The chatter ceased instantly as the masked figure's gravelly voice sliced through the tense air. The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the faint, rhythmic dripping of crimson pooling beneath the lifeless body. A grim reminder: death here was neither hypothetical nor distant.

"Now," the masked figure began, his voice cold and deliberate, "each of you will tell a story—something that happened just before you arrived here. When everyone has spoken, there will be a vote. If all eight of you unanimously identify the liar, the liar dies, and the rest of you will go free. But if even one of you votes wrong..." He gestured lazily to the mutilated corpse on the floor. "The liar walks free. And the rest of you? Well, you won't be walking anywhere."

The group sat frozen, the weight of his words pressing down on them like a physical force.

Michael, the muscular man with tattoos, snorted, breaking the silence. "This is just some sick game," he growled, his gaze darting around. His tone, however, betrayed his nerves. "Fine. Let's get this over with." He jabbed a finger at Halia. "You're up first, sweetheart. Ladies first, right?"

Halia flinched, her lips parting in protest. "This isn't fair! Shouldn't we get a minute to discuss?"

The masked man tilted his head slightly, raising a skeletal, claw-like hand. The skin stretched taut over his fingers resembled the bark of an ancient tree. "Very well," he said, his tone mocking.

The timers on their cuffs froze. Halia blinked in confusion, momentarily thrown off.

"Go ahead," the masked man said, retreating into the shadows. "Talk all you like. It won't help you."

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices.

An older man in glasses stood, raising his hands like a weary professor trying to calm an unruly classroom. "Listen to me! This is a psychological game. If we work together, we might have a chance."

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"Sit down, old man," Michael snapped. "Nobody here's trusting anyone. Just stick to the rules."

Michael shot to his feet, marching toward the smooth metal wall. "Let's skip the stories. We'll smash these cuffs, gang up on that freak in the mask, and get out of here." He swung his cuffs against the wall with all his strength. The sound reverberated through the room, but the metal didn't so much as dent.

"Damn it!" he growled, shaking his stinging hands. "What are these things made of?"

"See?" the old man said, adjusting his glasses. "Violence isn't going to work. We need strategy."

Michael turned, glaring at him. "Oh, yeah? Got a brilliant plan, Einstein?"

The older man hesitated, then straightened his back. "Yes. If we all tell the truth—every single one of us, even the liar—then technically, there won't be any lies to detect. We vote unanimously that no one is lying, and we all survive."

The room fell into a tense silence as the group absorbed his words.

Halia narrowed her eyes. "That's ridiculous," she said sharply. "If you're the liar, you'd want us to trust you so you could survive. Why should we believe you?"

The old man faltered, his confidence evaporating as he sank back into his seat. "If you won't trust me... then I don't have another idea."

The masked man's voice cut through the growing murmurs like a blade. "Time's up. Let's begin."

All eyes turned to Halia, who sat rigidly at the far left. Michael leaned toward her, smirking. "Come on, sweetheart. You love to talk, don't you? Let's hear it."

Halia shot him a glare before drawing a deep breath. "Fine. My name's Halia. I'm a journalist from St. Petersburg. Last night, I was working on an exposé about insurance fraud—big money, high stakes. I stayed late at the office, and then…" She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with her press badge. "The lights went out. Everything went dark. Someone grabbed me—covered my mouth. I couldn't breathe. When I woke up, I was here."

The group exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

"Your turn," Halia said, fixing Michael with a sharp look.

Michael crossed his arms, his biceps straining against the leather vest. "Name's Michael. I'm from Harlem. I deal in luxury goods—handbags, high-end stuff. Last night, I was in a subway tunnel, closing a deal. Then—just like her—the lights went out. Someone grabbed me, and bam, I woke up here."

Halia scoffed. "Luxury goods? Sure. Sounds totally legit."

Michael shot her a glare but continued, his tone as casual as if he were recounting a bad commute.

At the far end of the group, Orion sat silently, his mind working at a blistering pace. Florida and New York. Two people over a thousand miles apart, yet both abducted under the exact same circumstances. The logistics didn't make sense. Unless… this wasn't just random.

This was deliberate.