A high-paying social experiment — I only realized how terrifying it was after I signed up.
72 hours without sleep: $100,000.
Break a teammate's rib: $300,000.
Find a corpse buried for ten years: $1,000,000.
Money is a razor-sharp blade, slowly cutting away whatever humanity we have left.
And the one who set it all in motion turned out to be someone I never would have guessed.
1
"Name?"
"Weekend."
"Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"You read the terms in the agreement, right?"
"Yes."
"Can you accept possible accidents or bodily harm that might occur?"
"Yes."
The man with glasses nodded, stamped the paper heavily, and told me to change clothes and wait for the experiment to start.
Two months ago I was laid off. When I asked the manager to pay the back wages, I got beaten up.
A month ago my one-year-old daughter was diagnosed with a terminal illness; she needed an outrageous surgery fee to survive.
Two weeks ago, while doing casual factory work, a coworker's mistake cost me a finger; the boss took me to the hospital and left me with only 30,000 yuan.
A week ago I put a cloth over my face and held a knife, planning to rob a jewelry store. I waited from six in the morning until nine at night, until the streetlights went out — and never took that step.
I had been pushed to the edge, but I still wanted to be a decent person.
That deep night I saw a help-wanted ad in a newspaper: a company was running a social experiment and paying volunteers huge sums. It lasted half a month; top pay could reach a million dollars. My wife thought it was a scam, but I decided to try anyway. I had nothing left to lose — what else could they cheat me out of? A drowning person will grab at any floating weed; it's an animal's instinct to cling to life.
So I packed with people from all over, rode a ferry for two days and nights, and arrived at a deserted island. We signed volunteer agreements and waited for the experiment to begin.
Around six in the afternoon a shrill bell rang and everyone was gathered into a large house. I glanced around — maybe seventy or eighty people. Some looked nervous, some cocky; the youngest maybe sixteen or seventeen, the oldest an elderly woman with white hair.
"Don't be nervous," a middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses said into a microphone. "This social experiment is sponsored by QinLian Company. Its purpose is to test the limits of human psychological endurance — thus the name: Reach the Limit. You all should have read the agreement. Before each experiment begins you may voluntarily withdraw." He went on, "You've had a long trip; we've prepared abundant food for you. Help yourselves. The first experiment starts at 9:30 tonight. Volunteers who complete it will receive $100,000."
It was like dropping a bomb into the crowd — the hall erupted. One hundred thousand dollars. For me, under my old job, that would take seven or eight years to earn. A single simple experiment could pay that much — was it real? Excitement and doubt flashed across everyone's faces. The middle-aged man clapped; a few staff in black pushed in boxes and pried the lids open.
"Damn — they're really paying!" a bald man next to me shouted. His shoulders and neck were covered in tattoos; he looked dangerous.
Four large trunks were filled with stacks and stacks of US bills. The sight of so much cash hit us like a physical force; my throat tightened and my mouth went dry. After two days and nights on the boat we were starved; the dining hall food looked exquisite — Chinese and Western dishes, desserts, snacks, fruit, cakes, caviar... every dish filled the air with scent. No one worried about manners; we devoured the feast. The tattooed bald man ate worst of all, grabbing a steak with his hands and shoving it into his mouth, chewing loudly so others stared.
"Weekend, do you think this experiment is dangerous?" a girl with a ponytail asked me shyly. She was nineteen, here to earn money for her mother's treatment.
Her name was Butterfly. On the boat she gave me seasickness pills when I felt sick. She was kind.
"I don't think so. The man said we can quit anytime. If it's dangerous we don't have to take part." I smiled at her and put my utensils down to wash my hands.
After a while the bell rang again and we were led back into the empty hall.
"Look," Butterfly said, pointing up.
A chill ran down my spine. The first time I'd entered this hall the ceiling had been bare. Now it was bristling with tiny cameras — a swarm of insects bent over us, spreading across the ceiling and pressing down with an invisible weight.
What the hell?
A sweat drop slid down my forehead. Before I could react the polite man walked to the stage. He still smiled, but under the pale red light his smile looked strange, like a snake rearing to strike.
"The first experiment starts now. This one is simple: from this moment you must not sleep for 72 hours." He gestured to the cameras above. "They will capture your every move and expression. Of course, prolonged sleeplessness can cause bodily harm. You are free to choose to participate or withdraw."
