Morning came—the long-awaited day of the game's beginning.
The contestants of the first group awoke to the shriek of an alarm, a sound that split the silence like lightning. A mechanical voice followed, flat yet grating:
"Contestants of Group One, report to the Name Distribution Chamber within the next hour."
The message repeated itself. Again. And again. Six times in total—each repetition a hammer, a form of psychological pressure. Anxiety crept back into their faces, as though none of them had slept at all, as though the night had been nothing more than a pause in the true tension that awaited them.
They hurried into the chamber, steps heavy with caution, until all were gathered. Then Rami entered, locking the door behind him. He scanned their faces briefly before saying, in his usual cold manner:
"Welcome to the first day of the game."
His tone hardened.
"We will waste no time."
He pressed a panel on the great smart-screen. Three names appeared—one from each pair.
"These are the players numbered 1. Their partners are, by default, 2."
Lia glanced up. Her partner, Sara, had been chosen as 1, alongside Hazem and Luay. Lia herself would wait. She was player 2.
Rami produced a large case and withdrew three laptops, setting one before each selected player.
"You know the rules. Press the power button, and the game will begin."
He paused, his expression sharpening.
"But there is a new rule: each player has one minute only to write the question."
A collective gasp. One minute? How?
Rami counted. "One… two… three. Begin."
Heartbeats raced. Sweat glistened. One minute—no time for careful thought, no space for review.
Sara began quickly, hands trembling but steady enough to write. Laith, ever calm, analyzed, thought, wrote. Luay scribbled with frantic energy, as though racing the clock itself.
Moments later, the minute was gone.
"Time," Rami declared.
"Now, players number 2."
Lia, Hazem, and Tala took their seats.
Rami's voice struck again:
"One… two… three. Begin."
Lia opened her screen. Her eyes widened. Then a faint smile crept upon her lips.
Sara had written: "Do you love chess?"
No number. No number at all.
Had Sara forgotten? Or was it deliberate? Lia could not know.
Tala, on her side, read Luay's question: "Have you bought five cars in a single month?"
Her breath quickened. Her face flushed. Truth? Or lie? Which choice was safer?
Pressed by time, she answered at last:
"1: No, I have not."
Then she wrote her own question: "Have you ever held your breath underwater for 900 seconds?"
Lia, however, left Sara's question unanswered.
On the other side, Laith had posed to Hazem: "Are you a programmer—or three programmers?"
Hazem chuckled to himself. Ridiculous. A trick.
His reply: "2: I am five programmers."
Then he wrote his own: "Can you drive four cars at once?" and predicted the answer would be "No."
The third round began. Luay, Laith, and Sara returned to answer.
Luay: "1: No, I did not buy five cars."
Then, to Tala: "2: Yes, I held my breath 900 seconds."
Hazem: "1: No, I cannot drive four cars." Then, to Laith's riddle: "2: He is not three programmers."
But Sara… sat frozen before her screen. Empty. No question.
Had she failed to save it? Or have I never written it at all? Her veins chilled.
Rami rose.
"The round is complete. Results:"
Lia and Sara: Winner—Lia. Loser—Sara.
Tala and Luay: Winners—both.
Laith and Hazem: Winner—Hazem. Loser—Laith.
And still the greater question lingered: was this truly a game? Or an experiment of the soul, a mirror of humanity's battle between truth and deceit, freedom, and restraint?
The losers sat in stunned silence. Sara stared at the void on her screen, as though waiting for salvation to appear in blank lines. Jackson scowled, muttering: "This is absurd… I did nothing wrong." Defeat weighed on them like stone, cold and merciless.
A guard opened the door. He said nothing. But his look was commanding enough. The losers rose, exchanged hollow glances, and left—slow, silent, like prisoners walking toward an unseen sentence. There was no return.
The victors remained. Hazem smirked. "Round one's mine. Told you—I don't lose.
"First round and we passed! Looks like we are on the right track!"
Tala clapped lightly, smiling with fragile hope.
Luay grinned, confident: "I don't lose easily."
But Lia… sat still, eyes lowered, a faded smile upon her lips. A wilted flower. She felt no triumph—only unease. What does it mean to win here? And if I lose… what will happen? What about Sara?
