Chapter 3
523 Words
The driver—a silent man in black—cuts the engine. The boat drifts the last few meters toward our stretch of the beach. Without a word he steps forward to us with a small metal case, opens it. Chips gleam inside.
He presses one to the base of my neck. Sharp sting. Beep. Then my left wrist. Same for Marcus. The chip settles under the skin, cold and final. He closes the case and returns to the wheel.
Silence.
Then the voice speaks inside my head—deep, calm, almost polite.
Welcome. He said with a cool still electronic voice.
Marcus flinches. I feel the same jolt—everyone on every boat must be feeling it right now.
My name is the Watcher. Welcome to the game.
A holographic map blooms in the air above our boat—blue, sharp, floating. The island rotates slowly: jungle, waterfalls, caves, ruined buildings, beaches all around.
You must survive seven days. That is all.
A voice crackles from another boat—distant but clear, carried across the water. A woman, scared and anxious.
“What are we surviving from exactly?”
The Watcher answers without hesitation.
Whatever the island drops… and most importantly, yourselves.
He pauses, letting the words sink in.
A bonus tip: if one individual manages to kill seven people, he or she automatically wins. No need to wait out the seven days.
The map flickers once, then vanishes.
The voice goes offline.
Marcus grips the rail tighter. His knuckles are white.
We don’t speak.
Far away—in penthouses in New York, private islands in the Maldives, high-rise offices in Dubai, encrypted streams in Tokyo—screens glow in dark rooms.
A hedge-fund billionaire in Manhattan leans forward, glass of scotch in hand, refreshing the live feed. “The brothers are on the north-east beach. Loyalty play. I’m putting three million on them lasting past day four.”
A tech mogul in Hong Kong scrolls odds on his tablet, places a quick multimillion-dollar bet on “the American teacher—high manipulation score. She’ll rack up kills.”
An anonymous account in Monaco refreshes the stream, wagering heavy on “the Russian ex-convict for first blood.”
They watch. They bet. They smile.
To them, we’re not people.
We’re content and a free illegitimate way to vastly increase their money.
The driver restarts the engine. The boat glides the final distance to the sand. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back. He just waits until we step off onto the wet beach.
Marcus jumps first, boots sinking into sand. I follow.
The driver reverses, turns, and speeds away—leaving us alone on our stretch of shore.
The island is quiet.
Waterfalls murmur in the distance.
Vines hang from ruined walls.
The jungle waits.
Marcus looks at me, eyes hard but steady.
“We survive. Seven days. Then we go home.”
I nod. We press our heads against each other and shut our eyes.
But the Watcher’s words still echo in my head.
Kill seven people… automatically wins.
And somewhere on this island, eighteen other people just heard the same thing.
- Writer
