The screen flashed .
"Player Count: 382 → 378"
The hallway buzzed with static.
The metallic wall slid open, revealing a corridor stretching beyond the eye — lined with 378 doors.
Identical. Unlabeled. Infinite.
"GAME 4 INITIATED: ONE DOOR DOWN."
The system's synthetic voice delivered the rules, but this time, there was amusement beneath the tone — like it enjoyed watching people panic.
GAME RULES
1. You are standing in front of a hallway of 378 doors.
2. Only 300 doors are safe.
3. Each player must enter one door.
4. Choosing:
A safe door ➤ You survive.
An unsafe door ➤ You are eliminated.
The same door as another player ➤ Both are eliminated.
5. You have 90 seconds to choose.
6. No retries. No way out. One door only.
The moment the voice faded, a dull alarm kicked in.
It wasn't loud — just urgent.
People broke into a frenzy.
Some ran blindly. Others clung to each other. Whispers turned to shouts.
Lyra stayed still.
Rhea, behind her, murmured, "They expect us to rush."
The silver-eyed boy was already scanning the hallway. He didn't just look for doors. He looked for patterns — watching which players grouped together, who followed whom, who hesitated.
He was calculating odds.
She liked that.
He walked to a door, calm, unreadable.
All around her, people yelled:
"Come with me!"
"This one looks different!"
"Wait—don't open it yet!"
Three girls rushed to the same silver door on the far end.
It hissed open.
A flash. A scream. Gone.
All three disintegrated into nothing.
"THREE PLAYERS ELIMINATED – DOOR CONFLICT."
Others began picking blindly.
One by one, bodies vanished. A soft click, a sigh, and then nothing. No gore. No warning.
Just deletion.
Lyra moved at the 40-second mark.
Not fast, not slow — just precisely.
She avoided the rush.
Avoided following anyone.
She scanned the doors. Looked for signs of handling, handprints, hesitation.
Door 109. Clean. Untouched.
She opened it.
Dark.
She stepped in.
Silence.
Then—warm air brushed her face.
"Player 109: CLEARED."
Across the field of doors, the system started its grim roll call:
"Player 008: ELIMINATED."
"Player 127: ELIMINATED."
"Player 133: ELIMINATED."
"Player 211: ELIMINATED."
"Player 320: ELIMINATED."
"Player 345: ELIMINATED."
"Player 376: ELIMINATED."
One after another — 78 players gone.
Some picked unsafe doors.
Some picked the same one.
Some were simply too slow to decide.
The floor beneath 300 doors lit up green.
The rest — dead black.
Lyra stepped out into the next room. White walls. Bright lights. A new waiting chamber.
Rhea was already inside.
"You made it," Rhea muttered.
"So did you," Lyra replied, then nodded toward the corner.
The silver-eyed boy stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Lyra — saying nothing. Studying.
Again.
"PLAYER COUNT: 300 REMAINING."
The wall glitched. Then flashed a message in red:
"TRUST NO ONE."
No next room. No countdown. No hint.
Just a warning.
A truth.
A threat.
Lyra's stomach twisted. Not from fear — but realization.
This game wasn't about luck anymore.
It was about who survives when survival means betrayal.
And she wasn't sure anyone — not even herself — was innocent.