Her thoughts were shattered by Rami's voice. He clapped twice, brisk, cold:
"That is enough for today. Return to your rooms. Tomorrow—Hazem and Lia. Luay and Tala. Prepare yourselves."
He smiled—empty, mechanical. "Have a good day."
The next dawn brought no relief. The alarm's shrill song felt like the chorus of fear itself. Tala and Luay were calm, comforted by their shared success. Hazem and Lia carried the weight of troubled minds—bound not by trust, but by uncertain victory.
Rami entered, expression unchanged. "You know the rules. They will not be repeated. We begin at once."
The screen lit, the draw revealed:
Hazem—Player 1. Lia—Player 2. Tala—Player 1. Luay—Player 2.
Hazem's question: "Do you have four cats in your room?" Prediction: No.
Tala's: "Have you ever designed six dresses?" Prediction: No.
Second round. Lia read Hazem's question, replied calmly: "1: No." Then wrote her own: "Did you gaze at three stars last night?" Prediction: Yes.
Luay answered Tala's: "1: No." Then wrote: "Did you eat six meals yesterday?" and predicted No.
The round ended. Rami smiled faintly.
"Results: One winner only—Lia. The rest—losers. You may leave."
Tala, Luay, Hazem—all walked out in silence. They did not understand their failure. Lia remained alone, her heart pounding. Was this fortune? Or the beginning of her curse?
Rami returned. His steps deliberate, his face as stone.
"Proceed. You advance to the second stage. Other players will join you."
She longed to ask what fate awaited the losers—but fear locked her throat. She followed him down a long corridor to a strange iron door.
Inside sat strangers—colder, heavier with secrets. She thought: They know more. They were born here.
A man spoke, voice formal:
"You have qualified for the second stage. Wait for the new rules."
Lia sat, drowning in her thoughts. What is the purpose? Why us? What do they seek? She remembered the
contract—the chain that had bound her the moment she signed.
The door opened. A man entered—elegant, calm, eyes like knives. His voice was magnetic:
"Welcome. I am Walid. I will oversee this stage."
He paced, smiled enigmatically.
"This round is simple—on the surface. Each player will assume a role. Their partner must guess the role based only on what they see."
He raised a finger, voice sharp:
"But there are strict rules. There must be only one winner from each pair. The victor is the one who performs the role with perfect precision. Exaggeration or distortion means instant defeat."
He smiled again, thin, cruel:
"And, as before, the winner will assign a number to the loser. A number that may change everything."
Then, with a deliberate pause, he added:
"One more rule. Each player must insert one true belief—a conviction from real life—into their role. But their partner must not know it is real. If discovered, the partner gains a secret advantage. If not… that truth will be used against you in the next round."
He leaned closer, whispering with venomous charm:
"This is how we know who acts… and who reveals themselves without meaning to."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The players now understood these were not games. These were trials. Trials of survival.
Lia scanned the faces around her. They were changing—no longer curious, but edged with deceit, betrayal, darkness. For a moment, she imagined masks upon them all, and monsters waiting behind those masks.
Her gift for performance no longer felt like strength. It felt like a trap. Would she need to deceive, to wound, to become someone she despised—just to endure?
Her thoughts spun. What if not all of them are contestants? What if some were sent here with hidden roles—to sabotage, to betray? What if they were stronger, cleverer, more ruthless than I?
Only one truth crystallized within her heart: this was no game. It was a spiral of survival. And the survivor would not remain innocent.
Walid's last glance confirmed it. His smile was not farewell, but a warning. A silent promise: Now, you will see who you truly are.
From the speakers, his voice returned, mocking, laced with threat:
"Now, heroes, you will divide into duos. Ten players. Five pairs. The screen will show your names. Good luck."
Names appeared. Julia read hers aloud paired with Saed.
A shiver of revulsion struck her. He was thin, black-haired, his features impassive—but his eyes carried something sharp, sly, dangerous. Not a partner. A threat.
He did not smile. He did not greet her. Only a cold glance, a curt tone: "I am here to win. Nothing else."
Then Walid's voice again:
"To the tenth floor. Your rooms await. Rest well. Tomorrow, the new game begins."
But this game would not be like the others. No writing. No preparation. Only sudden roles—perform or fall. And this time, each player would be isolated in a separate room, forced to wrestle with solitude, with themselves, with failure.
That night, Lia did not sleep. In this place, sleep was not rest—it was weakness.