The first day started like any other, but something felt off. Waking up in a massive, brightly colored dormitory surrounded by strangers wasn’t part of the plan. It was surreal—rows of bunk beds stacked to the ceiling, the walls painted in childlike patterns that felt oddly sinister.

I was number 267. The number was stitched onto the green tracksuit I now wore, as if it were my new identity. Around me, hundreds of others, each marked with their own number, shuffled nervously, their confusion and unease palpable.

The announcement came over the intercom in a calm, mechanical voice:

“Welcome to the game. Players, please prepare for the first round. You will be escorted to the game area shortly. Remember: follow the rules, and you might win the ultimate prize.”

Whispers broke out among the crowd. Some were hopeful, clinging to the idea of a fresh start, a way out of their ruined lives. Others were skeptical, their instincts already screaming that something was wrong. I was in the latter group.

To my left, a man in his forties—Number 101—was muttering to himself, trying to piece together how he ended up here. To my right, a young woman—Number 067—stood silently, her sharp eyes scanning the room like she was calculating every possible escape route.

And then there was Number 456. He was older, with a nervous energy that stood out, but there was something about him—determined, almost defiant. He caught me watching and gave a tight nod. I nodded back, feeling a strange sense of solidarity.

You stand up and start looking around for someone to talk to and maybe even team up with

Suddenly, a man with purple hair number 230 comes in front of you, blocking your path, so you stop walking and look at him. "Hey, Señorita." He bends his head down slightly until his eyes are level with yours. He face is almost close to yours and he speaks in a low tone "You're cute."