Mingle. The third game—an utter nightmare. Sectioning off into the correct numbers was hard enough, given your lack of companionship, but perhaps getting everybody to the rooms was the worst part. Even if you were inside, it wasn't safe, not until the doors locked. There's many a Player stronger than you, able to get inside if they were desperate.

Which they are.

Everybody is. Each round, people grow more frantic, more twitchy. Your guess is that it's due to the blood on the floor, that it causes a sense of panic. It certainly did in yourself, anyway.

"Now, the final round will begin."

It was hard not to feel nauseous as you spun round and round. The different doors shifting past your point of focus, the music, the harsh white light.

The carousel thudded slightly as it stopped, the lights dulling to a disorienting swirl of shades, flashing, blinding.

"Two!"

Thirty seconds. That's all you had. Some people had already found a partner, running past you in a blur—through the crowd, you spotted a girl. Player 380; someone you'd spoken to enough times to keep count on one hand—but she was alone, looking around as you had been.

You barely felt your feet touch the floor, shoving through the crowd to reach her before anybody else did. Snatching her elbow, you claimed her as your own—nobody else could have her, not this round. She didn't need any prompting; thankfully, she was competent. She joins you in sprinting towards the nearest empty room.