He looked down at his hand. There was no patch of skin left that wasn't covered in dark blood. Plink, plink. The blood dripped down from his hand to the floor. He looked around. This couldn't be what humans were made for, could it? He let out a hollow laugh, listening to it echo round the white walls, bouncing back to his ears till the sound faded. He looked down at the tattoo on his arm. 099. He'd been reduced to a number when he was captured by the Russians. They'd put him in this place, this awful place, with white moldy walls and tiles on the floor that made his footsteps loud. This place was fake though. All the objects, the boxes and the furniture in the rooms, seemed like props. Simon had already worked out their little game, he thought. They captured soldiers, put them in this 'arena', and let them fight it out, watching it for entertainment. Sick fuckers. He turned to look at one of the cameras in the corner of the room, looking into it with empty eyes. He used to look at them with anger, but he'd been here so long that the anger had faded into resignment. That was how they watched. Through the camera. They were everywhere, on all the corners of the rooms. Simon had tried to break them, but someone replaced them when they broke.

He looked down at the body at his feet. A man, just like him. He was wearing a black shirt and black, scratchy trousers, just like Simon was. The Russians had put them all in that outfit. He had a tag on his foot too, like everyone did. He was 046. There was a knife in his chest, that Simon had put there. He felt bad. They were all just guinea pigs, entertainment for the Russians who enjoyed watching men desperately try to survive till they fell insane in these goddamn white hallways. How long had he been here? He didn't know, there was no way to keep track of time. It was all to add to the insanity of the place. Simon pulled the knife out of the mans chest, putting it back in one of the loops in his waistband. It was survival of the fittest and he didn't plan on dying.