Kamcy
It wasn't until I took several steps forward that I truly realized just how massive the room was.
At first glance, it looked big—large enough to fit a warehouse—but that assumption died quickly. The further I walked, the more the space stretched outward, like it didn't believe in normal dimensions. No walls in sight, no visible ceiling either—just an endless metallic expanse that swallowed distance whole. It felt less like a room and more like a contained world pretending to be one.
I stopped walking.
Turning slowly, I finally took a closer look at the armory, and that was when I noticed what I'd missed earlier.
It was not just any armory—it was an arsenal.
Rows upon rows of weapons lined the left side of the space, neatly arranged as if on display. Rifles, handguns, shotguns, blades of different lengths and designs. Grenades. Grenade launchers. Ammunition stacked in quantities that made my stomach tighten. Then there was the section dedicated entirely to cold weapons.
This was enough to fund a small war.
Or an illegal arms deal.
I walked closer, eyes scanning everything, trying to make sense of it. The weapons looked pristine. There were even nunchucks and a goddamn flail.
I wondered what the hell they'd be needed for.
My thoughts were cut short by a voice I was quite familiar with—one I felt a serious disgust for, disgust only surpassed by my hatred for Mr. Adeyemi.
"Attention, all subjects," it began.
"Brace yourselves. Your environment will be undergoing a slight reconfiguration. New systems installing."
Ms. Destiny.
Her voice didn't come from one direction. It came from everywhere—from the floor beneath my feet, from the air itself, from inside my skull. Hearing it again sent a familiar surge of anger through me, while at the same time stirring a sharp anticipation.
I couldn't wait to meet her once more.
I couldn't wait to see her face again.
Couldn't wait to bash her face in once I got out of this hellhole.
But that rage stalled when the environment shifted.
I felt it immediately.
Air.
Real air.
It brushed against my skin, cool and tangible. My chest expanded instinctively, as if trying to suck it all in, and this time—this time—it wasn't just habit. I could feel it filling my lungs. The sensation hit me so hard I nearly froze in place.
I felt it against my skin again.
Then I felt my own weight.
Temperature.
Gravity felt heavier somehow—or rather, I actually felt it. It became more… honest.
For the first time since I'd been dragged into this nightmare, my body felt real.
The realization almost broke me.
My vision blurred, tears threatening to spill, but I clenched my jaw and forced them back. This was still a simulation. A trick. A tool. And whatever the purpose was, I wasn't about to lose myself to it. Besides, I couldn't imagine myself crying over something this trivial.
Still…
It had been so long.
Subjects.
The word echoed in my head.
Wait—subjects?
That meant I wasn't alone.
The thought sent my mind racing. How many of us were there? Hundreds? Thousands? Desperate people pulled from nowhere, just like me?
But if there were thousands, how did they pull something like this off without drawing attention? Or maybe it was done in sets. Maybe that was why they picked small towns like mine—to keep the attention minimal.
I sighed.
In the end, all I could do was speculate. I had no real way of knowing.
Still, an idea began forming—slowly. A dangerous idea. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I thought I'd lost.
Hope.
Then—
"Jesus Christ!"
I jumped, having just turned around, only to come face-to-face with someone standing directly behind me.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
"What the hell, man?" I snapped, taking a step back. "Announce yourself next time!"
The figure didn't react.
Once my panic settled, I took a proper look.
He was my height—exactly 5'11. Broad shoulders. Muscular build. Human proportions.
But his head—
Where his face should've been was a smooth surface with a single marking etched into it, written in fucking Platino Linotype of all things.
Not a mask—at least, I didn't think so.
Not paint.
Just… there.
It creeped me the hell out.
It hit me then.
I was in a simulation.
The added realism had almost made me forget.
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself. My heart was still racing, but even that felt different. Before, breathing had been automatic—empty. Now it carried weight, sensation, effort.
"Attention," Ms. Destiny's voice returned.
I looked up instinctively, though I knew there was nothing to see.
"Welcome to the training grounds. From now onward, aside from your preordained tasks, you will report here at scheduled intervals to undergo training."
Training.
That explained the armory.
But not why.
"As we plan to design a game with a realistic feel, we require a process that fully immerses its players. The weapons to your left represent all tools future players may access. Additional assets will be integrated when necessary."
