The darkness isn't total.
That's what I realize first.
There's a faint red glow somewhere above us, soft enough that it doesn't reach the corners of the room. I can make out shapes. Furniture. A low table. A couch that looks too comfortable to be safe.
The door clicks shut behind us.
The sound is final.
"Relax," the sharp-smiled man says calmly. "If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't bother with the lights."
"That's not reassuring," I reply.
He chuckles, unbothered, and shrugs out of his jacket with deliberate slowness. He doesn't come closer. Doesn't touch me. Just watches me the way someone watches a fire they're deciding whether to feed.
"This isn't about pain," he says. "It's about leverage."
I cross my arms again, a useless shield.
"You keep saying the game," I say. "What is it?"
He tilts his head, studying me.
"Power," he says simply. "Acquired, transferred, stolen."
"That's vague."
"It's supposed to be."
He walks to the table and presses a button. The wall behind it flickers to life—screens embedded seamlessly into stone. Names scroll past. Faces. Short clips. People arguing. People crying. People laughing too hard.
"Players," he says. "Past and present."
My stomach twists.
"What do they do?" I ask.
"They make choices."
"That's it?"
He turns back to me. "That's everything."
I feel it then—the wrongness of it. The familiarity. This isn't a game of tasks or dares. It's something quieter. Something crueler.
"You manipulate people," I say.
He smiles. "Everyone does. We just keep score."
My phone vibrates.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Four: Everything you give can be used.
I swallow.
"And why me?" I ask.
He steps closer—not invading, just inside my space enough that my skin prickles.
"Because you're wanted," he says. "And because you don't yet know why."
His hand lifts, slow, palm up, stopping inches from my waist. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't need to.
"This is where most people get confused," he continues. "They think intimacy is physical."
My breath is shallow now. Loud in my ears.
"It's not," he says softly. "It's informational."
He lowers his hand.
"You want to know how the game works?" he asks. "You show me something real."
My pulse stutters.
"Like what?" I ask.
He gestures toward the couch.
"Sit."
I don't move.
"That's not an order," he says lightly. "It's an invitation."
My phone buzzes again.
You can't refuse a direct invitation.
I sit.
The couch sinks under my weight, swallowing me just a little. He remains standing, watching, assessing.
"Good," he says. "Now tell me something you've never told anyone here."
"I don't know anyone here."
"Exactly."
I laugh weakly. "That's your seduction tactic? Trauma bonding?"
"Truth," he corrects. "Bonding is optional."
I hesitate.
"My father disappeared when I was sixteen," I say finally. "Everyone thought he left. He didn't."
He waits. Silent.
"They found his car," I continue. "Empty. Cleaned. No body."
His expression doesn't change—but something sharpens behind his eyes.
"Good," he says quietly.
My chest tightens.
"That's it?" I ask. "That's enough?"
"For now."
I stand abruptly. "You said everything given can be used."
"And it will be," he agrees. "Just not by me."
The door opens.
The dark-suited man stands there, jaw tight, eyes flicking to me like he's checking for damage.
"What are you doing?" he asks sharply.
"Playing," the sharp-smiled man replies.
The woman in black appears behind him, her gaze unreadable.
"It's time," she says.
"For what?" I ask.
"For consequences."
The screens change.
One face enlarges—a woman I recognize from the party. Blonde. Laughing earlier. Her name flashes beneath her image.
"She broke Rule Two," the woman says calmly. "Refused an invitation."
The video begins to play.
It's security footage. The blonde woman arguing with someone off-screen. Shaking her head. Backing away.
Then the feed cuts.
"What happens to her?" I whisper.
The sharp-smiled man looks at me—not cruelly. Almost gently.
"She loses something," he says. "Something she values."
The next clip plays.
Her job. Her reputation. A montage of emails. Headlines. Messages piling up. Her life unraveling in minutes.
I feel sick.
"You did this," I say.
"No," the dark-suited man says quietly. "She did."
The woman in black turns to me.
"This is your first consequence," she says. "You were chosen. Others were not. That imbalance creates fallout."
"I didn't agree to this," I say.
The dark-suited man steps closer, his voice low.
"You agreed when you stayed."
Silence crashes down around us.
My phone vibrates one last time.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Five: If you don't choose, someone else will.
I look at the screen. Then at them.
Three faces. Three threats.
Three possible alliances.
And I realize, with a cold clarity that settles deep in my bones—
The game isn't about winning.
It's about deciding who gets destroyed in your place.