They took us all at once. A hundred of us—rounded up like livestock, numbered, and tagged. Eighty of those marked in numbers became players, shipped off to Blackwake. The rest became Reserves who were also sent to certain parts of the island.
When we arrived, the island didn't welcome us. Sharp winds carried the stench of salt and decay, and the dense fog rushed to the cliffs like it had a vision. We were divided—Quadrangles, as they called them. Four to a team. Each with a role. Every rule designed to keep us in line. Every limitation designed to remind us: the game was theirs, not ours.
The instructions were simple. Find the Scapegoat. Kill him. Survive. And maybe… earn freedom.
But freedom is a dangerous promise. A weird assurance. Even as I studied the island, I felt the touch of something else—something beneath the surface. Blackwake isn't just a place where us players look for the Scapegoat. It's a stage. And the ones pulling the strings are watching from above, from the spires of a city that doesn't care what it destroys to maintain its order.
Alliances will end. Friends will vanish. And in the end, the victory they offer might be worse than defeat. Because to win here… you might have to lose yourself entirely.
I don't know if survival is enough. But I know this: the island is alive. And it's waiting for us to make our first mistake.