The blackout lasted exactly one minute.
I know that because I was staring at the microwave clock when the numbers blinked out.
12:07.
Then nothing.
The fridge went silent. The fan stopped mid-spin. Even the orange glow from the streetlights outside my window disappeared. It wasn't just my apartment. It felt like the whole city inhaled and forgot how to breathe.
I waited for the generator hum from a nearby building.
Nothing.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Unknown Number.
No signal bars. No Wi-Fi. Still, it rang again.
I answered.
Static filled my ear. Not random. Controlled. Steady.
Then a distorted voice spoke.
"Adrian Vale. Twenty-seven. Former civil engineering student. Outstanding debt: twelve million naira. Academic suspension. Employment terminated."
My stomach tightened.
"Who is this?" I asked.
The voice ignored the question.
"Do you want a second chance?"
"At what?"
"Correction."
The line went dead.
The lights snapped back on.
The microwave blinked.
12:08.
Exactly one minute gone.
I stood in my tiny apartment, heart pounding harder than it should have for a prank call.
Twelve million naira.
That number wasn't public. Not like that.
My phone buzzed again.
A message.
Coordinates. A time. Midnight.
No sender.
I stared at it for a long time.
I didn't delete it.
I told myself I wasn't going.
By 11:47 p.m., I was outside.
The coordinates led to an abandoned industrial yard I recognized from my internship days. An unfinished warehouse project that had collapsed when funding dried up.
The gate stood open.
A black bus waited inside.
No license plate. No logo. Headlights off.
I wasn't alone. People approached from different directions, walking cautiously toward the bus like we were all pretending this was normal.
No one spoke.
The doors hissed open.
A tall man in a dark uniform stood inside. His face was hidden behind a smooth matte visor.
"Phones," he said calmly.
One by one, we handed them over.
When it was my turn, I hesitated.
"You may leave," he added evenly. "But the invitation will not be repeated."
Twelve million naira.
I gave him my phone.
The doors shut behind me.
There were twenty of us on that bus.
Dim lights. No windows. The driver compartment sealed off.
No visible cameras.
Which meant there were hidden ones.
The bus moved. The turns were too frequent to map. Deliberate.
A young man across from me muttered, "This is illegal."
"We got on willingly," a woman in business clothes replied.
"That doesn't make it legal."
I stayed quiet.
I counted breathing patterns instead.
When the bus finally stopped, the doors opened to blinding white light.
We stepped into a massive underground chamber.
Concrete walls curved upward into darkness. Steel beams cut across the ceiling. Suspended platforms hung above us.
A digital screen flickered on.
Numbers rolled downward.
More buses unloaded.
Within minutes, the chamber filled with ninety-nine strangers.
Plus me.
The screen stabilized.
WELCOME TO ZERO SUM CITY.
A mechanical voice echoed around us.
"You have been selected based on financial instability, cognitive adaptability, and psychological resilience."
Murmurs spread.
"Selected for what?"
"To participate."
The screen changed.
ONLY ONE PARTICIPANT WILL EXIT WITH COMPLETE DEBT ERASURE AND FINANCIAL RESTORATION.
My pulse thudded in my ears.
"The rest will be eliminated."
"How?" someone shouted.
"You will now proceed to Phase One."
Metal doors opened.
We were guided forward into a steel chamber.
The floor was a grid of square panels stretching across the room. Hundreds of them.
A timer appeared overhead.
30:00
"Phase One: Load Distribution."
The voice continued.
"Each tile transfers weight to adjacent tiles. Incorrect distribution will trigger recalibration."
"What does recalibration mean?" a woman asked.
The timer began.
29:59.
The panel beneath the man closest to the entrance flashed red.
The floor dropped.
He disappeared with a scream.
The opening sealed instantly.
My throat went dry.
"Elimination is the consequence of miscalculation," the voice said calmly.
Panic exploded.
People rushed forward, stepping blindly.
Three more vanished within seconds.
I didn't move.
Each tile shifts weight to adjacent tiles.
That meant cumulative pressure mattered.
If too many people clustered—
Another section dropped near the center.
Six eliminated at once.
I stepped onto the first tile carefully.
It held.
A faint vibration passed through the sole of my shoe.
Testing.
I shifted my weight slightly toward the edge.
Still stable.
I moved forward.
A woman followed me.
"Why that direction?" she whispered.
"Everyone's rushing center," I muttered. "That's where it'll overload."
More screams behind us.
I noticed something else.
Every tenth tile had a faint marking in the corner. A tiny engraved triangle.
Reinforced?
I tested one.
It felt more stable.
I adjusted my path accordingly.
"Spread out," I said to the few near me. "Diagonal. One tile gap."
Some listened.
Most didn't.
The timer hit 24:00.
The grid trembled.
"Twenty participants eliminated," the voice announced.
Twenty.
Just like that.
Halfway across, the woman behind me stumbled.
I grabbed her arm before she shifted too much weight forward.
"Don't run," I snapped.
"What if you're wrong?"
"I probably am," I said. "But panic guarantees failure."
We kept moving.
Near the final stretch, a man lunged from my left, trying to overtake me.
The tile beneath us flashed red.
I reacted instinctively, shifting backward, redistributing weight.
He didn't.
The floor opened.
His fingers scraped the edge for a split second before he fell.
The opening sealed.
I didn't look down again.
The timer read 00:48 when I stepped onto the final row.
I crossed.
The door at the far end slid open.
I stumbled through.
Only twenty-nine of us remained.
Seventy-one gone in thirty minutes.
PHASE ONE COMPLETE.
The message glowed overhead.
My hands were shaking.
This wasn't random. The system measured reaction time, risk tolerance, leadership influence.
It was observing.
We were led into a sleeping chamber lined with metal bunks.
"Phase Two begins in six hours," the voice announced.
Six hours.
A tall man with sharp features stepped forward.
"I think we should introduce ourselves," he said evenly.
No one responded.
"We need strategy. Or we eliminate each other faster."
His eyes landed on me.
"You were calculating," he said. "Engineering?"
I didn't answer.
He smiled faintly.
"Mercer."
I didn't shake his hand.
"How many people did you let fall to cross faster?" I asked.
His expression didn't change.
"In a zero-sum system," he replied calmly, "efficiency is mercy."
The lights dimmed slightly.
PHASE TWO PARAMETERS INITIALIZING.
Initializing?
Across the far wall, a narrow panel slid open for half a second.
I saw inside.
A control room.
Rows of empty chairs.
No operators.
No audience.
The system was running itself.
The panel sealed shut.
My breathing slowed.
That was worse.
Because if no one was controlling this—
Who had started it?
The lights cut out completely.
Metal doors locked with a heavy clang.
A new timer began ticking somewhere in the darkness.
Then the voice whispered:
"Phase Two will test trust. Elimination rate will double."
I felt Mercer's gaze on me even in the dark.
Seventy-one gone already.
Double that?
This wasn't just survival.
The game was identifying leaders.
And leaders don't share victory.
In the darkness, I understood something clearly.
Only one of us was meant to leave.
And it wasn't going to be by accident.