Orion's mind raced, replaying everyone's words as if they were pieces of a puzzle he had to solve. But this wasn't about the truth—it was about survival. He had no choice but to win. His life depended on it, and so did the money waiting for him back home. Time slipped through his fingers like sand, and his resolve hardened.

He was the liar. For him to live, the other seven had to die.

The old man spoke next, dragging Orion from his thoughts.

"My name is Elton," he began, his voice steady but weary. "I'm from Washington. I'm a retired professor of economics at UM University, specializing in international trade. You can verify my credentials online if you ever get out of here."

He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses, which magnified his eyes like oversized marbles.

"Last night, I was in my office, reviewing a student's thesis—some quantitative analysis of risks in the modern insurance industry. The lights started flickering. At first, I thought it was just the old wiring. But then…" He hesitated, his hands twitching slightly. "Someone grabbed me from behind. Covered my mouth and nose. I blacked out. And then… I woke up here."

Elton's faded shirt and the pen clipped to his front pocket made him look every bit the part of a lifelong academic. But his story wasn't unique—it followed the same pattern as the others. Orion's thoughts churned. Flickering lights. An attack. The details matched too perfectly.

Then came the fourth speaker, a burly man with arms as solid as tree trunks.

"Name's Thomason," he said, his voice deep and gruff. "I'm a cop from Oakland, outside Orlando. I live there with my wife and two kids. Life was good... until last night."

He rubbed a scar on his right hand, his jaw tightening. "I was on a stakeout in my patrol car. Hours passed, nothing happened. Then, the dome light flickered. Before I could react, someone yanked my head back. I fought, grabbed his hand with my left, but he slashed my right hand with a knife. Next thing I knew, I was here."

Thomason raised his hand, revealing the jagged red scar running across his palm.

Michael, the tattooed man, snorted. "Bullshit. You said you grabbed him with your left, but the cut's on your right? Makes no sense."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Thomason's eyes darkened, his voice sharp. "Ever been in a fight, genius? You don't get to choose where the knife lands. I grabbed his hand with my left, and in the struggle, he cut my right. If you think I'm lying, maybe you're the liar."

The room fell silent. Thomason's glare bore into Michael, who shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Orion stayed quiet, analyzing every word. Thomason's scar seemed to back up his story. The rules were clear: only one person could lie. Everyone else's stories had to be true.

The fifth person to speak was a frail woman huddled in the corner, her floral dress and scuffed shoes making her look out of place.

"My name is Solara," she stammered, her voice barely audible. "I'm from Seattle. I… I work at a bank. I'm just an intern. Last night, I was working late, entering client data. Everyone else had gone home. The office was so quiet..."

Her voice cracked, and she hugged her knees. "Then the lights started flickering. I thought it was just a power surge. But then… someone grabbed me. Covered my mouth. I couldn't breathe. Everything went black."

She shrank further into the shadows, trembling.

Orion noted how she avoided eye contact, her gaze fixed on the floor. But he didn't press her—there was something raw about her fear that felt genuine.

Michael, however, had no patience. "Hurry up, people! We've got four minutes left!" He jabbed a finger at the timer on his cuff, his frustration mounting.

Next was a young woman who immediately drew every man's attention. She wore a tight pink dress and sky-high heels, her every move deliberate and calculated.

"My name is Naima," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I'm 22, from Chicago. I'm a live-streamer—I sing and dance on my streams." She hugged herself, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Last night, I was home streaming when the power went out. I was terrified."

She sniffled, her voice breaking. "Then… someone grabbed me. I don't know why this is happening to me!"

Elton leaned forward, his expression sympathetic. "That must've been so frightening, my dear. I'm so sorry you went through that."

Halia rolled her eyes. "Oh, give me a break," she muttered under her breath, disgusted by Naima's theatrics.

Michael shot her a glare. "Why don't you shut up for once, Halia? Not everyone has to act like you."

Halia scowled but bit back her retort.

Only Orion seemed immune to Naima's charms. He studied her words, her tone, her body language. Everything about her screamed manipulation, but then again, he was lying too. He knew firsthand how convincing a liar could be.

The seventh person spoke next: a doctor with a calm demeanor that bordered on unnerving. Not even the decapitated body in the room seemed to faze him.

"My name is Dr. Julian," he said simply. "I'm from Boston. I'll keep it short—I was on my way home from the hospital after a 12-hour shift. The lights in the parking lot flickered, and before I knew it, someone had grabbed me. That's all."

His story was brief, unembellished. Almost too clean.

Orion's mind raced. Everyone had spoken except him. Their stories overlapped just enough to feel orchestrated. Flickering lights. Sudden attacks. They weren't coincidences. This was a game, one carefully designed to pit them against each other.

But Orion had one advantage: he knew the truth. He was the liar. And now, it was his turn to speak.