Reo let out a powerful cry, a mixture of frustration and release, which echoed off the facades of the buildings. This cry, much more than a simple burst of anger, was a reflection of all the emotions he had been bottling up for weeks: betrayal, disappointment, anger, and a strange feeling of loneliness.
Dwelling on his memories, Soma's betrayal, false friends, empty promises... it had all been exhausting, almost suffocating. But Reo finally understood why Koki's simple sentence a few days earlier had left him frozen, unable to move. That sentence had awakened in him an awareness of his influence: without meaning to, he held the hearts and trust of these people, he had become the cornerstone of their survival, the person on whom they all relied.
As the group rushed toward the Toyosu tunnel, all walking with hurried and anxious steps, one detail caught the attention of some. A single figure was walking away, indifferent to the crowd, dragging his feet as if the world around him was of no importance to him.
"Hey, isn't that lady following the plan?" someone whispered, intrigued. "
"That's not a lady... that's a man, isn't it? He looks drunk," added another, his voice betraying a mixture of astonishment and judgment. "
Koan walked behind, almost invisible amid the human tide rushing toward Toyosu. While the crowd moved forward in unison, determined by Reo's instructions, he followed a different rhythm, an intimate cadence dictated by an inner silence. The cobblestones beneath her shoes echoed with a dull thud with each step, but it was as if another sound, more distant and more precise, guided her gait: a soft, almost whispered voice coming from somewhere she couldn't quite place.
Around her, the world was in turmoil with whispered orders, calls, and hurried members slipping through. Yet Koan paid little attention. Her clear, absent eyes stared straight ahead at the alley leading to tunnel number 3, Harumi. The name suddenly seemed familiar, like a promise whispered in the depths of an ancient dream. The translucent barrier above the alley diffused a pale light, a silvery veil that made the air seem almost sacred. For a moment, the entire city resembled a sanctuary, and she was its silent penitent.
She walked slowly but without hesitation. Each step sounded like a verse from a prayer she recited without knowing the words. In her chest, her heart beat slowly, calmer than the surrounding commotion. Beneath her apparent inaction lay a resolution that was both cold and gentle. The voice—she couldn't tell if she really heard it or if she was inventing it to support herself—seemed to whisper that this was the way. "Come," it said vaguely, "it's time." "
Images flooded in, like silent slides: the white corridors of hospitals, the smell of antiseptic, the succession of visitors, the afternoons spent simply struggling to breathe. All these scenes, which had once haunted her and kept her clinging to hope, now took on a different hue. They became proof, not of weakness, but of a life lived to the fullest. To die in an imposed ordeal, she thought without bitterness, was to preserve a form of dignity. "Dying in a deadly ordeal, no one will be able to say that I committed suicide," she thought, as if the world's label interested her as much as how to approach her end.
The world around her continued to move, but Koan barely noticed the gestures of others. A few glances fell on her, curiosity, judgment, compassion, then returned to the troupe as they walked away. A man passed by, noticing her, and muttered, "Where is she going?" His voice was lost in the general hubbub. These remarks slid off her like rain off a polished stone: without effect. She sought neither confrontation nor approval. Nor was she running away; she was walking toward what the voice, mysterious and familiar, was pointing her toward.
The alley that led to Harumi narrowed under the translucent canopy. The light there was colder, almost moon-blue, and the density of the air seemed different—heavier, more still. Koan felt her lungs remember every past breath, as if to measure what her body still had to offer. The idea that her actions could be described as reckless seemed absurd to her: there was an intimate logic to her choice. Where others sought survival through struggle, she sought a more honorable way out.
A gust of wind caused the dimensional barrier to vibrate, casting shifting reflections on the cobblestones. Koan paused for a moment at the threshold, her hand almost touching the translucent air. The texture of the light gave her the illusion of a delicate membrane, a boundary between two worlds. On the other side, the alleyway continued, bathed in a half-light that seemed to be waiting for her. She took a deep breath, not out of fear, but as if to greet what was coming.
No cries or pleas could shake her resolve. Others could run, scream, pray, or calculate. She had chosen to listen to that unnamed voice that guided her with measured steps toward Harumi. She sensed, without artifice, that if death were to take her, there would be no shame or lies, only the clean end of a weary life, caught up in a game whose rules she accepted as one accepts a final dance.
She took one last step. The crowd was now far behind her, transformed into an indistinct murmur. The Harumi tunnel opened before her like a silent mouth, ready to welcome her. Koan entered, her footsteps muffled by the air that seemed to absorb sound.
