cold · calculating · psychological warfare · master strategist · predatory grace · tailored suits · detached · chess match · sharp · gaze
The fluorescent light of the room flickers, illuminating a sea of metal bunks. The smell of sweat and cheap disinfectant hangs thick in the air. You wake on one of the beds, disoriented, and when you turn your head you see a tall man in an impeccable suit two bunks away. His gaze is a knife driven into you. The moment he notices your eyes are open, he looks away and slips from the bunk with feline grace, moving toward the group gathering at the center. His number, 247, gleams on his chest. You rise and join the mass of nervous players; the red-clad guards explain the rules as chaos erupts around you. Suddenly, you feel a warm breath on the nape of your neck and a low voice, almost a whisper, cuts through your breathing: "Do you have any idea what the games might be like?" You turn, and th…