The silence following John's death was more deafening than the roar of any gunshot. In the center of the lobby, Alex remained motionless, his breathing heavy, eyes fixed on the body of the man who had been the last living link to his family's military past. Around them, the group of friends—now forged into a unit of hardened survivors—watched the remains of what were once human beings. The smell of gunpowder and ozone mixed with the metallic scent of blood, permeating a hotel that had become a mausoleum.
From the top of the staircase, Smith stood up. The manic glint he had displayed on the video screens seemed to have withered, replaced by a somber sobriety.
"Very good..." he began, but his voice no longer held the tone of a circus ringmaster. "Very good indeed. Finally, the game is over."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small remote. With a dry click, the electronic hum that filled the building ceased. The red lights of the security cameras, which followed every movement like insect eyes, went dark simultaneously. The "Show" was off the air.
"Now we can talk seriously," Smith said, descending the stairs with slow, heavy steps. "Sit down, please. Wherever you prefer. But please... rest your weapons."
The group's distrust was almost tangible. Foxy kept his hand near his pocketknife, and Elisa did not holster her pistol, but Alex gave a silent signal. They approached the leather sofas in the lobby, sitting with the rigidity of those waiting for one last trap.
"What do you want from us now, Smith?" Alex asked. His voice was hoarse, devoid of any courtesy. "We've already given you the massacre you wanted. What else is left?"
Harry, whose analytical eyes never stopped moving, intervened: "You've shut down the systems, including the encrypted transmission. What do you intend with this charade of privacy? The elite watching this won't like being left in the dark."
Smith let out a bitter laugh, sitting in an armchair across from them. He seemed to have aged ten years in ten seconds.
"Listen well. The game is over. There's no more need for cameras or an audience. We are all here... finally. It is time to explain the real motive behind this entire mess."
He brought his hands to his face, rubbing his tired eyes.
"First of all, my name is not Smith. As you must have presumed, it's a generic pseudonym. My name is Sam. 'Smith' is just the title the organizers forced me to use to dehumanize the role of master of ceremonies. If there is a true Smith out there, an original architect, I guarantee you: it's definitely not me."
The Shadow Elite
There was a long pause. The sound of waves crashing against the island's cliffs could be heard now that the hotel was silent.
"Listen closely," Sam continued, his gaze now fixed on Alex. "There is a hidden elite, a group that operates in the gaps of history, creating rules and sowing chaos according to their will. Human beings are already complicated by nature; they often cannot bear their own existence or that of their neighbor. Now, I ask you: what happens when this same elite decides to play God? What happens when they decide the world needs a 'controlled purge' to test new types of leaders and soldiers?"
"A sick game like this?" Alex replied, frowning. "Are you saying we are lab rats for a new world order?"
Sam nodded, leaning forward. "This game you participated in is just a fragment of a much larger mosaic. I accepted this task through pure coercion. My family owed an astronomical amount to these people—debts that are not paid with money, but with servitude. They promised the freedom of my wife and children if I conducted this season. But..." Sam's voice faltered, "being honest with you and myself, I doubt they are still alive. I am just another prisoner, just one with a better suit."
Dante, who had been silent until then, clenched his fists. "And the lottery? The people who died here... was it all chance?"
Sam looked at the young man with an expression of apology that could never be accepted. "The lottery for the others was real. But for you? No. I didn't draw your names. Unlike the groups of Zack, Vane, or Marcos, which were composed of random variables of instability, I hand-picked each of you."
The revelation hit the group like a bomb. "Chosen?" Harry questioned, his mind racing. "Based on what?"
"On specific data," Sam explained, gesturing toward Alex and Foxy. "I needed a group that had the potential to evolve without losing moral cohesion. I chose Scott's heir because I knew his blood carried the necessary technique. I chose Foxy's instinct, Harry's analysis, Dante's determination, and the precision of Elisa and Yuki. You performed better than I expected. You became exemplary combatants, but more than that... you became a unit."
The Global Conspiracy
"Why do this?" Alex asked, his voice thick with skepticism. "If you work for them, why train us to be your enemies?"
