The forest seemed to be holding its breath. The silence that followed Maya's final scream—a sound abruptly cut short by the lethal efficiency of John's group—was heavier than the noise of combat itself. The smell of gunpowder, fresh blood, and churned earth created a suffocating atmosphere.
From hidden loudspeakers among the trees, the crackle of a microphone turning on rang out like a gunshot. Smith's voice, distorted and laced with sadistic satisfaction, filled the void.
"Congratulations to everyone!" Smith exclaimed, and the sound of slow clapping could be heard in the background. "It was a great show—truly inspiring. We had technique, desperation, and even a few special appearances by the 'decorations' of our island. But the game is over. John, your group is the official winner of the second event. So tell me… which reward will you choose?"
John stood amid what remained of Aaron's camp. His breathing was a controlled rasp, and the blood from his eyebrow now stained half his face, drying into a dark crust. He looked at Theo, his medic, who was still visibly trembling, and then at Lance, whose eyes gleamed with the triumph of carnage.
"Supplies," John answered without hesitation, his voice steady and devoid of any celebratory emotion.
"Supplies?" Smith feigned surprise. "And what about the Sanctuary? Rest, soft beds, safety? You're trading luxury for cans of food and bandages?"
"After thinking it through, I decided it's not worth risking the loss of our base for temporary comfort," John shot back, glancing toward the forest shadows where he knew other eyes were watching. "It's only the second day. We don't need to take part in the next game if we have enough resources to sustain ourselves. The Sanctuary is a gilded cage, Smith. I prefer my own cage."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "A born strategist. Very well. The supplies will be delivered to the extraction point in your sector. Now get out of there. The forest doesn't like fresh corpses for long."
Without wasting a second, John signaled his group. They moved as a unit, disappearing into the dense vegetation with the haste of those who know that victory is only an interval between two horrors.
Hidden hundreds of meters away, Vane and Sora watched the retreat. Vane stowed his thermal binoculars, the scars on his hands faintly glowing under the residual light of the fireworks Smith had launched to "celebrate."
"John's group is pulling out," Sora whispered, his hand still on the hilt of his blade. "We could intercept them now. They're injured."
"No," Vane replied, his voice a pragmatic whisper. "We can't get involved now and risk facing a possible alliance between John's group and Alex's. I'm certain that if we move too aggressively, those two groups—if they're smart—will want the most wounded—or the most dangerous—group eliminated first. We'll return to our zone. Let them think we're just shadows for now."
Everyone in Vane's group silently agreed and slipped back into the depths of the forest, like ghosts who had never been there.
The Expedition Awakens
In the cave, the mood was one of somber vigilance. The announcement of John's victory and the violence they had witnessed through the sensors left a mark. Alex couldn't sleep. He stared at the stone ceiling, trying to map out what Smith wanted from all this.
"We can't stay idle," Alex said, rising as the first gray rays of light began to filter through the entrance. "Tomorrow—no, today—we're going to explore this damn island. We need answers that don't come from a TV screen."
Harry, bent over his maps, looked up. "You want to go out now? With John and that mysterious group loose?"
"Exactly because of that," Alex said. "Foxy, Dante, and I will explore. Harry, Elisa, Yuki—you stay at the base. Keep the traps active and don't open up for anyone, not even me, unless I use the radio code. We'll avoid any pointless confrontations, but we need to know what lies beyond those trees."
Yuki stood, crossing her arms. Clearly, she wanted to go with Alex, but the logic of keeping the strongest defenders at the base was irrefutable. She simply nodded, her eyes sending a silent warning to Alex: Come back in one piece.
Foxy began preparing with an enthusiasm that bordered on disturbing. He checked the edge of his knife, whistling a funereal tune. Dante, on the other hand, was pale. The boy wasn't a fighter, but Alex knew Dante's eye for detail could be useful in a search for documents or clues.
They split the remaining hours into sleep shifts to ensure everyone got at least a minimum amount of rest. In an environment where every lapse resulted in death, sleep was a dangerous luxury.
