Miles stepped cautiously into the next room, gun drawn, eyes scanning every corner. The flickering lights above him did nothing to ease the oppressive atmosphere in the room. There was an odd stillness that hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as if the room itself were waiting for something—waiting for him to make a move, to speak.
No countdown. No immediate threat. Just a cold, clinical silence.
But that didn't mean he was safe. He knew better than to trust the calm. The rules could change at any moment.
A cold, metallic voice boomed from the ceiling, filling the space around him. "RULE #8: TELL THE TRUTH, OR PAY THE PRICE."
Miles' brow furrowed. He'd heard these rules before. Rules that changed on a whim, each more convoluted than the last. But the cryptic nature of this one—what truth? His mind raced as he turned slowly in the center of the room, trying to make sense of it.
Then, a live feed flickered to life on the wall in front of him.
It was the girl from the screen earlier—the one he'd freed from the restraints in the previous room.
Her eyes were wide, terrified. She had been bound once more, but this time, her restraints weren't the usual kind. No, these were far more intricate, woven with a thin metallic thread that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Her body trembled, her lips parted as though she were trying to speak, but a gag filled her mouth, muffling any sound.
The voice returned, now softer, more sinister. "Her name is unimportant for now, Detective. She's merely another piece to move on the board."
Miles stared at the screen, his pulse quickening. "What have you done to her?" he growled, his fingers tightening around the grip of his gun.
"Her fate is in your hands," the voice mocked. "Tell the truth, Detective. Speak your mind. Or she'll pay the price."
Miles' heart pounded. What truth? What did they expect him to confess?
The girl in the video flinched as a new timer appeared beside her, ticking down. 02:00. Her hands twisted desperately in the restraints. The clock moved relentlessly forward, like a countdown to her demise.
"Tell the truth, Detective. It's a simple choice," the voice continued. "Or lose her. The truth will set you free, but it may also destroy you."
The screen flickered again, this time showing a brief flash of the girl's face, just before she turned away from the camera. Her eyes locked onto the feed, and Miles could see the desperation in them. She knew she was being watched. But there was something else—something he hadn't noticed before.
Something hidden in her expression that suggested she wasn't entirely helpless.
Miles took a deep breath, his mind racing. "The truth," he murmured to himself, barely above a whisper. "What do you want me to say?"
Then, the voice returned, this time with a more urgent tone. "No more games. The clock is ticking."
The timer hit 01:00.
A strange hum filled the air, the room's lights flickering once more. Miles clenched his jaw, his eyes darting from the screen to the room around him.
"Tell the truth."
It was a command, but also a challenge. What truth did he have to confess? He wasn't sure what the game wanted from him, but it didn't matter. Time was running out.
His gaze returned to the girl on the screen. She was shaking now, fear etched into every inch of her face. He could see her mouth moving, though the words were lost to the gag. "I don't even know your name."
His voice cracked, a flicker of realization setting in. He hadn't asked. He hadn't bothered to ask. She was just a victim—another cog in the machine.
She was just another face in the endless string of horrors he'd encountered in this place.
"I don't know your name," he repeated, more quietly this time. "But I'm not leaving you behind."
Her eyes met his again, and for a fleeting second, a spark of something passed between them—recognition, perhaps? Or just the shared understanding of survival?
The voice came again, sharper this time. "A lie. One more lie, Detective, and it will cost her dearly."
Miles cursed under his breath.
Then, as the seconds ticked away, an answer came to him. It was raw, honest, and devastatingly simple.
"My name is Miles Rennick."
The timer paused for a brief moment, its digital numbers frozen in place.
The voice remained silent. For the first time, the room was quiet.
But then, the timer resumed. The numbers continued to fall. 00:59... 00:58...
And then, another voice. A real one. Not mechanical.
The girl's voice.
"Kayla."
Her voice was barely a whisper, strained by the gag. But Miles heard it. Her name.
Kayla.
For the first time since he had entered this hell, Miles felt a strange kind of relief—barely perceptible, but real. He hadn't been entirely wrong.
He wasn't the only one left fighting.
The timer hit 00:00.
A loud, mechanical sound filled the room, and the restraints on the girl's body released, one by one.
Kayla slumped forward, gasping for air as she pulled the gag from her mouth.
Miles rushed forward, his gun still raised, but more out of habit than necessity.
She looked up at him, eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and fear.
"Why did you help me?" she asked, her voice raspy from the gag.
Miles couldn't answer immediately. There were too many questions he didn't have answers to.
But for the first time since entering this nightmarish game, he knew something for sure—they were still alive.
For now.