I used to believe arguments were just words.
Sharp tongues in classrooms. Broken thoughts on social media. Professors playing with logic like it was a toy.
But I was wrong.
Arguments are weapons.
Fallacies are poison.
And debate… is war.
---
The email arrived at 3:03 a.m.
Subject: Welcome to the Fallacy Game.
No sender. No digital footprint. No IP trace.
Just twelve words in the body:
> Truth is subjective. You have been chosen. First round: 72 hours.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, leaned closer to the dim screen's glow. It didn't make sense — I hadn't signed up for anything. I'd barely interacted with the debate club once this year.
Another prank? Some ARG bullshit?
I tried deleting it. It reappeared.
I tried shutting the laptop. The screen stayed on.
I unplugged the battery.
It still glowed.
> Truth is subjective. You have been chosen…
And beneath it, a flicker. A prompt. Click to Accept.
My fingers hovered over the touchpad.
Something in me whispered: Don't.
But the curiosity in me whispered louder: What if they know?
I clicked.
---
My name is Rael Veir, and I'm a statistical anomaly.
IQ 168. Eidetic memory. Socially awkward to the point of invisible.
I'm not the type who gets involved in anything. Not sports. Not clubs. Not even trouble.
But three days ago, my sister Ava was hospitalized after screaming nonsense during a live-streamed school debate.
They said it was psychosis.
I knew it was something else.
She whispered one thing to me in the hospital:
> "Don't let the Observer inside your head…"
I hadn't understood.
---
The moment I clicked "Accept",
The screen pulsed.
The air felt thinner — as if the room itself had noticed something had changed.
my phone vibrated. once, twice, then fell silent.
I checked it. A new contact. No number.
[UNKNOWN]
> Welcome to Round One.
Your opponent: Silas Kurai
Topic: "Justice is a construct designed to preserve power."
Time: 48 hours.
Judge: Observer 3-A
Then a timer appeared.
47:59:59.
Counting down.
No reply option.
No escape.
I opened my laptop again. A new folder had appeared on the desktop.
Beneath the message, a new icon blinked: Fallacy_Engine_v1.0
I opened it.
Inside: Files.
Dozens of files.
Some titled with my name. Others with terms like "Circular Reasoning: Rael Veir Bias", "Emotional Weakness Index", "Cognitive Dissonance Map."
A full breakdown of me.
Even things I hadn't told anyone.
My school performance.
My childhood trauma.
My Google search history.
A mirror. Of my mind.
Next folder: Debate strategies. Psychological dossiers. A full breakdown of my opponent.
Inside a middle one were notes about my sister — things no one should have known. Her hospital admission time. Her final debate transcript. The security footage of her breakdown.
My breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't a game.
This was surveillance.
This was war.
---
I closed the laptop and stood still, heart hammering.
My room, once quiet and safe, now felt like a theater.
Like eyes were watching from every wall.
The digital world had reached inside — and gripped my brain like a fist.
This wasn't a prank.
This was a game.
And someone — some thing — wanted me to play.
---
I remember Ava's last words. The way she gripped my arm, as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality.
> "Don't let the Observer inside your head…"
"Don't… let them rewrite you…"
I didn't understand then. I didn't know what she meant.
Now I do.
---
The rules were becoming clear.
This wasn't about being right.
It was about being convincing…
About destroying the opponent's will to believe.
I spent the first hour doing what I always do: analyze. Break it down. Think logically.
I studied Silas Kurai.
Seventeen. National youth debate prodigy. Known for psychological breakdown tactics.
I watched one of his recorded matches — a regional final. His opponent froze mid-sentence, began sobbing, and walked off the stage without finishing. The topic had been something abstract: "Morality is a human illusion."
Publicly destroyed two professors in televised panels. Known for a cold voice and colder eyes.
Rumors said he sent another student into a nervous breakdown with a single question.
Silas hadn't raised his voice once. He'd just smiled. Like he was untangling someone else's soul.
He used silence as a scalpel.
Confidence as a mask.
I wasn't facing a boy.
I was facing a machine trained to slice ideas apart.
I stood in front of my whiteboard and began writing.
"Justice is a construct designed to preserve power."
It was a classic prompt — moral philosophy 101.
I repeated the phrase aloud. Each time, it felt more real. And less so.
I scribbled every counterpoint I could think of:
Justice = balance, not hierarchy
Construct ≠ invalid
Power ≠ corruption
Objective justice through law
Subjective justice = weaponization
Then I tore it all down.
Too weak.
This wasn't an academic debate.
This wasn't school.
This was a cognitive duel.
This was a trap.
If I played by normal rules, I'd lose.
If I argued truth, I'd fail.
The rules were shifting.
I had to stop thinking like a student.
And start thinking like a killer.
He would come at me sideways — not with direct counters, but with questions designed to corrode the structure of my thoughts.
I'd have to build a trap. Not just an argument. A cage. A Abby no where out.
---
Now I had 47 hours to prepare.
No sleep. No escape. Just logic, poison, and a stage.
By dawn, I had constructed five layered arguments.
Then I tore them all down.
Too weak. Too clean. Too honest.
Silas wouldn't fall to honesty.
I'd need something dirtier.
A trap argument. A recursive paradox.
A way to make him defeat himself.
I scoured old logical fallacies: Strawman. Red herring. Slippery slope. Genetic fallacy.
But Silas was smart — he'd expect those.
I needed to craft something insidious.
Something subtle.
So I turned to the darker side of argumentation — Gaslighting. Circular rhetoric. Loaded questions. Things that didn't feel like debate.
They felt like warfare.
Hours passed. My wall became a map of lines, quotes, definitions, psychological triggers.
My eyes burned. My breath shook. My coffee went cold.
This wasn't about winning.
This was about surviving.
I wasn't just building a case.
I was designing a mental collapse.
---
At 2:59 a.m. the next night, I sat in the dark, cross-legged on the floor, heart thudding with some unfamiliar rhythm — like excitement wrapped in nausea.
And then it happened.
The mirror across the room fogged over — as if someone breathed on it.
And in the fog, letters etched themselves.
> "I know your fallacy already, Rael Veir."
> "You believe logic will save you."
In the mirror — for a second —
I saw my own eyes staring back at me…
My breath hitched.
In the reflection, I saw my face.
But it was… wrong.
Too calm. Too still.
The eyes — my eyes — weren't blinking.
They stared, unbroken.
And then, very slowly, the reflection tilted its head.
But I hadn't moved.
---
The message below it changed.
> See you at the Collapse.
— Observer 3-A
■□□■□□■
In this world, debates are no longer discussions — they are lethal games of mental domination.
The loser's deepest secrets are exposed. The winner? Slowly forgets who they are.
Rael Veir, didn't choose this game. But now that he's in it, he'll suffer that every victory comes with a cost — not in blood, but in memory, morality, and self.
And Prepare for debates that bend reality.
Expect betrayals that shatter the soul.
And remember:
> "The most dangerous lie is the one you tell yourself."