"Go, go," Thalia urged, bouncing a little in her seat with childlike glee.
With a collective sigh of the doomed, Alessandro, Elijah, and Samira exchanged looks, then began the rock-paper-scissors death match of doom. It went by in a blur of hand gestures and mutual dread—until, of course, Elijah won.
He stared at his victorious hand like it had personally betrayed him. "Ain't no way, mate. I am not holding Baby Shark's hand."
Alessandro and Samira burst into chaotic laughter, while Rafael looked equally offended by the prospect.
"Oh, come on, Snakebite," Thalia pouted, her voice dipping into a gentle whine that made Elijah's brain short-circuit. Then she fluttered those lashes—those goddamn lashes—and he could feel his resolve bleeding out of him. "It was a dare, wasn't it? You'll do it properly, right Baby Shark?" she asked, turning her eyes to Rafael.
Rafael, who had the audacity to blush.
It was mutual hatred now, no doubt about it. Elijah and Rafael glared at each other like two gladiators about to enter the arena, silently agreeing they both hated this with a fiery, burning passion. Then Thalia made another soft noise and pouted again.
Elijah exhaled slowly, dragging his gaze back to her. She was still pouting. Of course she was. He looked at Rafael one last time, then extended a hand reluctantly.
"Just thirty seconds," he muttered through gritted teeth.
"Ugh, anything for Aphrodite," Rafael groaned, as if he were about to walk barefoot over broken glass—and then, the bastard intertwined their fingers.
Elijah recoiled slightly. "Not that much, Baby Shark," he growled, trying to pull his hand free. "Just hold it normal. Don't make it fucking weird."
"What?" Rafael smirked. "You flustered, Snakebite?"
"You're disgusting," Elijah shot back without hesitation.
"Ooh, I feel some tension," Samira sing-songed, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
They both whipped their heads around and glared at her in perfect synchronization. "Shut up, Cleopatra."
Samira only grinned and turned to Thalia with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Go on, Amīrah, spin the bottle again."
Thalia, ever the good sport, obliged and gave the bottle a lazy spin. It whirled, wobbled, and—landed on her again.
"Oh, come on," she groaned, throwing her head back. "It's bloody cursed."
Ren leaned closer, grinning like a cat who'd just licked cream. "Truth or dare?" he asked in a voice like silk.
Thalia gave him a side-eye pout. "Truth," she sighed, resigned.
Ren tapped his fingers lightly on the floor before asking, "What animal do you see yourself as?"
Thalia tilted her head in thought, fingers tapping her chin. "A swan," she said finally. "I like swans."
"I see it," came a soft giggle from beside her—Anastasia. "You're as graceful as one."
Thalia gave her a small, appreciative smile, touched despite herself. "You think?"
"Without a doubt," Anastasia winked. "Come on, let me spin it this time."
"All yours, Snow White," Thalia said with a mock-salute, gesturing at the bottle like she were passing over a ceremonial blade. Then she turned her head and gave a charming look to Elijah and Rafael. "And the thirty seconds are up, Baby Shark and Snakebite."
"Thank fuck," Elijah muttered, yanking his hand away from Rafael's as though it had burned him, and aggressively cleaning it in his jacket as if to get rid of Rafael's germs.
Anastasia leaned in, spun the bottle with a flourish, and this time it landed on herself to answer, and Thalia to ask.
"Truth or dare?" Thalia grinned.
"Truth," Anastasia returned the smile, just as bright.
"What do you do for a living, Snow White?"
"I'm a ballerina," she said, cheeks dusted with pink. "Have been since I was three. My grandmother used to be a ballet teacher. She passed away when I was ten, but the love for ballet stayed with me. I later passed it down to my younger sisters." Her eyes shone with something tender, nostalgic. "So, it's been twenty-six years. I'm twenty-nine now."
"Can you do the Black Swan?" Thalia asked, eyes shining like she was witnessing a legend brought to life.
"I can," Anastasia said proudly, her smile blooming like a stage light. "I got the part when I was nineteen. If they hadn't confiscated our phones during the pre-entry assessment, I'd show you. I still have the recording saved somewhere in a cloud. I worked so hard for that part—obsessed over it, honestly. Both the role and the movie. It consumed me in the best way."
Thalia clapped with unfiltered joy. "Heavens, that used to be one of my favorite films. Hands down Natalie Portman's best performance. I saw it when I was a kid, before the orphanage. It sort of imprinted on me. Re-watched it as a teen and loved it even more the second time."
"Exactly!" Anastasia's voice practically sparkled. "It was more than just a performance—it was a transformation. A descent, a possession. That's what I wanted to capture, you know? The madness, the grace. That feeling of being watched even when you're alone."
Thalia nodded, moved in that intimate way one gets when someone understands their childhood ghosts. There was a kind of reverence in her gaze now, not just admiration. Recognition. "You have the bone structure for it, too. You could be her," she whispered.
Anastasia laughed softly, touched by the compliment. But then, as if remembering the world they were in, her smile dimmed just slightly. "Why don't we pass that question down the line?" she suggested, brightening again. "Could be a way to get to know everyone better before we're—well—thrown against one another. You know, before everything gets real."
She delivered it with perfect casualness, but the Owl clocked it instantly. That wasn't just friendliness. That was strategy, neatly gift-wrapped in social grace. A disarming little trick to get everyone talking—to gather information under the guise of connection. The Owl didn't mind. They respected it. Hell, they were planning the same thing. It was smart. Soft power always made the first incision.
"I'm Anastasia Vetrov," she said with a grin, already easing into the role of social anchor. "Nastya for short. From Moscow, Russia. And the rest... well, you've seen some of it already."
The Owl's head tilted slightly. So _that_ was the story she'd chosen. Every person here had one—a background polished just enough to pass for truth. But more importantly, it needed to feel true. The way it landed on the ear. The way it matched their body language. No one in this place could afford to slip. Not once.
"I like that, Snow White," Thalia said, practically glowing. "I'll go next, even though you probably know half of it already."
She stood a little straighter, but her tone stayed airy. "I'm Thalia Drakos. I'm eighteen. From a village called Aigani in Greece—it's tiny, nothing special. I just finished high school before… well, before the billionaire's people scouted me for the Trials. If I make it out of this mess alive, I'm torn between becoming a historian or an architect. Something that builds or preserves. I'm not sure yet."
Her voice held a quiet wistfulness—one the Owl wasn't used to hearing anymore. There was still innocence in it. Hope, even. Genuine honesty. It was like staring at a flame you knew the wind would snuff out. Beautiful, but temporary.
"I'll go," said the boy beside her. Ren. The soft one.
"I'm Takahashi Ren—Ren Takahashi, if you go Western with it. I'm twenty-one. From Osaka, Japan. I'm currently in nursing school," he said, smiling with open sincerity. "I want to be a nurse. Like my mom."
The Owl studied him. No hesitations. No cracks. Just honesty. He wasn't faking it—wasn't acting. That only made it worse. Kids like Ren didn't belong here. They weren't made for death games. They were made for kind hands and hospitals and soft Sunday mornings.
The Owl's jaw clenched.
Lucien Vallois De Sévigné. That name alone made their stomach twist. The sadist behind this entire production. Targeting the desperate. The hopeful. Picking his cast not for skill, but for suffering. For contrast. The Owl's blood boiled beneath their still expression, but they forced it down. Focus. Rage would be useful later. Not now.
"I'm next," the Canadian next to Thalia spoke.