At the hotel, John's group was in a similar state of recovery. Theo tended to Lance's wounds and cleaned the cut on John's face.
"We'll avoid exposing ourselves today," John said, feeling the sting of antiseptic. "There are only four groups left now, including us—and they're probably the most dangerous ones. Those traps we saw near the cave… they definitely weren't simple. They were made by someone with a high level of technical knowledge."
"You're right," Theo said, adjusting a bandage. "We know there's a group in the cave, and there are two others whose plans and whereabouts we don't know. In the end, asking for supplies was the better call. With the medical equipment I got, I can keep you fighting."
One of the girls in the group, Nicole, looked toward the reinforced window. "What kind of lunatic is Smith? Is he behind all this alone? Or is there someone else?"
John looked at his hands, still stained with Mick's blood. "Who knows. He could be the mastermind—or just a ringmaster, a puppet for whoever's paying to watch this bloodbath. Whoever they're broadcasting this to, they want entertainment. And entertainment demands scale."
The Discovery on the Coast
Meanwhile, Alex, Foxy, and Dante advanced toward the coastline. The sound of waves crashing against the immense metal walls surrounding the island created a constant metallic echo. It was a surreal sight: a paradise beach encircled by a technological barrier that looked ripped from a dystopian nightmare.
"Look over there," Dante pointed.
Hidden beneath the shadow of a few twisted palm trees stood an abandoned shack, made of wood and concrete, its paint peeled by salt air. It looked like an old observation post or a caretaker's house from decades past.
"It looks like the other groups haven't explored much on this side yet," Alex observed, approaching with his pistol raised. "No one's been here."
They entered the shack. Inside, it smelled of old paper and sea brine. Rummaging through moldy drawers and cabinets, Alex found a leather folder containing yellowed documents. As he examined the papers, Dante and Foxy stayed outside, watching the perimeter.
The sun was strong, and the humidity made sweat pour down. Dante watched Foxy, who seemed perfectly comfortable in his coat despite the heat. Suddenly, a low tree branch, whipped by a strong sea breeze, lashed toward Foxy's face. The impact didn't injure him, but it caught on the frame of his sunglasses and tore them from his face.
Dante froze.
For the first time, he saw what Foxy was hiding. Beneath the lenses, there were no colored irises, no white sclera. Foxy's eyes were two orbs of absolute darkness—deep and completely black, as if light died upon touching their surface. It was a predatory, alien, and terrifying sight.
Foxy snatched the glasses back with inhuman speed and put them on before Alex came out of the shack. Dante tried to look away, his heart pounding against his ribs. He wanted to pretend he hadn't seen anything, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. Foxy didn't say a word, but the silence emanating from him was heavy with a dangerous promise.
"Guys!" Alex stepped out of the shack, stowing the documents in his backpack. "I found something important. Let's head back by a different route to cover more ground."
On the way back, they passed through an area of forest where the vegetation thinned, revealing a reinforced concrete facility with high-tech cameras and satellite dishes.
"Could that be Smith's hideout?" Dante whispered, trying to focus on the surroundings to forget Foxy's eyes.
"Maybe," Alex replied, watching the armed guards patrolling the tops of the walls. "But we're not going in now. That would be suicide. Let's head back."
Salazar's Secret and Foxy's Horror
Back in the safety of the cave, the group gathered around the central lantern. Alex spread the documents across a flat stone.
"We found more documents," Alex announced. "And Foxy and Dante saw what looks like the island's operations base."
Foxy sat in his usual corner, his voice relaxed as if nothing had happened. "The blond kid here thought it might be Smith's base. But we were cautious. Maybe we can all go there together later, once we're armed to the teeth." He then turned his face toward Dante. "You can tell them what you saw on the way, Dante. It's nothing, right?"
Dante swallowed hard. The pressure in the room rose instantly. Yuki and Harry looked at the boy.
"Well…" Dante's voice trembled. "His eyes. I saw them when the glasses fell. They're… strange. Completely black. There's nothing human about them."
