Each player in every pair was given a role.
The first had to pose a single question to their partner.
The rules for the question:
1. It must be personal.
2. It must be answered with yes or no.
3. It must contain a number.
Once written, the player had to take two further steps:
Record the question in the device before him.
Choose one approach before answering his partner:
(1) Assume the partner will answer truthfully and write the answer he expects honestly.
(2) Assume the partner will lie and write the false answer he believes the lie will take.
Then came the partner's turn:
Read the question.
Choose one approach:
(1) To answer in truth.
(2) To answer in deceit.
Then write the answer according to that choice.
The conditions of victory:
A player won if his predicted answer (based on the choice he made) matched his partner's actual response with at least eighty percent accuracy.
Each player was allowed only one question and one answer.
An answer could be altered once before it was locked.
Additional notes:
Both could win. Both could lose. Or only one could succeed.
If one triumphed while the other failed, the victor had to assign a number to the loser—a number to be used in the next stage.
The three groups would be separated, never seeing anyone beyond their six companions.
"Is everything clear?"
A strange palm settled in the hall. Faces were pale, as though their souls had been drawn out. No one understood what was unfolding, yet everyone felt that something was terribly wrong. Eyes searched, breath stilled, and silence pressed like stone.
Then Lia raised her hand—hesitant, trembling as though she fought a storm within simply to form a word. The officer turned toward her with a faint, bloodless smile, voice cold as glass:
"Is there something unclear? You may ask."
But Lia was not thinking like the others. Her eyes shone with unease, her voice scarcely more than a whisper:
"What happens to the loser? Are they merely dismissed… or is there something else?"
Her words froze the air. Every head turned. Some thought her naive, others believed her afraid of defeat. None could fathom what her mind was unraveling.
Lia's thoughts whirled like gears in a great, merciless engine.
They had been forbidden from reading the contract.
They had signed blindly.
Two had been cast out for nothing more than protest.
She had heard a sound—was it a gasp? The moment the doors shut.
The strange precision, the unnatural silence…
Was this truly a talent company? Or something else entirely?
The officer smiled again, this time with a curl of hidden mockery.
"And what do you suppose? That would keep the losers here. What purpose would that serve?"
It was not an answer, but a trap—an invitation to reveal herself, to lay bare her thoughts before his scrutiny. In that instant, Lia understood: the true game had not yet begun. Everything so far had been a brittle shell, covering a vast ocean of hidden peril.
The officer, once so composed, now betrayed the faint lines of strain. His voice still carried command, but behind it weighed a heavy burden upon all:
"Well then. My part here is finished. That is all I can offer for now. I trust the idea is clear. Wait a while; another colleague will arrive to divide you into groups and direct you to your rooms, where the rest shall be explained. Farewell."
He gave a short laugh—not spontaneous, but threaded with disquieting ambiguity—then left, closing the door on a silence so thick it seemed the world itself had paused.
Lia didn't move. Questions clawed at her mind, each one darker than the last.
Hadn't they been told to remain silent? Why were they suddenly permitted to speak? Why had the officer's final smile seemed… relieved? Was silence his last shield?
The contract. That heavy, unread document cloaked in mystery. Why the secrecy? Why the silence? Her mind carved deeper tunnels into the dark, searching for a shard of light.
Despair began its slow creep. This was no trial of talent, or it was a trial of trust, a trial of truth itself. Who would tell it? Who would lie? And how could they tell the difference? The air itself grew fogged with doubt.
Half an hour later, a new officer entered. His presence was different, calmer, precise, as though he had come to set the scattered pieces in order. His voice was smooth, deliberate:
"I am Rami. I will now guide you. The computer will divide you into three groups. Follow me to the chambers where you will face your decisive hours."
They followed in silence, bodies moving while minds spiraled in anxious circles. Lia watched everything, every motion, every breath.
They entered a vast room of dim light, shadows thick upon its walls. Sixty chairs stood spaced five meters apart, and at the far end, a great smart-screen glowed like a window into their unknown fate.
Rami directed their gaze. The names appeared. Lia felt her heart constrict when she saw her own pair with another talented, fierce, but not the partner she would have chosen.
"Group One, to the second floor. Group Two, to the third. Group Three, to the fourth. Reception will assign your rooms."
They dispersed, each shadowed by unanswered questions. The game was taking shape, darker and deeper than any of them had imagined.
Lia sat upon the edge of her bed by the window, eyes heavy with silence. That signature of hers no longer felt like ink on paper; it was a reproach; a wound carved into her very soul.
Her thoughts flowed like glacial rivers, burdened with questions of her path, her price, the fate awaiting the others.
Then, music broke the silence.
A female voice, pure and bright, sang in soaring soprano. It pierced the gloom like a sudden flame, a fragile comfort weaving through their prison.
The song ended abruptly. Lia turned to see the singer smiling with brave warmth.
"We are a team now. Why not get to know each other? It might help us through this foolish game."
Lia nodded. For the first time since the nightmare began, she felt a pulse of hope.
Sara—the singer and musician—spoke simply, her words carrying innocence wrapped in resolve.
Lia replied with quiet composure: "I am Lia. I play chess and go. And… I act."
In the other rooms, voices too began to rise—fragile, tentative, yet breaking the silence.
In one chamber, Luay spoke with restless energy, eagerness, and social, thriving on connection. Beside him sat Tala, gentle and soft-spoken, weaving wool, skilled in crocheting and design.
Elsewhere, Hazem boasted of his prowess in racing cars and riding motorcycles—confident, fiery, quick to anger. Beside him, Laith, a gifted programmer, expert in ethical hacking—silent, nocturnal, a watcher more than a speaker.
These were the souls of the second floor.
And the game, at last, was beginning to reveal the faces of its players—one by one.