Day 60 – Hour 007 “No Limits”

Day 60 – Hour 007"No Limits"

I didn't go anywhere after that.

Didn't explore the streets or start tracking every twitchy man in the alleyways. I just walked home. Quietly. Slowly. The packet of instructions tucked under my arm like it was made of bone. Not paper.

The streets were starting to come alive, but I didn't hear any of it. No barking vendors. No rattling carts. Just the echo of what I'd read.

No restriction on harm. No restriction on force. Take the socks — by any means.

They weren't telling me to kill the subject. But they also weren't telling me not to. It was the same tone the Club always used — surgical, bloodless, and carefully layered with plausible deniability.

Do what you must. We'll be watching.

Back in my apartment, I sat on the edge of my bed, the rulebook open again beside me. The words hadn't changed.

I had 72 hours. I had $100 in small bills. AND I had the green light to act as I pleased — even if that meant dragging some poor individual into an alley and pulling his socks off while he bled.

I didn't want to do that. But that wasn't the point.

The point was: they wanted to see if I would.

I stared at the wall for longer than I expected.

The Club's real game wasn't about the socks. It never was. It wasn't even about tracking or stamina or patience.

It was about willingness.

Were they grooming a soldier? A tool? A ghost?

Or was it worse — were they testing whether I had a moral compass they could break?

"You will be judged on character," the letter said.

But whose character?

Mine, for holding back?

Or theirs, for watching and saying nothing?

They already knew everything about me. They watched me figure out how to buy a phone, use old coins to barter for time, even share half my reward with Ilin. They saw me bite my tongue when the envelope cheated me of full change. Saw me walk away from power, from offers, from chances to be cruel.

And now they wanted to know how far I'd go when no one was telling me no.

I sat back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. My body didn't feel like it belonged to me anymore — too wired, too ready, like it was preparing for a hunt I hadn't agreed to yet.

Then something else occurred to me.

Something quiet. Something dangerous.

This was the third time I'd received change at a location tied to a shop, a station, a person... and all three of them were connected to the same root.

Serpent locations.

I didn't know what to call them — but that's what it felt like. The curled smile of a snake, waiting at each turn.

First was the woman at the back stall who gave me my first envelope of change. She worked out of a tucked-away stall barely on anyone's map. People said she didn't sleep.

Second was that ambiguous individual. I do not know what else to add. 

Third was the laundromat. The humming attendant with the covered face, who already had the envelope and packet ready before I spoke. Not even a moment of surprise. As if my arrival had been written into their day hours before I came.

And now Marco, the trainer or employee.

He was the only one who looked me in the eye and didn't pretend he wasn't part of something. But even he said very little.

Three points of contact. All trusted. All known. All embedded in the slums with functions beyond what they claimed. They didn't feel like employees.

They felt like fixtures.

Like traps already set in the foundation of this place — long before I came along.

Were they on the payroll? Were they blackmailed? Did they believe in the Club?

Or had they, too, passed a test once — and found themselves unable to escape?

I folded the rulebook again and set it aside.

The moment for doubting the Club had passed. Now I needed to focus.

I grabbed a piece of paper and started drafting scenarios.

Three days. Unknown subject. Cannot lose their socks. Knows they're being watched. I cannot spend any of my own money. I can use what I own. I can be spotted.

So what do I do?

Tail people? Sit in a crowded area and just… watch? Track ten strangers at once and see which one starts to sweat?

This wasn't a surveillance game. This was a puzzle with no edges.

And I couldn't waste time asking why anymore.

Outside my window, the sun was rising higher. The city was starting to breathe.

And somewhere out there, a man — or a woman — had already started moving. Watching their back. Testing their shoes. Checking their socks.

I had less than 70 hours left.

Time to get to work.

I had nearly put the rulebook away when a corner of the folded paper caught my eye — a section I hadn't noticed earlier.

It wasn't listed like the rest of the rules. No bolded lines. No headers. Just smaller text buried halfway down the last page. A whisper tucked between clauses.

I opened it again and read carefully this time.

[Subject Restraints

Subject may not remain indoors longer than 2 hours per 24-hour cycle.

Subject is male, age 15 or older.

Subject is forbidden from consuming food during the duration of the task.]

I blinked. Read it again.

How had I missed this?

I'd spent the last hour thinking the subject had all the advantage. Knew someone was after him. Knew the terrain. Had a head start.

But now… maybe not.

Two hours indoors a day, max. That meant he had to be outside. Walking. Moving. Vulnerable.

And he couldn't eat. For three days. That would wear anyone down. Especially in this part of town where shade was scarce, and streets never stayed still. By day two, he'd be sluggish. Light-headed. Easy to follow if I knew what to look for.

And he was definitely male.

That narrowed the list — barely — but in a place where shadows spoke louder than names, any edge counted.

I folded the page once more, this time slowly. Deliberately.

The Club hadn't lied. They never did.

They just let you find out late enough to punish you for not paying attention.

My fingers drummed once against the wood of my small desk before I stood.

It was time.

The game had already started hours ago — and my opponent was out there starving, walking, scanning every face for signs of a hunter.

And I was still sitting at home, forgetting to read the fine print.

Not again.

I locked the door behind me, slid the rulebook into my back pocket, and disappeared into the morning crowd — eyes wide, mind sharper.

Let the hunt begin.