"Black eyes?" Harry frowned, casting an inquisitive glance at Foxy. "Are you sure it wasn't just the shadows' reflection or your vision tired from the sun?"
Foxy shrugged, indifferent. "Black eyes or not, it doesn't matter."
"He's part of our group and he's proven useful so far," Alex cut in, his voice stopping the speculation. "I have no idea what this medical condition is or whatever it might be, but it seems irrelevant given the fact that we're being hunted."
Harry remained silent for a moment. In his mind, he sifted through old news files, recalling urban legends about a killer who never left survivors to tell the tale, known in the underworld as the "Black-Eyed Reaper." He looked at Foxy, still unconcerned, and felt a chill.
"Whatever," Yuki said, trying to break the tension. "Let's see those documents. I'm eager to find out what this so-called Smith is hiding."
Harry began to read aloud.
Document 1: Construction Log – February 12"Smith is a complete lunatic! He says a major event will take place on this island and ordered us to fill one of the pools with acid instead of water. Acid! And he forced the engineers to create traps for some kind of bizarre obstacle race. I swear to God I'm never coming back to this place!"
February 13:"One of the workers refused to follow orders today. He was killed in front of us. Smith said anyone who tries to disobey will meet the same fate. This place is becoming a true hell."
February 20:"I'm writing this page in case something happens to me. Unfortunately, I failed one of Smith's requests, so I don't know if I'll wake up tomorrow. Whoever you are, this is much bigger than it seems. Smith is just another puppet. There are far more dangerous people behind him. I hid something that may be useful in an old warehouse between the beach and the forest. This may be my goodbye. Signed: Salazar."
"Smith is a puppet?" Elisa murmured, her voice heavy with skepticism. "If he's the puppet, who's pulling the strings?"
"I think I know the order of the games—and what they are," Foxy suddenly said, waving a crumpled paper he had "forgotten" to mention.
Alex almost jumped over the stone. "What? Where did you get that?"
Foxy read the document in the tone of someone reading a restaurant menu: "Special Events: The Death Race, The Hunt, The Death Game, The Scarecrow, and The Final Battle."
"Wait," Elisa interrupted. "Aren't there seven days? Why are there only five games?"
"Exactly," Harry agreed. "At the beginning, Smith said it would be one game per day. Unless he lied about the duration—or the last days are reserved for something else."
"Hold on," Alex did the math in his head. "We started with six groups. If each game eliminates one group, it doesn't add up for seven days. The numbers don't match."
Suddenly, the sound of static filled the cave. This time, it didn't come from the island's loudspeakers, but from a small radio Smith had hidden in one of the cave wall's crevices.
"Well, well… who left that document lying around?" Smith's voice sounded only for them, in a confidential and dangerously friendly tone. "You ruined the surprise, my little sunglasses boy! Congratulations on figuring it out. I didn't think you'd have the nerve to look for clues in the middle of this chaos. I must say, you're becoming my favorite little group."
The group drew closer to the radio, tense.
"As a reward for uncovering the secret of the games, I'll give you a little bonus information," Smith continued. "The next game will be different from all the others. After all, all surviving groups will have to participate simultaneously. It will be a One-on-One Fight. No group will be eliminated for losing the fight, but the fighter… well, that's another story. I hope you get lucky with the fighter draw. The next game won't be today. Enjoy the rest. Good luck!"
The radio fell silent.
"An individual battle…" Alex said, looking at his own hands. "That's premeditated slaughter. He wants to deliberately strip members from the groups. Groups that have already lost people will be at a psychological and physical disadvantage."
"The best-case scenario for us," Harry analyzed coldly, "would be Foxy or Alex being drawn. You're our strongest fighters. If it's Dante or me…"
They exchanged looks. The "rest" Smith had promised now felt like psychological torture. They would have to wait until the next day knowing that one of them could be taken to an arena they might not return from.
Foxy merely smiled, resting his head against the stone. His black eyes, hidden behind the lenses, seemed to glow with the promise that the "Death Game" was only just beginning.