The air inside the cave was heavy, saturated with the smell of damp earth and the sharp, metallic odor of the oxidized knife that Elisa was now sharpening with an improvised whetstone. The sound—shhh-tack, shhh-tack—was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, filling the gaps of a silence no one dared to break. Outside, twilight was dying, painting the ground at the entrance with long, twisted, distorted shadows, like the fingers of giants trying to reach into the refuge.
Alex's group was gathered around the technological cooler they had claimed the day before. The bluish light from the cooling panel illuminated their faces from below, giving them a ghostly appearance. There was no celebration. The victory in the acid pool had left an invisible mark—a shared awareness that their luck was paid for with the flesh of others.
"We have to prepare for the possibility that Smith doesn't keep his personal promise," Foxy's voice cut through the air. He spoke in his usual tone, that cadence that oscillated between existential boredom and dangerous mockery. He was sitting in the deepest pocket of darkness, where the firelight barely licked the tips of his shoes. "If you're trusting that screen-clown's words this easily, I'm sorry to say it, but you're functional idiots."
Alex, who was sitting with his semi-automatic pistol disassembled on a piece of tarp, stopped cleaning it. "He's right," Alex admitted, his voice hoarse. "Smith's behavior doesn't follow human logic. He creates rules at will, manipulates the setting, and enjoys our disorientation. We're playing a game where the board moves while the pieces try not to fall. Today's promise can be tomorrow's lie."
"It's a statistical possibility," Harry reflected, massaging his temples where a throbbing pain was beginning to settle. The weight of strategic leadership was carving deep furrows into his brow. "So far, he's delivered the prizes. But that could just be the 'positive reinforcement' of an experiment. The moment he decides our trust is an obstacle to entertainment, he'll slit our throats without warning."
Yuki, who had remained in absolute, observant silence, began distributing the military rations. Her movements were precise, almost mechanical. She approached Alex first, handing him a visibly larger portion and holding his hand for a second longer than necessary. Her touch was cold but firm, as if anchoring Alex to reality.
"Guys, it's better to eat now," Yuki said, her voice small but carrying a quiet authority. "An empty stomach is the first place fear settles in. If your blood sugar drops, you'll start hesitating. And hesitation kills."
As she passed Foxy to hand him his share, the platinum-haired young man let out a dry chuckle, a sound like crushed dead leaves. "What an interesting little relationship you two have," Foxy teased, adjusting the dark sunglasses that never, under any circumstances, left his face. "Looks like a mix of bodyguard and something much more… visceral."
Yuki stopped and stared at him. Her eyes, usually calm, flashed with a spark of icy hatred. Foxy didn't back down; instead, he opened a crooked smile, baring his teeth, clearly savoring the hostility radiating from her.
While tension simmered in the cave, the forest entrance near the ruins of the old maintenance sector became the stage for an inevitable encounter. The emergency lights of the hotel flickered, casting stroboscopic flashes over two groups watching each other like wolves disputing territory.
John led his team with the posture of someone who had never truly left the battlefield. At his side was Lance, the former security guard whose build resembled a concrete wall; Theo, the nurse who carried a medical kit as if it were a shield; and the young women Carina and Nicole. The latter two gripped metal pipes torn from the hotel walls, their knuckles white from squeezing the steel.
On the other side, the sports team led by Aaron displayed the natural agility of elite athletes. Aaron, the gray-haired man with tired eyes, seemed to be the only one still trying to preserve a shred of civility. Behind him were Mick, the gymnast in a leather jacket; Maya, a sprinter whose legs looked like coiled springs; and Kael, a parkour practitioner who kept cracking his fingers, his eyes darting suspiciously between John and Lance.
"We don't have to do this, John," Aaron said, projecting his voice to reach the soldier over the hum of the lights. "We're all in the same boat. If we pool our supplies, we can last longer. We can split whatever Smith offers."
John let out a short, almost imperceptible sigh. "Smith didn't give us the option to split, Aaron. The moment the loudspeakers turn on, the math of this place becomes binary: either you win, or you die. And I don't trust civilians who think this place is a summer camp."
"Civilians?" Mick spat on the ground, stepping forward. "We're athletes. We have more endurance and speed than any rent-a-cop."
Lance took a step forward, his neck cracking. "Want to test that endurance, kid?"
The signal to start the event hadn't even finished sounding—an irritating, sharp electronic beep—when the invisible gunpowder between them exploded.
Maya, the sprinter, was the first to move. She shot forward like a gray blur toward Nicole, the frailest of John's group, trying to disarm her with a side kick. But John, whose reflexes had been forged through decades of combat, intercepted the athlete's trajectory. He didn't use a weapon; he used his own body like a battering ram, slamming into Maya with a shoulder check that hurled her violently to the grassy ground.
Mick, seizing the opening, vaulted over a low stone wall and unleashed a 360-degree spinning kick that struck Lance square in the face. The sound was like a dry branch snapping—crack. Lance's nose exploded in blood, but the giant didn't even stagger. With an animal snarl, Lance grabbed Mick by the collar of his leather jacket and flung him with brute force against the trunk of a nearby palm tree. The impact knocked all the air from Mick's lungs.
