The darkness was absolute. It was not merely the absence of light; it was a consuming, physical void. The air was heavy and cold, thick with the scent of mildewed stone and dry dust. Kael, seventeen and dressed in a wrinkled school uniform, lay still on a floor of rough, cold basalt. He was damp with a cold sweat that spoke of terror, not exertion.
A low, painful groan escaped him as he struggled back to consciousness. His head throbbed violently. The first sound he registered was his own shallow, ragged breathing, amplified and unnerving in the stillness. "Where... what is this place?" he whispered, his mouth dry.
He attempted to push up, but his forehead brutally connected with a solid, unyielding surface just centimeters above him. He cried out, a sharp, choked sound. The sensation was his first warning: the space was impossibly small. Panic wasn't a choice; it was a physical reaction, a jolt of electricity straight to the heart.
He pushed his hands out: stone on the left, stone on the right. He strained his legs: stone at the foot. Sitting up, his knees drawn to his chest, his spine scraped against the back wall. I calculated the dimensions instantly, fuelled by pure adrenaline, he thought. It was less than a meter wide, less than a meter deep, and barely a meter high. A dark, stone sarcophagus. I was completely sealed in. His mind screamed Claustrophobia.
He pushed with desperate, raw strength against the four visible walls, searching for seams, handles, or any irregularity in the cold, slick surface. "NO! No, no! Let me out!" His breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. The walls remained silent, immovable. The silence was the cruellest weapon.
For the next hour—or what felt like an eternity in the void—Kael systematically searched. He moved with the precision of a trapped animal, tracing the seams where the walls met the floor and ceiling. He was no longer screaming, only whimpering, his energy exhausted and his knuckles bleeding. He collapsed back to the floor, where a profound, sinking terror replaced the initial frantic fear.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound was faint, a dry, metallic chime, rupturing the perfect silence from the wall directly in front of him. Hope, dangerous and sharp, pierced the terror. Kael scrambled forward. "HELP ME! I'M HERE! Open this!" he cried, his voice hoarse and desperate. He pounded on the spot where the sound originated. "GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE! PLEASE!"
A deep, hydraulic groan began, followed by a grating SCRAAAAPE of stone against stone. The wall Kael was facing slid inward, then silently to the side. A flood of high-intensity, colourless WHITE LIGHT assaulted his eyes. It was painful, clinical, and total. Kael threw his arm over his face, recoiling from the sensory shock, then stumbled out of the cell, blinking rapidly as his vision swam with painful spots.
The Hall of Players
The sight that greeted him stole his breath. He stood on the perimeter of a monumental, subterranean space. It was the size of a sports stadium, enclosed by seamless, flawless white walls that curved up to an impossibly distant ceiling. The floor was smooth, polished white tile that reflected the blinding light overhead. It looked less like a palace and more like a high-tech, sanitized execution chamber.
But Kael was not alone. The hall was densely populated, not with guards or captors, but with hundreds of teenagers. More than a thousand students were gathered, all wearing the identical navy blazer, white shirt, and striped tie of Oakridge High. They moved aimlessly, grouped in clusters, many weeping or arguing in low, terrified tones. "I... I wasn't the only one who got here," he muttered, dazed. "The whole school. Huh!"
He shook his head, rubbing his temples. The lingering fog of the gas and the light's intensity made his thoughts slow. It all came back like a corrupted video file, he realized: the sunlit classroom, the sweet smell of the gas, the chaos, and that deep, perfectly synthesized voice that ruined everything. The voice that gave them all a title they never wanted: Players.
Three Days Ago
Three days ago. The afternoon sun was low, casting long, familiar shadows across the worn wooden desks of Room 404. Kael was in his usual sanctuary: the back desk, right corner, slightly obscured by forgotten textbooks. My name is Kael. I'm an ordinary high school student. Nothing special. My life was defined by the space between good and bad*—not good enough to be popular, not bad enough to be a genuine outcast.
He was sound asleep, head resting on his forearm. A shadow fell over him, accompanied by Clara's light, floral perfume. Clara, also seventeen, petite, with warm eyes and a determined energy, leaned down. "Wake up, Kael. Lunch is over. You can't afford to sleep through Mr. Tanaka's lecture again."
Kael jolted. "Huh? What? Clara!" Clara was his best friend, his childhood protector—the small, fierce wall between him and the bullies. He giggled sheepishly at her sight. She was cute in a familiar way that made his stomach twist uncomfortably. "Anyway, I was going to say... did you watch that TV show? The one about the rescue dogs? They were on a glacier."
"Nah," she replied. "I was studying for the math quiz. I slept early yesterday."
Kael sat bolt upright, aghast. "You did what?! How can you miss such a good show, Clara? They rescued a Labrador from a frozen pond, using a helicopter, no less! It was emotionally resonant! You have no sense of cinematic drama!"
Clara rolled her eyes. "Blah, blah, blah. I'm trying to tell you something serious. That math quiz is going to be—"
"Huh? Wait, Clara..."
Before she could finish, an unnatural SOUND cut through the classroom noise—a low, resonant, synthetic hum that vibrated the glass. It was clearly electronically generated, yet unnervingly deep, carrying a profound sense of authority. The entire school went silent.
"WELCOME!! PLAYERS," the emotionless, machine drone announced. The students exchanged fearful glances. "THE DEATH GAME WILL START IN THREE DAYS. EVERYONE WHO IS PRESENT HERE, WITHIN THE BOUNDARIES OF OAKRIDGE HIGH, HAS BEEN SELECTED TO PLAY. BE READY!"
The voice cut out, leaving an electric silence, which quickly dissolved into chaos. Ms. Yumi rushed the door; it was immovably locked. Her phone had no service.
"THE RULES ARE SIMPLE. WIN OR GET ELIMINATED," the voice returned.
Immediately, a pale, sickly GREEN GAS began to hiss from every vent. It smelled sweet, like processed cherries, masking a heavy chemical component. Kael grabbed Clara and pulled her beneath their desk. "Oh God, Kael, what is that?! It burns my nose! I—I can't breathe..." The gas rapidly filled the room. Screaming diminished into muffled coughs and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor. Kael struggled to keep his eyes open. The last physical sensation he had was the heavy weight of his eyelids and the sickening realization that Clara's sleeve had slipped from his grip. That was it. No struggle, no epic fight. Just a sweet smell, a thud, and total submission.
The Reunion
Back in the vast white hall, Kael's vision cleared. This must be an underground facility, he thought. He swept his gaze over the enormous crowd. And yet... not a single authority figure. No teacher. Only the 'players.'
A dark, absurd thought surfaced. I've read all the trashy novels like this . I know what this means. I am truly, monumentally fucked up. He forced himself to focus. Whatever this nightmare is, I need to know one thing: where is Clara? She gets hysterical when she's left alone, especially in strange places. I have to find her first.
Kael took a determined step forward, intending to push through the mass of confused students.
Then, suddenly, a hand, cold and strong, clamped down over his right shoulder. It was a non-negotiable grip, the fingers digging into his blazer. Kael stiffened instantly. He felt a profound dread—this hand was not a Classmate's. "H-huh?" he gasped. He began to pivot, his adrenaline spiking, but the grip held him fast, immovable. And …