"What the hell—where am I? Is this still America?"
"Jesus Christ! Where's my three-thousand-square-foot house?"
"My kid's still at home! This isn't funny!"
The cacophony of panicked voices dragged Ethan Flint back to consciousness. He found himself sprawled on the floor of a barren room, two metal keys digging into his hip through his jeans pocket.
The room was a study in minimalism—and not the trendy kind. A wooden buckler leaned against one wall, a hand axe beside it. A single door. Not even a mattress to soften the concrete floor.
Where the hell am I?
Before he could piece together what had happened, the shouting match outside drew him to his feet. He grabbed the door handle and stepped into chaos.
The hallway stretched wide enough for three people to walk abreast, ending in solid walls on both sides—a concrete tomb with eight doors, eight rooms. Seven people, judging by the crowd of men and women arguing in the middle of the corridor, their voices bouncing off the walls like trapped birds.
Ethan listened. Same story, different person: one moment they'd been living their lives, the next—poof—teleported here like some twisted magic trick.
The disappearances. The thought hit him like cold water. For months, people had been vanishing without a trace. One day, you're grabbing coffee, the next, you're gone. Security cameras showed empty clothes hitting the ground, cars crashing with no drivers, and entire families evaporating from their dinner tables.
At first, everyone figured it was isolated incidents. Freak accidents, maybe some kind of terrorist weapon. But as the numbers climbed into the thousands, then tens of thousands, the world began to crack at its edges. People hoarded food, quit their jobs, and spent their last days with family.
Looked like the missing hadn't died after all. They'd been drafted.
The proof materialized in front of Ethan's eyes: a translucent blue interface that hadn't been there thirty seconds ago.
[Congratulations! You have been selected for the World Survival Game. Please clear all scenarios and try very hard not to die!]
[Player: Ethan Flint]
[Tier: Unranked]
[Willpower: 97/100]
[Vitality: 6]
[Strength: 5]
[Agility: 7]
[Items: Newcomer Starter Pack x1]
[Skills: None]
Well, that's not ominous at all.
Ethan focused on the starter pack, and it burst open in a shower of white light—before immediately vomiting error messages across his vision.
[Congratulations! You have received: &#@ERROR@!$%]
[System repairing...]
[Repair failed!]
[System repairing...]
[Repair failed!]
[System repairing...]
[Repair successful!]
[Congratulations! You have received the unique skill: Eye of Truth!]
The cascade of blood-red error windows finally cleared, leaving his interface clean except for one new addition in his skill slot.
That's when Ethan saw them.
Floating around each person in the hallway—including himself—were things—eyeballs, to be precise. Grotesque, veiny orbs trailing crimson nerve-cords like jellyfish tentacles, bobbing and weaving through the air as if they had a mind of their own.
They hadn't been there before he'd gotten the skill.
Then words began scrolling across his vision, white text floating in mid-air like some demented live chat:
[Oh, look what we have here! Fresh meat! Everlight Technologies really should give us VIP spectators a heads-up when new players drop.]
[Too early. Too many survivors still. Gonna be boring until the culling starts.]
[These newbies look like garbage. What scenario is this, anyway? If it's too hard and they all die immediately, that's just wasteful.]
[Relax, it's just a Level 1 instance. They even get free starter weapons. You'd have to be brain-dead to fail this one.]
As the comments streamed past, one of the floating eyeballs—the one tethered to a teenage girl in a school uniform—suddenly swooped closer to her face, rotating for what was a close-up shot.
The girl kept talking to the others about escape plans, completely oblivious to the organic camera two inches from her nose.
More complaints filled the chat:
[Level 1 scenarios only get three cameras, and you just hogged one for a damn close-up! Some of us want to see the big picture!]
[I've got money, deal with it! You want better views? Buy your camera access!]
The pieces clicked together with nauseating clarity. The eyeballs were cameras. The floating text was a live chat.
They were entertainment.
[Eye of Truth]
[Type: Passive Skill]
[Effect: See the world as it truly is.]
[Restrictions: None]
[Description: Someone has to break the chains.]
The real world. The phrase echoed in Ethan's mind as he stared at the obscene surveillance apparatus surrounding them. This is the real world? We're just... performing monkeys?
While Ethan grappled with cosmic horror, the others had discovered their interfaces. The realization that they weren't going home—that they were now officially among the "disappeared"—hit the group like a freight train.
A woman in a floral apron sank to her knees, sobbing. She'd been cooking dinner when the world had yanked her away. Her kids were probably still waiting for her to call them to the table.
A working-class guy in paint-stained jeans clutched a worn backpack to his chest.Inside, Ethan guessed, was probably something important—rent money, medical bills, the last hopes of a man who'd just been erased from existence.
The World Survival Game, however, didn't believe in grief counseling.
[Scenario: Screamer's Night]
[Instance ID: A-1099]
[Objective: Survive.]
[Duration: Seven days (game time)]
[Tip: Hunters emerge when darkness falls. Intact room doors provide limited protection.]
[Time until nightfall: 5 minutes.]
The hallway's far wall dissolved, replaced by an enormous stained-glass window. The artwork depicted three monkey-like creatures, each more hideous than the last, grinning with too many teeth.Somebody's got seriously questionable taste in interior design.
Beyond the glass lay nothing but a white void—a blank screen that somehow communicated "daytime" without showing sun, sky, or anything resembling a real world.
Five minutes.
A man in a business suit stepped forward, his face the kind of earnest, trustworthy expression that sold insurance and pitched pyramid schemes. "Everyone heard the announcement. We're teammates now, whether we like it or not." His voice carried the practiced confidence of someone used to running meetings. "We should introduce ourselves while it's still safe. Share our gear, plan our strategy."
The suit looked reliable enough. The kind of guy who organized office potlucks and remembered everyone's birthday.