Night did not arrive in the way they expected.
There was no sunset, no dimming horizon beyond a window. Instead, the artificial lights embedded in the ceiling shifted gradually—white fading into a muted amber, then thinning into a restrained, diluted glow. Shadows lengthened along the curvature of the walls, soft at first, then deliberate.
The transition was slow enough to be undeniable, controlled enough to be intentional.
No one needed to say it.
Night had begun.
The black column at the center of the room reactivated without warning. Its horizontal strip flared to life, sharper than before, drawing every gaze back toward it.
Conversations dissolved mid-sentence.
Text appeared.
Phase One: Role Assignment Complete.
A beat of silence.
Several students exchanged confused glances.
"Role?" someone repeated.
The text shifted again.
Each participant has been designated a hidden function. Your objective is survival.
The word lingered.
Survival.
Ren felt a subtle tightening in his chest—not panic, not yet, but awareness sharpening into focus. Around him, unease crystallized into something heavier.
Another line appeared.
Two opposing factions now exist within this system.
The room seemed to contract.
One faction must eliminate the other.
The murmurs rose, fragmented, disbelieving.
"This is insane."
"Eliminate? What does that even mean?"
The column did not hurry.
Elimination occurs in cycles. Night and Day.
The artificial lighting dimmed further, as if reinforcing the statement.
During Night, designated participants may act. During Day, all participants will vote.
A ripple moved through the circle.
"Vote for what?" a girl demanded, her voice sharper now.
The answer arrived with clinical precision.
Vote to execute one participant. Majority decision required.
The word execute struck harder than eliminate. It left less room for interpretation.
Several students recoiled instinctively. One of the younger boys shook his head repeatedly. "No. No, this is just psychological pressure. They're trying to scare us."
No one laughed.
The column pulsed once.
Failure to comply will result in system intervention.
Silence followed. Dense. Suffocating.
The class president stepped forward again, jaw set. "You're saying someone here has to die because we vote for them?"
Affirmative.
The reply was immediate.
"And if we don't?"
There was a fractional pause.
Noncompliance will trigger automatic elimination.
A tremor passed through the group. The ambiguity was gone.
Ren scanned the faces around him—not analytically, not strategically—simply observing. Shock. Anger. Denial. A few expressions already withdrawing inward, guarded.
A mechanical chime resonated softly.
Night actions may now commence.
The room darkened further. Not to blackness, but to a muted twilight where shapes remained visible yet softened at the edges.
"What does that mean?" someone whispered.
As if in response, a subtle vibration passed beneath the floor—barely perceptible, like a pulse moving through the structure itself.
Then it happened.
One of the students near the outer edge of the circle stiffened.
A boy—second row from the back in their old classroom, quiet, forgettable. His body went rigid as though seized by an invisible force. His eyes widened—not in theatrical terror, but in startled incomprehension.
He tried to speak.
No sound emerged.
He collapsed forward onto the floor.
The impact echoed.
For half a second, no one moved.
Then the screaming began.
Two students rushed toward him, dropping to their knees. "Hey—hey! Get up!"
There was no response.
His body lay unnaturally still.
No visible wound. No blood. No external violence.
Just absence.
The column illuminated again.
Night Cycle Complete. One participant eliminated.
The words glowed without emotion.
A girl staggered backward, covering her mouth. "They killed him. They actually—"
"No one touched him!" another shouted. "No one moved!"
Ren's heartbeat accelerated, now undeniable. His gaze remained fixed on the boy's body, as though expecting movement to resume. It did not.
The class president turned slowly in place, scanning the circle. "Someone did this."
The statement hung between accusation and disbelief.
"How? We were all standing here!"
"That's the point," someone snapped. "We don't know who's what."
The implication settled in.
Hidden functions.
Opposing factions.
Night actions.
Which meant—
Someone among them had acted.
Not an external executioner. Not a distant machine.
Someone inside the circle.
The lighting brightened slightly, signaling the end of Night.
Day Cycle Initiated.
The boy's body did not disappear. It remained where it had fallen—a silent confirmation.
You have limited time to deliberate. Voting will begin shortly.
A countdown appeared beneath the text.
10:00
The digits began to decrease.
Nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds.
Nine minutes and fifty-seven.
Panic surged again, sharper now, weaponized by time.
"They expect us to choose someone!"
"Based on what?"
"We don't even understand the rules!"
Ren felt the air grow thinner, as if each breath required more effort. Around him, alliances began forming instinctively—friends drawing closer, familiar faces clustering together.
Suspicion was no longer abstract.
It had a body.
And that body lay motionless on the floor.
The class president raised his voice, forcing steadiness into it. "Listen! We can't accuse randomly. If we vote wrong, we're helping whoever did this."
"And if we don't vote?" someone countered.
No one needed to answer.
The countdown continued.
8:41
Ren stood within the shifting formations, aware that the circle had already fractured—not physically, but psychologically. Trust, once effortless, now required justification.
Somewhere in the room, someone had been given the authority to kill.
And when night returned, it would happen again.
The timer reached 8:12.
No one had yet spoken a name.
But they would have to.
Soon