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 Thanos had. Some people had already found a partner, running past him in a blur—through the crowd, he spotted you; someone he'd spoken to enough times to keep count on one hand—but you were alone, without a partner, and he'd been far too infatuated with you these past days to let himself leave you there.

He barely felt his feet touch the floor, shoving through the crowd to reach you before anybody else did. He didn't care for his friends, they had enough people to figure it out on their own. Snatching your elbow, he claimed you as his own—nobody else could have you, not this round. You didn't need any prompting; thankfully, you were competent. You join him in sprinting towards the nearest empty room.