I glanced at the clock. Thirty-five minutes had passed, just long enough for everyone to either understand the material, or at least pretend they did. The students were shuffling their notebooks, some whispering, others, moving toward the door. Some of the girls kept glancing my way, biting their lips, and adjusting their tops on purpose.
Jessica had been bold last week. She came to my office claiming she didn't understand her geometry homework, leaned over my desk, and I caught her smirk as I glanced down at her cleavage. I didn't move. I didn't say anything. Professionalism isn't just a word—it's a rule I follow.
Some of the other girls weren't subtle either. Glances that lingered a little too long, hair falling so I caught a glimpse of a shoulder or collarbone, legs crossed just right or opened intentionally, giving me an easy view of their panties. One even looked down for a second too long, and I felt it—the faint pressure of awareness—that bulge in my pants I had to ignore. All of it was harmless, I reminded myself. I always reminded myself.
A girl muttered, "Thank you, Mr. Wickison," as she gathered her things. I nodded, keeping my expression neutral.
Students poured out, chatting, laughing, some lingering in the doorway, trying to catch my attention without seeming obvious. I packed my notes, grabbed my briefcase, and walked out of the lecture hall.
Down the hall, a few students waved, smiled. I waved back, nodded, and made my way to my office. The hallway was quiet for a moment, then filled with the usual shuffle of feet and low murmurs.
In my office, I grabbed my bag, double-checked my keys, and headed to the parking lot. The sun had dipped just enough to make the streets golden, long shadows stretching between cars. I slid into my own, adjusted the mirror, started the engine, and drove off.
Another ordinary day.
By the time I reached the bridge, the highway had turned into a wall of cars, horns blaring and engines idling.
The traffic wasn't moving. Not a centimeter. I checked my watch: 5:18 PM. Diana my fiance, would be waiting. Our reservation at La Mer should have started fifteen minutes ago, and I knew she wouldn't be pleased if I showed up late.
I sighed and picked up my phone, already typing a quick message: "Running late, heavy traffic. See you soon."
That's when it happened.
A pop-up appeared on my screen. Not a notification, not an ad in the corner of the browser that you could ignore. This one covered the entire screen. Bright, white letters against a black background.
WELCOME TO THE GAMES
Under it:
Click PLAY to begin. Survive to the end. Fail, and… you won't.
No "X." No "Later." No way to dismiss it. Just a single glowing button that said PLAY.
I muttered under my breath, annoyed. Who the hell programs this… I started, but even mid-mutter I felt an odd compulsion. Something in the design, the way it pulsed… it demanded engagement.
"Fine," I said, tapping the button.
The screen shimmered, and suddenly I was aware of… myself. My body, as I looked down, was fading. Pixel by pixel, disassembling, flattening, dissolving into a stream of digital fragments. I stared at my hands slowly dissolved into glowing particles.
Panic hit. My mouth opened, and I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I kept fading away until everything went black.
For a moment, there was nothing. Not silence. Not light. Not weight. Just emptiness.
And I had no idea that the traffic, the standstill, the sudden chaos, had all been caused by this… thing.
By the time I opened my eyes, I was lying on a hard, cold floor. The room was completely white. It's walls, ceiling, floor, everything. Like someone had drained all the color from the world. My head throbbed slightly, and I rubbed my temple, trying to remember if I'd hit it on something in the car.
Before I even had a chance to think, a screen descended from above and stopped right in front of my face. A soft click sounded as it took a picture, and I instinctively raised my hands to shield my eyes.
Then a clear, mechanical voice came from speakers I couldn't see.
Name: Erwin Wickison
Age: 27
Occupation: Math Lecturer
Height: 6'1''
Blood Type: O-positive
The screen flashed: Information collected successfully.
Then, with an almost deliberate cadence:
"Welcome to the Games, Erwin Wickison. You may proceed."
The wall ahead shifted, materializing a door that hadn't been there a second ago. Its frame was sharp and perfect, like a portal someone had just drawn in with a ruler. My first instinct was caution. My second was curiosity, so I slowly walked forward.
I blinked against the sun—or what felt like sun—and found myself standing in the middle of a dense forest. The air was heavy, damp, and smelled like moss and pine. The ground was uneven, covered with roots and leaves.
And I wasn't alone. Not by a long shot. People were everywhere, hundreds, maybe thousands, scattered across the clearing. Some were sitting, some were standing, some were staring around in confusion. All ages, all types. Some whispering, some crying, some staring blankly.
I turned back toward the door I'd just passed through, and it was gone. Completely. Disappeared, as if it had never existed.
I muttered under my breath, trying to keep calm:
"What the hell is going on?"
The forest spread out in every direction, and all I knew was that there was no turning back.
Then a voice filled the forest, loud enough to reach everyone. Every single person stopped, heads snapping toward the invisible source.
"Welcome, humans, to the Games. You shall compete in a series of challenges. Survival is the only objective. Failure to complete a task or mission results in instant death. Refusal to play… also results in instant death. Disobedience, hesitation, or attempts to escape will be met with immediate termination. The only way to end the Game is to complete it. You have been warned. Thank you for playing."
The forest went quiet, only the sound of rustling leaves and nervous breaths. People exchanged panicked looks. Some whispered, some froze completely.
Then one man, tall, broad-shouldered, stepped forward, dusting himself off like he hadn't heard a word. He raised a hand to the sky with his middle finger sticking out and shouted:
"To hell with your fucking game! I ain't playing!"
I watched him take a few determined steps, his chest puffed out, anger and defiance written across his face.
Then…
He exploded.
There was no warning, no sound beyond the instant chaos of the first blast. Pieces of him scattered in every direction. Then almost immediately, screams erupted around me. People bolted, stumbled, turned, trying to flee.
And then… they exploded too.
Every single person who ran. Every frantic step, every desperate dash—it was met with the same brutal, instantaneous result. People collapsed before they even had a chance to think. The screams didn't stop; they multiplied, shrill and terrifying, as more and more of them detonated in rapid succession.
I froze. My mind tried to process it, tried to rationalize, tried to find some rule in the chaos, but there was none. No pattern I could see beyond the cold, absolute fact: movement, defiance, hesitation, any attempt to escape this place was fatal.
And that's when it hit me.
This was not a game I could ignore.
This was not something I could calculate out of existence.
This… was death made intentional, designed, and inescapable.
And I was already inside it.