Chapter 1: The Price of Kindness

I pressed my right hand to my temple, over and over, trying to push back the headache that made my vision swim. My skin was clammy, sweat slicking my fingers as I tried to force myself awake.

A blinding white ceiling stared back at me, the kind of harsh fluorescent glare you find in county ERs. The floor was cold against my bare feet, and a distant hum of overhead lights buzzed in my ears. The air stung with antiseptic, sharp as bleach.

I turned my head and took in the room: a massive, windowless box painted a blinding white, so bright it made my eyes water. Metal bunk beds—also white—stood in tight rows. People in loose, scratchy, disposable clothes like the ones they hand out at the hospital were sprawled across them.

Looking down, I realized I wore the same shapeless white outfit. The fabric itched, and on my right sleeve, someone had stitched a number in black thread: 15. My number.

People started waking up around me. A woman with short hair rubbed her eyes, a kid across the way checked under his bunk like he was searching for a lost sneaker. The vibe was all first-day-at-camp nerves, but with an edge that said this was no summer vacation.

I stayed put, letting memories creep back in.

A month ago, a card showed up in my wallet. I found it wedged between a crumpled gas receipt and a half-used Starbucks gift card. It said I’d been "unconditionally invited" to play in a battle royale. The winner would get a hundred million bucks, or a wish of equal value. The loser? Death.

I laughed and tossed the card, thinking it was some elaborate joke. But then the doctor told me my girlfriend would never wake up—she’d be stuck in a hospital bed, forever. The bills were piling up, insurance was running out.

So I dug that card out from a mess of ramen wrappers, went to the address printed on it, and everything after that went black.

Now, all I had was this itchy uniform and a number on my sleeve.

A stranger walked in, dressed in black with gold trim stitched into his sleeves—rich-looking, like something out of a weird game show. He wore a mask that hid his whole face except his mouth and chin. His voice was deep, American, almost cheerful.

"Welcome, folks, to the friendliest bloodbath you’ll ever see."

His words echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls like a PA announcement at the DMV, but with a threat underneath that made my hair stand up.