A murmur rippled through the crowd when they noticed Koan moving away from the group and walking alone toward the Harumi Tunnel. Eyes met, some filled with concern, others with contempt. A voice rose, sharp and cutting:
"She's crazy..." "
But immediately, another laid a firm hand on the shoulder of the man who had just spoken. It was a simple gesture, an almost brotherly pat, but it was enough to remind him of the harsh reality.
"Get a grip. We have to follow Reo's plan. We don't have time to waste on rebels."
The words fell coldly, without compassion. They reflected a state of mind shared by many: in this brutal new order, everyone had to think first and foremost about their own survival. Those who strayed were no longer seen as companions, but as burdens doomed to disappear.
Koan, standing apart, watched the human mass gradually move away. From where she stood, she could see the crowd undulating like a disciplined tide, drawn by the promise of survival that Toyosu represented. She stood still for a moment, her eyes half-closed, and uttered a sentence in a strangely peaceful voice:
"I have a one in three chance of finding the right tunnel... but in reality, it's almost impossible for it to be mine." "
Far from saddening her, her own words seemed to liberate her. Her lips stretched into a discreet, fragile but sincere smile. It was as if she had finally found some kind of truth in this chaos.
Her eyes rose to the translucent barriers that lined the streets, with their shifting blue reflections. The world she had known, so orderly, so monotonous, had been swept away in a matter of minutes by this cruel enigma. Where yesterday there had been a tepid peace, now there was only screaming, frenzy, arguments, and despair. Society had cracked all at once, revealing its unsuspected fragility.
And Koan, instead of being frightened, found herself savoring this upheaval. A strange calmness arose within her, as if the turmoil outside echoed the silent storm she had always carried inside her. Finally, the world reflected her own inner chaos. Finally, she was no longer alone in feeling alienated from this artificial tranquility.
She stood for a few moments contemplating the agitated silhouettes disappearing into the pale light of the Toyosu tunnel. The panic, the crying, the screaming... it all formed a dissonant symphony that, strangely, soothed her. She enjoyed this disorder more than she had ever enjoyed the peaceful days.
The world was no longer peaceful, and for the first time, Koan felt like she belonged.
As Koki's group advanced confidently toward the Toyosu tunnel, Koki moved slightly away from the formation, coming closer to one of his men. With an apparently friendly gesture, he put his arm around his neck, as if to seal a false complicity. He greeted him with a measured smile, calling him by the nickname he was so fond of: Baka.
"You know, I know you've been dipping into my stock," he whispered in a calm tone that sounded like a blade grazing the skin.
Baka's blood ran cold. His eyes widened, and his lips trembled with panic. At first, he tried to deny it, seeking to hide his discomfort behind a nervous laugh, but Koki's firm hand on his shoulder made it clear that there was no escape. After a few seconds of unbearable silence, he finally lowered his head and admitted, in a barely audible voice, that he had indeed stolen.
Contrary to expectations, Koki burst out laughing softly and hugged her man a little tighter. "Don't worry, I'm not mad at you. You're forgiven." Her words were gentle, but Baka knew full well that behind that light tone lay an implacable authority.
Ken, who had heard the exchange, approached and commented in a surprised tone:
"Well... I didn't expect to see you in such a good mood."
Koki turned to him, a predatory smile on his face.
"We're gambling with our lives, it's true... but now we're sure we'll survive. So yes, Ken, I'm in a good mood. "
Koki tightened his grip a little more, leaning toward Baka's ear. His voice, this time deeper and charged with icy intensity, cut through the air:
"You're still one of us. "
The breath of his words vibrated in Baka's neck, making him shiver. Then, after a short silence, Koki continued, more calmly but still with unrelenting seriousness:
"I was hesitant to tell you... but now that you've been excused, maybe I can make an exception. "
Baka's eyes widened. His mind, still mired in fear from the previous revelation, could no longer comprehend anything. Confusion overwhelmed him, mixed with a hint of misplaced hope.
Ken and Bōzu, who were watching the scene closely, exchanged stunned glances before speaking almost simultaneously.
"Wait... Koki... are you really going to tell him?"
Their tone oscillated between disbelief and concern, as if they doubted that their leader was really about to cross a line they believed to be uncrossable.
Koki, his face impassive, continued in a grave voice, stripped of all lightness:
"Listen carefully, Baka. In less than a minute, one of the defective tunnels will be revealed. Whichever one Reo orders us to take... we'll have to take the opposite one."
Baka blinked, lost, unable to grasp the meaning of his leader's words. His lips trembled, no response coming out.
Then Koki fixed his cold gaze on him and continued, each sentence ringing out like an unrelenting truth:
"Don't you understand? Reo's goal was never to save these people. His goal is to sacrifice as many of them as possible. The more deaths there are, the more luck is on his side. That's how he thinks he'll win." "
Baka's breathing quickened, his chest tightened.