"Kael, from above! Now!" Aaron shouted, charging to face John.
Kael scaled a light post in seconds and leapt, trying to strike the back of John's neck with a piece of plywood. John spun with robotic precision, blocking the blow with his forearm and driving an upward elbow into Kael's solar plexus. The young man dropped to his knees, his face turning purple as he fought desperately for oxygen.
The battle devolved into chaos—ragged breathing, metal striking flesh, muffled screams. Carina and Nicole struggled to keep Maya at bay, using their pipes to form a defensive barrier, while Theo tried to help Lance contain Aaron's fury. Aaron was strong, but he lacked John's lethal technique. The soldier delivered a side kick that struck Aaron's ribs with enough force to crack them, while Aaron managed a solid punch that split John's eyebrow open in a deep gash.
Blood began to stain the ground, but before anyone could land a fatal blow, a deafening siren cut through the air from all directions. It was the signal that the "preparation phase" was over.
Panting, the two groups separated by pure survival instinct. John wiped the blood streaming into his left eye, his gaze burning with cold fury. Aaron clutched his side, his face twisted in pain, but he remained standing.
Inside one of the hotel's presidential suites, the group that had remained in the shadows observed everything through tactical binoculars and hacked monitors. Their leader, a man named Vane, had hands covered in scars from old burns—marks of a life certainly not lived behind desks.
"They're good," murmured Sora, a woman with Asian features and an empty gaze, as she cleaned a short, curved blade with a silk cloth. "The soldier knows what he's doing, but the athletes' group has impressive physical recovery."
"Let them wear each other down," Vane said, his voice a raspy whisper. "John's arrogance will be his downfall, and Aaron's desperation will make him careless. We already got what we needed from those idiots in the lobby yesterday. The map Sora took from them is worth more than any 'offering' Smith could give us."
The mention of the lobby brought a cruel smile to Sora's face. On the first night, while panic still ruled, they had ambushed Aaron's group. Sora had been a ghost, moving among the shadows of the marble columns. She had immobilized one of Yuki's companions—a girl named Lúcia—with a strike to the trachea. Vane, without a word, had eliminated her to ensure Aaron's group retreated, leaving behind the backpack with the hotel's technical maps. To Vane, human life was merely an operational cost.
Back in the cave, Smith's voice returned, this time laden with almost orgasmic satisfaction.
"Attention, survivors! The 'offerings' have been drawn! This is the heart of the Game of Sacrifice!"
The names appeared on the portable screen Smith had installed near the cave entrance.
"For John's team, the offering is… Maya! If she dies, John's team wins!""And for Aaron's team, the offering is… Theo! If the nurse dies, Aaron's team wins!"
Smith burst into hysterical laughter. "Remember: you can kill anyone, but the game only ends with the death of the Offering. Let the hunt begin!"
In the cave, Harry punched the stone wall hard enough to tear skin from his knuckles. "Damn it! Right in the forest! Theo is their medic. Without him, any injury in John's group becomes lethal in a few days. Smith chose the targets surgically. And Maya is the athletes' biggest advantage; without her speed to scout, they lose their reach."
"We have to stay alert," Alex ordered, finishing the assembly of his pistol. The sound of the slide snapping forward was a full stop to the conversation. "Elisa, how are the perimeter traps?"
"Camouflaged pits ready. Tensioned wooden spike triggers installed every ten meters in the southern quadrant. If anyone enters without the step code I taught, they'll leave with a hole in their leg," Elisa replied, her voice colder than the metal of the knife.
Foxy, who had been watching the entire exchange with his chin resting on his hand, let out a laugh that sounded like a dry bark. "An 'offering'? What a religious and decadent term. Smith really does have a peculiar sense of humor. As fun as it sounds, I agree we should sit this one out. Spending ammo on a prize we don't know is stupidity."
Yuki looked at Foxy, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She sensed something the others still ignored: Foxy wasn't just watching; he was studying. "You seem pretty excited about these games, don't you, Foxy?" Yuki said, her voice dripping with venom. "Looks like you finally found the playground you always wanted."
Foxy merely shrugged, the black lenses of his glasses hiding his eyes. "Since we're trapped here anyway, why not enjoy the show from the front row? Death is the only honest thing left on this island, doll."
Alex sat in a corner, watching the firelight reflect off the pistol's barrel. His conspiracy theories about "sadistic elites" were now a tangible, visceral, blood-soaked reality. The weight of every lost life was beginning to pile onto his shoulders like lead. He knew the "Offering" was only the prelude to something far darker.
At the forest's edge, John wiped the blood from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes were fixed on the impenetrable darkness where Maya and Aaron's group had disappeared. The forest was no longer just vegetation; it was a living organism that reeked of fear and adrenaline.
"Theo, you stay in the middle," John ordered, his voice an absolute command. "Lance, you cover the rear. Carina, Nicole, you take the flanks. Don't lose visual contact. We hunt that girl before the sun comes up. If anyone gets close to Theo, kill first and ask questions later."
The second day was far from over. In the darkness of the jungle, the hunt had begun, and the island's ancient, thirsty soil was ready to drink once more.