Silence fell on the volunteers. Could anyone stay awake for three days straight? And even if you tried, sleep could overtake you uncontrollably.
The man pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "Those who wish to withdraw may leave now; we will arrange transport off the island. Those who choose to participate: if you fail the experiment you will receive $100,000; if you succeed you will receive $200,000 — an extra $100,000 as a bonus."
So that's it — even if you nodded off midway you'd still get money. Why hesitate?
"I'm in." The bald man raised his hand.
"I'm in."
"Me too — start already."
Agreements rose and fell in waves. All eighty-two volunteers chose to take part. The hall lights dimmed halfway, and the experiment officially began.
Thus the road to hell opened.
The old wall clock ticked and tocked, each sound marking the slow passage of time.
The first six hours were easy. People chatted and joked, trading funny stories; smiles were everywhere.
But the next six hours were the cruellest—human sleep cycles kicked in. From about three in the morning to nine, drowsiness rolled over us like a tide. Conversations dwindled. Those with weaker bodies started yawning nonstop, forcing themselves to stay awake. After all, completing the experiment meant an extra hundred thousand dollars.
It was during this stretch that the first eliminations happened.
Five people fell asleep secretly and were led away by the staff in black. Some tried to argue, but the camera footage was damning and rendered them speechless. In hindsight they were probably the luckiest of the lot — they escaped the experiment intact.
At nine the next morning food and water were delivered. After a night of grinding effort, everyone wore exhaustion on their faces. I began to see the experiment's point: people are hard to fight against their instincts. When you're hungry you must eat; when you're sleepy you must sleep. The organizers were using money to push us, testing how far we could resist our basic drives.
"Have you heard of the Black Room experiment?" the man sitting beside me asked out of the blue while I drank.
"What?" I said, a little puzzled.
"I read about it in a banned book. It's an old urban legend. In the 1940s, some foreign scientists reportedly carried out a brutal experiment. They wanted to see what would happen if a person didn't sleep for thirty days. They recruited six death-row inmates, offering unconditional release as bait: stay awake for a month and you'd be freed.
"They put the prisoners in a small sealed room stocked with food, a toilet, books — the essentials. Back then there wasn't NBC, so observations were made only through microphones; the outside couldn't see inside. That's why it was called the Black Room experiment. To make sure the subjects never slept, the researchers secretly added stimulants into the ventilation system — a kind of nerve gas that kept them in an agitated state."
"And then?" My voice trembled. I looked the man over. He looked ordinary, but his eyes were sharp and trustworthy.
"The first few days went fine. Five of the subjects stayed awake, reading, talking, playing cards. They were optimistic and excited about the prospect of release. But on the fourth day their conversations turned dark — sad and angry. They spoke about war's horrors, the world's cruelties, old traumas, and life's futility. By the sixth day they stopped regular conversation altogether. Instead they gathered around the microphone, muttering aimlessly.
"Researchers suspected the excess nerve gas was to blame. On the ninth day one inmate snapped. He ran back and forth in the sealed room, screaming like his insides were tearing out. He ran for seven hours, until his voice tore and he could only wheeze. The creepy part was that the others didn't react to his frenzy. Madness spread: the Black Room filled with screams and howls."
The man toyed with the bottle cap and told the tale in a low voice, like a campfire story from the wild.
"What happened in the end?" cold sweat prickled my back.
"This went on for a couple of days. Then, at some inexplicable moment, the room went utterly silent — the screams and moans stopped dead. That terrifying silence held for a day, then two, then three… By the fifteenth day the scientists thought things had gone out of control; they feared the subjects were dead. They wondered how five people could be so still for so long. But oxygen-monitor readings showed intense physical activity inside the room.
"More scientists and even military officials flocked to the lab, drawn by the odd behavior. Finally they broke protocol: they opened the intercom and announced that technicians would enter for mic tests. Everyone inside must stay away from the door and lie face down on the floor. Any disobedience would be met with immediate execution. If they complied, one inmate would be released on the spot. They waited for a reply, expecting a chaotic or pleading response. Instead, a voice answered — a reply so cold and terrifying it shattered their expectations."
"What did it say?" I asked, voice strapped thin.
"We don't need freedom. Don't come in, or we'll kill you."
"Wha—what happened to them…?" I stammered.
"Don't drink too much water." The man screwed the cap back on and, as if the rest of the tale no longer concerned him, leaned against the wall.