"Because I want them to burn," Sam said, and for the first time, there was a flame of truth in his eyes. "In the city, things didn't stay still while you fought here. We are isolated on this island, but the elite is not. You cannot trust the authorities. I guarantee you: the system is corrupted to the core. Judges, generals, politicians... many are mere pieces bought for pocket change."
Elisa crossed her arms, her face pale. "Are you suggesting we are facing a conspiracy that involves the entire structure of society? That we have nowhere to go back to?"
"Exactly," Sam replied. "Few remain incorruptible. Some died 'accidentally,' others are hiding, waiting for a spark. And that is where you come in."
Alex stood up, walking through the lobby. He stopped before Sam. "So what is your idea, 'Sam'? You want us to be your private army?"
"Not mine," Sam corrected, standing as well. "Your own. I want to assemble a group of people who have already seen the worst the elite can offer and survived. I don't care if you decide to kill me at the end of this journey. I know well what I deserve for what I did here. But before I find my end, I want to ensure those bastards lose control of the board."
The group looked at each other. Going home meant living as targets or silent accomplices. Staying with Sam meant declaring war against invisible gods.
"Fine," Alex finally said, looking at his friends and receiving silent nods. "Let's do this. It's not like we have a real choice, is it? We're already up to our necks in their blood."
Chapter 30: Return from the Ashes
The afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, staining the sky a visceral orange that reflected the blood spilled on the marble.
Sam entered the lobby with heavy steps. The change in his appearance was the first sign that the game had ended. The white suit of "Smith" had been replaced by casual clothes: a dark gray sweater and durable trousers. He carried two leather suitcases, and his eyes now reflected only the exhaustion of a man carrying the weight of hundreds of deaths.
"Are you ready?" Sam asked. "We are going back to the city, but understand: things may not be exactly as you left them. Time has moved differently out there."
The survivors organized their few belongings. They were no longer civilians; they were a unit. Alex was at the front, wearing his blue tiger-print shirt—a symbol of strength. Harry maintained his analytical sobriety, while Foxy adjusted his sunglasses, hiding pupils still dilated from the rush of battle.
"You really like foxes, huh, Foxy?" Dante joked, trying to force a lightness they didn't yet feel. Dante looked the most physically changed; his shoulders were wider, his posture firm.
"Foxes are smarter than wolves," Foxy replied. "They know when to leave the trap before it closes."
"It seems you're all ready," Sam interrupted. "It's time to go. The city awaits, and the true board is only just being set."
The Crossing of Silence
The group walked toward the pier. The cruise ship, the same one that brought them, waited like a ghost ship. As it pulled away, they watched the hotel—once a fortress of terror—become an insignificant dot in the ocean mist.
The return journey was desolate. The luxury of the cruise felt like an insult. They passed the six-hour crossing in vigils, observing the dark horizon. Alex remained at the prow, feeling the salt wind, realizing he was no longer a boy, but the weapon Sam had forced him to become.
The Pier of Secrets
It was past ten at night when the lights of the city appeared. But something was wrong. The port was shrouded in a heavy silence. Private security patrols with unknown emblems circulated through the docks.
Upon landing, Alex spotted a small group waiting. A familiar silhouette ran toward him.
"Iris!" Alex exclaimed, receiving the desperate hug of his sister. She was trembling, clutching his tiger shirt.
However, Iris was not alone. She was with a group led by a young man displaying an aura of rebellious authority. He wore a heavy white coat over a black shirt, and a metal skull pendant hung from his neck. He was arguing with another man.
"...I don't know how far those bastards intend to go with this 'mess,' but I swear they will pay! The city doesn't belong to them!"
Alex stepped forward, shielding Iris. "What happened here? Iris, who are these people? What happened to our home?"
The young man in the white coat turned. His eyes were intense. He adjusted his skull necklace and stared at them with respect.
"My name is Ash," he said, his voice hoarse and direct. "And as for what happened... you'd better sit down to hear it."
END OF BOOK 1