So that was it.
We were training AI.
"Required skills for all forms of training will be transferred momentarily. However, mastery depends on personal adaptation and repeated use."
That part I understood.
They'd already done something similar with my previous tasks. The knowledge was there, sure—but knowing something wasn't the same as owning it.
"The units beside you will serve as training partners. Follow their instructions."
And just like that, her voice vanished.
A new, mechanical tone replaced it.
[Please, Subject 1004. We will begin with physical conditioning. Call out 'Status' to proceed.]
The number stuck with me, dragging me back to my earlier thoughts.
At least a thousand subjects. Maybe more. Or maybe fewer—maybe others hadn't made it this far.
I didn't dwell on it.
"Status."
A translucent HUD materialized before me. Two tabs.
Skills.
Missions.
I opened Skills.
The list was… ridiculous.
Skills ranged from basic physical exercises to first aid training, taekwondo, judo, boxing, sword mastery.
I sighed. "Is there a button to install all, or do I—well, never mind."
The button I was looking for caught my eye.
Install All.
I pressed it.
Instant regret.
Information flooded my mind like a dam bursting. My vision swam. Pain exploded behind my eyes—sharp, sudden. I staggered, clutching my head as nausea twisted my gut.
Then—slowly—it faded.
"Okay," I muttered. "That sucked."
[Ready to proceed?]
I opened Missions, ignoring the unit beside me.
Physical Conditioning.
Martial Arts.
Weapons Handling.
Medical Training.
Interrogation and Observation.
That last one made me question what kind of game this was. First flails, nunchucks, and scythes—now medical training and interrogation? Was this some ultra-realistic fusion of GTA and Call of Duty?
Still, a mission was a mission.
Clicking the first option expanded a message.
[Following the directives of your assigned specialized unit, complete physical conditioning to unlock the next mission.]
Simple enough.
Turning to the unit, I gave it a thumbs-up.
The figure marked "01" led me to an open area.
We started simple.
Bodyweight exercises—push-ups, squats, planks. Basic conditioning. Probably meant to prepare me for whatever came next. Though I couldn't imagine players enjoying this if it were truly just a game. I could already picture rage quits from how realistic it felt.
I paused mid-thought.
Wait.
Was this one of those scenarios? The kind where the "game" wasn't really a game?
No. That sounded ridiculous.
Then again… who would've thought copying an entire human consciousness was possible?
God, this was confusing.
Still, I needed to play along. Refine my plan. Adapt.
My thoughts shattered when I noticed something else.
My muscles burned.
I was sweating.
My breathing grew labored.
It was real.
Too real for a game.
I finally collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving, and laughed softly.
I felt alive.
And for the first time since all this began, that terrified me as much as it comforted me.
After a brief rest, we continued.
And just like that—
My training began.
Mr. Adeyemi
The screens split seamlessly into twenty smaller windows, each displaying a subject undergoing training.
Mr. Adeyemi nodded in satisfaction.
Mrs. Destiny stood beside him, silent as ever. She acknowledged the gesture with a brief nod before returning to the programmers behind them.
As he turned back to continue observing, a familiar voice spoke.
"Sir, I still believe accelerating their training is a mistake."
Moritemi.
He didn't turn immediately.
"They're not ready," she continued. "If this continues, corruption risks increase."
He sighed, finally facing her.
"I'm aware."
Moritemi, his lead geneticist, was of average height—about 5'5. Dark-skinned. Average-looking, with visible signs of age that betrayed how long she'd been at this. She wore a blue gown beneath her lab coat, no accessories.
"If they destabilize—"
"We reboot them."
He didn't particularly like how attached she was to her experiments. She could commit horrors in the name of science, yet still value them like children in some twisted way.
She stiffened.
"And if they collapse entirely?"
He adjusted his dual-colored tie.
"We replace them."
Her jaw tightened.
"They're my work."
"And they're our results," he replied coolly. "The board wants progress, Mo. The Americans especially are eager to see something."
Silence.
"Do your job," he finished.
She bowed her head. "Yes, sir."
As she walked away, Mr. Adeyemi turned back to the screens.
He smiled faintly.