Within the auditorium, the sound of a clock ticking echoed from an unknown source.
Tick! Tock!
The sound was steady and deliberate, exceptionally clear in the silent hall. No one dared to speak; the second rule of the attendance guidelines acted like an invisible shackle, binding every invitee.
Byrne could sense several gazes lingering on him briefly before quickly darting away. Everyone present was wary of others while simultaneously being watched.
Byrne shifted his gaze to the man in the formal suit at the center of the stage. He stood motionless in the light and shadow with his hands behind his back, resembling a statue. The mask embroidered with gold thread glinted coldly under the spotlight, its sunken eye sockets facing the audience as if scrutinizing every invitee.
The three-minute wait, under such an oppressive atmosphere, felt longer than three hours.
As the final tick faded, the man in the suit, who had stood silent for so long, suddenly raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
"Time is up. The gathering officially begins."
The crisp snap rang in everyone's ears, and the neatly arranged chairs began to shift positions automatically. In the blink of an eye, all the empty seats vanished, and the chairs of the eighteen invitees formed a circular ring.
"Tonight's theme is Identity Gaming. Next, we will enter the first segment of this gathering: I Ask, You Answer."
"I will use a draw to randomly select an invitee to answer three questions. The chosen person must answer truthfully. Of course, do not forget—the rules must not be violated."
As soon as he finished speaking, the man in the suit raised his right hand and gave a light wave. A turntable appeared out of thin air beside him, with the seat numbers of the eighteen invitees written on its surface. He pressed his hand against the edge of the wheel and gave it a sharp pull, sending it into a high-speed spin.
Soon, as the rotation slowed, the pointer came to a steady halt on the number seven.
"Congratulations to Invitee Number Seven for becoming our first respondent."
As he spoke, a spotlight snapped onto Seat Seven with a sharp pop.
Invitee Number Seven was a slightly plump woman wearing a beige dress. The moment the spotlight hit her, her body stiffened visibly, and her hands instinctively clenched the hem of her skirt. The silver-white mask hid her expression, but her trembling shoulders and gripped skirt made it clear she was extremely nervous.
Swish!
The gazes of all the other invitees converged on her. Some were probing, some were observing, but most were filled with schadenfreude.
"Lady Number Seven, do not be nervous. Please answer my first question: Does your name contain the vowel 'i'?"
The man's voice was devoid of emotion, as if he were merely asking about a trivial matter.
Seven remained silent for several seconds before answering in a trembling voice, "N-no."
Her answer was very concise, well under the hundred-word limit. The man in the suit did not reply immediately. He stood silently on the stage, his silhouette under the spotlight appearing increasingly eerie.
Byrne lowered his eyes slightly, his fingertips tapping the armrest of his chair unconsciously. This question seemed simple, but it was actually a trap. Whether one's name contained a specific character was direct identity information. Telling the truth would violate the third rule of the attendance guidelines, but telling a lie would violate the verbal rule set by the man in the suit.
Therefore, the true test of this segment was how to find a balance between two contradictory rules—telling the "truth" through "lies" regarding identity questions, ensuring one didn't expose themselves while avoiding crossing the red line of the rules.
The man in the suit remained silent for a full ten seconds before speaking slowly, a hint of a faint smile in his voice:
"Valid answer. Next is the second question: On which street do you live?"
Byrne's lip twitched at this question.
Good grief, he's doxxing her to her face...
This was significantly more ruthless than the first question. Aside from one's name, a home address was a major part of identity information. Asking for a specific street was far more precise than asking about a character in a name; the slightest slip-up would expose identity details and result in a rule violation. Yet, if one intentionally concealed the truth, it would be difficult to fulfill the "answer truthfully" requirement. This was a true dilemma.
Upon hearing the question, Seven fell into a long silence, hesitating to answer. The surrounding invitees grew restless; some leaned forward, staring at her with anticipation, while others instinctively shrank back, seemingly relieved they hadn't been chosen.
The man's voice suddenly turned cold:
"Lady Number Seven, I must remind you that for each question, you have a maximum of three minutes to think. Failing to answer within the time limit will be considered a violation of the rules."
Just as the three-minute countdown was halfway through, Seven finally spoke: "I... I live right next to Wisteria Street."
Byrne nodded inwardly. This woman was quick-witted to come up with such a clever response. Although her answer mentioned a specific location, it didn't actually violate the rules because she said "next to" Wisteria Street. In Byrne's memory, there were at least three streets adjacent to Wisteria Street: Freddie Street, Chinatown Road, and Textile South Lane.
Thus, based on this single sentence alone, it was impossible to pinpoint her exact address. She had managed to answer truthfully while maintaining the bottom line of not exposing her identity.
The man on the stage didn't seem to expect her to respond this way. He fell silent for a moment before clapping his hands and speaking again:
"Excellent, a very clever answer. Now, for the third and final question."
The man paused and extended his right hand toward Seven, flicking his fingers. In the next second, three items appeared in front of her: a photo album, a car key, and a cutting board.
After manifesting the three items, the man spoke again:
"Please select one of these three items that is related to your profession, and explain the reason."
The atmosphere in the auditorium instantly tightened to the breaking point. Byrne's expression darkened; this third question was far more dangerous than the previous two.
The first two questions could still be bypassed with vague answers, but these three items had very clear professional associations. The photo album pointed toward photographers, journalists, or clerical work; the car key likely indicated a driver or auto mechanic; and the cutting board directly linked to chefs, bakers, or other food-handling roles.
Whichever one Seven chose, she risked exposing her profession—and a profession was a vital component of one's identity. This was an almost unsolvable dead end.
The spotlight locked onto her, magnifying her current predicament. She raised her hand several times only to let it drop, clearly struggling with extreme internal conflict. Just as the three-minute countdown was about to expire, Seven stopped hesitating and grabbed the cutting board.