."
"Lucas, farmland."
Each name was followed by the handout of a work assignment slip. Lucas accepted his and grabbed a hoe from a tool stand before joining others assigned to agricultural duty.
The farmlands surrounded Verne like a halo of suffering. As the workers arrived, a man in a neat shirt and gelled-back hair stood on a dirt ridge. He greeted them with a smile too wide, too rehearsed.
This was Rex, the supervisor.
"Only hard work makes us rich! Each of you represents Verne's glorious spirit. A brand new day begins!"
Rex held a clipboard full of assignment sheets and evaluation forms. He clapped his hands together.
"Do your best! Today's enthusiasm determines tomorrow's rewards!"
With that, the workers bent over their plots. The air filled with the rhythmic scraping of metal against soil.
To an outsider, the scene might look like a harmonious countryside community. But to Lucas, it was clear: this was coordinated enslavement masked by slogans of unity.
Even so, Lucas knew better than to stand out for the wrong reasons. He worked faster than the others, even outpacing those who had lived here for years. In just thirty minutes, he had plowed his entire assigned plot.
He straightened up and looked at the neatly turned soil, pride swelling in his chest.
"If this whole simulation just required me to do my tasks and blend in, I might just survive this," Lucas thought.
Meanwhile, the live broadcast of the thriller competition finals cycled between the nineteen contestants still active.
Most were scattered throughout Verne, trying to gather intel, question NPCs, or find patterns in the system. Some barely hid their suspicion. Others maintained a cautious distance from the villagers.
But when the broadcast switched to Lucas, the feed showed him smiling down at his plowed land.
"Wow, wow!" cried the clown-faced host from the main stage.
"Would you look at that! Contestant Lucas has finished his task first! What a diligent young man!"
The audience laughed as the clown doubled over in mock hysteria.
"He's so into his job, he's forgotten this is a horror game!"
Even through the mask, you could tell the clown was sneering. Still, the segment drew laughter from the crowd.
"Let's see what our hardworking Lucas does next!"
Lucas, unaware of the sarcasm, walked over to Rex and submitted his completed assignment. Rex praised him with an unsettling smile:
"Excellent work ethic, Lucas. Just the spirit Verne needs!"
Lucas nodded, feigning modesty. But then, a disturbance broke out in the field.
"Hey? What's that? Looks like a good show!" the clown host said, eyes lighting up. "Let's see how Lucas reacts to a surprise event!"
Two villagers were yelling near the field's edge. Then, one shoved the other. Shouts escalated. Fists flew. The fight exploded.
Everyone else stopped working and began gathering. No one intervened. No one called for help.
"Stop fighting!" Rex shouted, banging his clipboard. He ran over to break it up.
Lucas didn't move. He watched.
One of the men — muscular, with wild eyes — shoved the other to the ground. He began beating the man senseless, fists rising and falling like a hammer on meat.
Rex tried to intervene again. "Everyone in Verne must remain united! This behavior is unacceptable!"
But the enraged villager didn't hear him. He looked around, picked up a hoe from the soil, and raised it high. Then he struck. Again. And again.
Blood splattered. Bones crunched.
The bystanders whispered and gossiped as though watching a soap opera, not a murder.
Rex lunged forward.
"Enough! I said ENOUGH!"
The villager, now fully unhinged, turned and swung.
The sharp edge of the hoe tore into Rex's back, sending him crashing to the ground. The man leapt on the body and kept hitting.
"I can't take this place anymore! You're all insane!"
Lucas didn't flinch. He simply looked around.
"Baitou is dead. This worksheet might be the only proof I did my job..."
He folded the paper neatly and slid it into his shirt pocket.
"Better not lose it."
Back on the main stage, the clown host was frozen mid-sentence.
"Player Lucas... what... is he doing?!"
Even through the paint and mask, the host's disbelief was obvious.
The camera zoomed in on Lucas, who calmly stood by while a supervisor was murdered.
He wasn't frightened.
He wasn't excited.
He was calculating.
And the audience watching from the safety of their homes suddenly felt a chill creep up their spines.
Was Lucas the most terrifying player of them all?
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