The dormitory was different today.
Gone was the idle chatter, the hushed whispers of disbelief. In its place: silence. Thick, heavy silence. The kind that settled into the lungs and made it hard to breathe. Lee Joon-hwa (Jae) Specter — sat on his assigned bunk, his expression unreadable, the shadows from the flickering ceiling lights playing tricks on his sharp features.
The number 021 was stitched into the green fabric on his chest.
He hadn't spoken since breakfast.
Around him, fear was beginning to take form. Some prayed. Others mumbled theories. A few paced the floor like caged animals. Lee Da-bin, the street-smart gambler now dubbed Player 077, was one of the latter.
"You feel that?" Da-bin muttered, pausing beside Specter's bunk. "Like we're all about to be thrown to the wolves."
Specter looked up, his eyes calm but oddly distant. "We're already in the wolves' mouth. We're just waiting for the bite."
Da-bin gave a dry laugh. "Creepy, man. You talk like a horror novelist."
Specter didn't smile. He just stood as the loudspeaker crackled to life.
> "All players, proceed through the main doors. Game 1 will begin shortly."
---
They moved like a herd, hundreds of feet shuffling across cold cement. A long hallway, painted in childlike pastels, stretched before them. It felt... wrong. Like dressing a slaughterhouse in cartoon wallpaper.
Specter's steps were measured. Observing. Counting.
They emerged into a vast open field bordered by towering concrete walls. Artificial grass beneath their feet. A massive mechanical doll stood at the far end, facing a crimson tree. Cameras mounted on its eyes.
Specter noted everything.
> The smell of metal and oil. The soft hum of machinery. The uneasy tension buzzing through the crowd.
And then, the voice:
> "Welcome to Game 1: Red Light, Green Light. You may cross the finish line while the doll says 'Green Light.' If you move when she says 'Red Light,' you will be eliminated."
A simple children's game. But the air told another story.
He turned slightly and saw Da-bin standing nearby, jaw clenched.
"Eliminated doesn't mean kicked out, does it?" someone muttered behind them.
Specter didn't answer. The answer was coming.
The doll's head rotated with a series of clicks.
> "Green Light."
The crowd hesitated, unsure.
> "Red Light."
A young man near the front stumbled forward slightly. The doll's eyes whirred — locked onto him.
A gunshot.
Blood exploded from the man's chest.
Screams erupted.
> "You moved."
Another shot rang out.
And another.
Chaos.
People surged backward — more gunfire. Dozens dropped. Panic became a disease. Specter stood frozen, his breathing shallow.
His mind raced, but his body was locked.
It was real.
They were really dying.
His hands trembled. Not from fear. From the overload of data — of variables, of danger, of decisions.
> "Green Light."
The surviving players ran.
> "Red Light."
More fell.
He took a single step. Then stopped.
To his left, a woman sobbed, still crouched. Her mouth opened to scream again — but a bullet silenced her.
> "You moved."
Blood sprayed across Specter's cheek.
His eyes widened.
Something cracked in his composure.
Not visibly. Not to them. But inside, the part of him trained to stay above emotion... flinched.
He glanced down. His shoes were splattered.
This wasn't digital. This wasn't something he could delete. This was death — raw, unfiltered.
And it was happening.
Beside him, Da-bin's voice whispered. "Move when she does. No sudden shifts. Think of it like rhythm."
Specter nodded, his throat dry. His vision sharpened. Every tick of the doll's head, every sway of the players' legs — he burned it into memory.
He had to survive.
> "Green Light."
He walked. Five steps.
> "Red Light."
He stopped. Dead still. He stared into the distance — at the finish line. It looked so far.
Bodies littered the field. Grotesque. Like a failed experiment.
Somewhere behind him, a boy — maybe 12, maybe younger — began to cry.
A final shot rang out.
> "You moved."
This was the time when everyone realize,
the game was no longer a game.