The shifting lens of the game's omnipresent eyes moved again, this time sliding into the chamber of Zelika Amare. The tall, sharp-eyed woman sat with perfect posture, one hand resting lazily on her stack of opponent cards. Across from her sat a wiry man in his late thirties—lean, restless, and with eyes that scanned the room like a predator in unfamiliar territory.
His file called him Kedar Venn, a thief so elusive he'd been nicknamed The Phantom of Belltown. His record boasted 63 confirmed heists, but not a single violent offense. Yet, what kept him in constant motion wasn't greed—it was survival.
Zelika skimmed his data with a slow, deliberate manner. Then she looked up with a smile that was anything but warm.
"Well," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "even if you do escape from here, you won't last two weeks in the outer world. You know why, don't you?"
Kedar's jaw tightened.
"The police have already built a profile on you, Kedar Venn. Every alias. Every safehouse. Every contact. They're just waiting for you to slip. And if I survive this room… I might just make sure they don't have to wait too long."
She leaned forward over the desk, smiling like a cat watching a cornered mouse. Kedar didn't reply. He just tapped his fingers against the table—once, twice, thrice—as if calculating.
The scene slid like a curtain being pulled, revealing another chamber. Tengis Altanchuluun sat across from his opponent—a weathered soldier with scars across his neck and a faded military patch stitched awkwardly into his shirt.
The air between them wasn't tense. It was… solemn.
Instead of verbal jabs or manipulative traps, they spoke of the past.
"The Siege of Varanos," Tengis said quietly. "I lost half my unit there. All for a scrap of land nobody wanted."
The other man nodded slowly.
"Same story everywhere. The war in the Baltics. The Africa Resource Conflict. The Eastern Energy Skirmishes. Twenty-five years… and all we did was make the world smaller and hungrier."
There was no need for the wall, no need for the desk. In this room, the two men weren't enemies—they were witnesses to the same tragedy.
But the next chamber was far from solemn.
Waru Denholm was leaning back in his chair, grinning like a child who knew a secret no one else did. His opponent, a broad-shouldered man with tattoos crawling up his neck, had been pacing the small space on his side of the wall.
Waru giggled—high, light, almost musical.
"You will lose," he said simply, resting his chin in his hand. "Loser."
The man froze mid-step, his face contorting with confusion.
"What in the world do you mean by that?" he demanded, slamming his desk so hard the sound echoed.
Waru didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just kept smiling, the kind of smile that hinted at a private joke, one that would never be explained.
The more his opponent pressed, the quieter Waru became—until his silence was more unnerving than his words.
Somewhere, in the unseen control room, an administrator scribbled a note:
"Denholm – high psychological disruption potential. Monitor closely."
And the game continued.