Day 60 – Hour 006 “The Game Begins”

Day 60 – Hour 006"The Game Begins"

I was already awake when the envelope arrived.

No sound stirred the room. No shuffle at the door. No knock — the Club never knocked. Yet when I sat up, slower than usual, I felt that strange familiarity again. That weight in the air. The way the silence held me, cradled me in a thick layer of sleep I hadn't intended to enter. I'd gone to bed early, full from my stocked pantry and comfortable for the first time in weeks, but I should've never slept that soundly.

Not unless something helped me sleep.

I reached for the envelope the same way I always did — with suspicion first, then curiosity. It was placed neatly where I would see it. Centered on the floor, just inches from where my feet would land if I swung my legs over the bed.

A white envelope. Unmarked. No insignia. Inside: a crisp new $100 bill and a single sheet of paper, folded once.

I opened it.

[The Mirror Walk:

Retrieve both socks.

The subject will be unknown to you.

You have 72 hours from first contact.

To begin, exchange the bill at the listed location. Ask for the "Rule book."

That is all.]

I read it twice. Then a third time.

That was all.

No instructions on behavior. No tips. No time of day to start — just the $100, the location scribbled faintly at the bottom of the letter, and the absurdity of the task. Take someone's socks. Within three days.

It should've made me laugh.

It didn't.

I dressed quietly. No need for breakfast yet — my stomach was still full from last night. I pulled on the new clothes I'd bought with Marco's parting advice echoing in the back of my head. Buy better clothes. The fabric wasn't anything special, but it was cleaner than usual. Fit better. Shoes weren't worn to the sole. Nothing flashy, just sharper. More deliberate.

If anyone was watching, they'd notice the shift.

The walk to the listed location took less than 20 minutes. Still early. Few people out. A light breeze stirred the market tents and alley-side trash, the quiet hour reserved for street sweepers and shopkeepers unlocking their gates.

The address took me near the southern fringe of the slums — still within the three-mile radius I considered home, but on the edge. The kind of place you didn't visit without reason. When I arrived, I thought I had the wrong place. It wasn't a shop or a stall or a warehouse.

It was a laundromat.

The smell of detergent drifted faintly through cracked windows. No signage. Just a slow hum from inside and the flicker of fluorescent lights.

I stepped in. A single attendant stood behind a wide wooden counter, folding towels.

Their face was obscured by a low-drawn hood and thick scarf that looped around the neck too many times. Couldn't tell if they were male or female. Couldn't tell anything at all.

They didn't speak when they saw me.

Didn't blink either.

Just kept folding.

I stepped forward and placed the envelope on the counter. "I was told to ask for the Rule book."

Still no words.

The attendant reached below the counter — movements smooth, practiced — and placed a thick, folded paper packet in front of me. It wasn't stapled or bound. Just tied with a red string, like a game manual for something half-serious, half-mythical. Alongside it, they set down the change.

Exactly $100 — broken into small, practical bills. Neat. Precise.

And then the most unnerving part: the attendant simply… hummed.

It wasn't a tune I recognized. Just one, low note — held for too long. Not a greeting. Not an acknowledgment. Just a signal. Maybe a yes. Maybe a warning.

I didn't stay long.

I took the packet and the money, offered a quick nod, and turned to leave. When I looked back once, the figure was already folding towels again like I'd never entered.

Outside, the packet felt heavier than expected.

I untied it at a bench a few blocks away, choosing a quiet curve of the street where no one would peer over my shoulder.

Inside were the real instructions.

[Your subject has been informed.

They know someone is coming.

They do not know who.

They must avoid contact for 72 hours.

They must not lose their socks.

You may approach however you choose.

You may observe, pursue, or deceive.

You may be seen.

Being spotted is not disqualification.

But it will affect your score.

You may not use personal funds.

You may only use:— What you already own— What is given to you freely— What is explicitly left for you

No IOUs. No promises. No deferred favors.

There is no limit on force.

You will be judged on creativity, discretion, and execution.

You will be judged on character.]

At the bottom, in smaller font, one final line:

[The socks must be collected before sunrise on Day 63 – Hour 006.]

I sat back.

The wind carried the scent of laundry soap and motor oil.

This wasn't a game.

This was a window — one the Club had opened just wide enough to let me walk through. And what I did on the other side… that was on me.

I folded the paper. Recounted the bills. Kept my breathing steady.

Somewhere out there, someone was watching their back.

And somewhere out there, two socks were waiting to be taken.