"W-wait... so... what he said... the solution... it's wrong?" he stammered, his voice broken.
Koki nodded slowly, unrelenting.
"Yes. It's deliberate. If he hadn't done that, too many people would have scattered. He wants to gather them together so he can condemn them more easily."
These words hit Baka like a fatal blow. His legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground, his throat tight, bursting into tears. His shoulders shook violently, unable to bear the weight of this monstrous revelation.
Ken crossed his arms, his gaze heavy, and finally sighed:
"We already knew, Baka... At first, the chief didn't plan to tell you."
Bozu nodded silently, confirming with a grave look.
Baka looked up at them, his eyes red from crying. His friends' admission swept away his doubts: Koki hadn't lied. The truth, as unbearable as it was, had just dawned on him with brutal clarity.
Suddenly, before their eyes, red characters appeared, suspended in midair as if engraved by an invisible hand.
[The faulty equipment zone will be revealed in: 3... 2... 1...]
Silence fell instantly. Everyone held their breath, tense with anxiety about the verdict. The seconds stretched out like an eternity.
Then the announcement rang out, relentless:
[Faulty equipment zone: Harumi]
When the faulty area was revealed, a collective sigh escaped from the crowd. Shoulders relaxed, faces tense with fear finally softened.
"So... that means Reo's solution is the right one, since the Toyosu tunnel wasn't revealed," exclaimed a voice in the crowd, tinged with immense relief.
Another immediately agreed: "Yes, he was right all along! We made the right choice!"
Little by little, reassuring murmurs spread like a wave. Eyes met, filled with new hope. Everyone began to convince themselves that their survival was now just a matter of patience. The crowd's confidence grew, transforming fear into almost blind trust.
Reo stared at the crowd, calm and jubilant. The faces that moments earlier had been tense with fear were now relaxed, some even smiling. Yet at that moment, Reo's vision blurred. Everything around him seemed to become saturated, the colors more vivid, almost aggressive, as if the world were transforming under the weight of his thoughts.
In his hand, he thought he felt a pulse. When he looked down, he imagined he was holding a heart. A beating heart, heavy, full of life. From this heart, dozens, hundreds of blood vessels extended into the crowd, connecting each person to him. Each beat resonated like a powerful echo, a resonance that shook him to his core.
He understood then: these people, all these trusting faces, had placed their lives in his hands. Their survival depended on his judgment, on his ability to solve this puzzle. They had placed their absolute trust in him, and this image of the beating heart reminded him that he could not disappoint them. If this heart were to stop, if his hands were to falter, it was not only he who would fall, but all those who had followed him.
His breathing became heavier, his thoughts swirled. He saw himself mentally replaying each step of his reasoning: the discovery of the panel, the meticulous calculations, the approximation of the height, and finally the conclusion he had dared to assert. Every detail replayed in his mind with unbearable intensity.
Then, like a final memory, the image of the architect popped into his mind. His face superimposed itself on the vision of the heart, frozen, inscrutable, almost mocking. The shock was so sudden that Reo jumped, as if awakened from a nightmare, his heart pounding in his chest.
He looked up at the crowd, still smiling, but his own gaze was haunted by a single fear: what if, despite everything, he had been wrong?
As the crowd gathered in the Toyosu area, a wind of calm blew among them. Some sat down, others laughed nervously, as if they were already touching deliverance with their fingertips. When they saw Reo approaching, a murmur of admiration ran through the ranks.
"Here comes our champion!" said a man with a smile, his fist raised as if to cheer him on. "
But Reo's face did not reflect the euphoria around him. His features were closed, his eyes darker than usual. His heavy, determined gait contrasted sharply with the lightheartedness that everyone else had just regained. Silence fell, as everyone waited for his words as a definitive confirmation of their salvation.
"The architect was right..." he said in a clear but grave voice. "We cannot rely on approximate calculations to solve this puzzle."
Like a guillotine, his words shattered the illusion of security. The smiles immediately faded, replaced by tense, pale faces, where anxiety once again reared its head. A worried murmur ran through the crowd, and one of them finally spoke up, his voice trembling:
"Wait... you mean... you haven't really found a solution? That you... lied to us?"
Reo shook his head gravely.
"No. I didn't lie to you. But the revelation of the failing zone opened my eyes. It made me realize something I hadn't considered."
A heavy silence fell. The looks on their faces, once filled with gratitude, were now filled with doubt and renewed fear. It was as if with each word Reo spoke, the ground crumbled a little more beneath their feet.
Reo scanned the crowd, fixing his eyes on those listening to him with an almost disturbing intensity. Then, after a brief pause, he spoke slowly, as if weighing the effect of each syllable:
"Are you familiar with the Monty Hall problem?"