First challenge

The morning came not with the usual rising sun but with a blaring announcement that jolted everyone awake.

Sam rubbed his eyes and swung his legs off the bed. Around him, the other participants stirred, groaning and muttering complaints.

As he stretched, he noticed a row of identical sneakers neatly placed in front of the door leading out of the hall. The guards, still wearing their intimidating red uniforms and black masks, stood by the door with their weapons slung across their chests.

"Good morning, contestants," the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers. "You will find sneakers with your number tags at the door. Please change into them immediately. Your current footwear is inadequate for today's activities."

A man from the crowd, number 53, groaned loudly. "What if the shoes don't fit? I mean, look at number 100's feet! They'll need a boat for those!" A few snickers rippled through the room, though 53 quickly hushed his tone, clearly not wanting 100 to hear him.

The announcer continued, ignoring the comment. "Each pair is custom-made to fit you perfectly. Proceed without delay."

Sam blinked in mild disbelief. 'Custom-made? When did they measure our feet? While we were sleeping?'

He joined the others as they shuffled toward the shoes.

Picking up his pair, he saw the number 015 stitched on the heel. Sure enough, they fit perfectly, snug but not tight.

"Good morning," a polite voice said from behind. Sam turned to see number 77—Finn—smiling nervously.

"Morning," Sam replied, nodding.

Finn slipped on his sneakers as they exchanged pleasantries. "What do you think the first game will be?" Finn asked, his tone curious but tinged with apprehension.

Sam shrugged. "No idea. But if they're giving us specific shoes, it's probably not just about standing around."

As they walked toward the exit, Sam's gaze drifted to the lady with the pink hair, number 21. She stood out, not just because of her striking hair but also her demeanor—calm, emotionless, and utterly unbothered by the chatter around her.

Two men, numbers 11 and 85, sidled up to her, trying their best to start a conversation. "Hey, pinkie," one of them said with a smirk. "You're too quiet. How about a smile?"

She didn't even glance in their direction. Her face remained a blank slate, her steps steady as she moved toward the door.

"Cold," Finn muttered, following Sam's gaze.

"Maybe," Sam replied. He couldn't help but wonder about her story. 'Why is she here? Broke like the rest of us? Or something else?'

The idea that she might not talk crossed his mind, but then he dismissed it. 'If she couldn't talk, how did she pass the trial questions?'

He shook off the thought. 'Focus, Sam. You've got bigger things to worry about.'

The guards led them to a hall at the far end of the building. When they stepped inside, the room seemed almost surreal. The floor was a massive grid of checkered tiles in four colors: red, black, blue, and white.

The announcer's voice returned. "Welcome to your first challenge. Your task is simple: cross the grid to the other side. However, you may only step on the blue tiles. Stepping on any other color will result in immediate disqualification. You have four minutes."

A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd.

"That's it?" someone whispered.

"Children's games," scoffed number 100.

Sam frowned. 'Too easy. What's the catch?'

As if reading his mind, the announcer added, "Be aware: the tiles will change colors periodically. Pay attention to your steps."

That shut the crowd up.

Number 18 grinned, stretching his legs like he was preparing for a sprint. "This is gonna be fun!"

The others, including Sam, weren't so sure.

A loud buzz signaled the start of the game, and chaos erupted.

Everyone rushed onto the grid, hopping from one blue tile to another. Sam moved carefully, calculating each step while keeping an eye on the shifting colors.

To his left, a man—number 64—darted forward with reckless abandon. He was fast, his feet barely touching the tiles as he sprinted toward the center of the grid.

"He's not even watching where he's stepping," Finn muttered beside Sam.

Sam nodded, his focus split between his path and the spectacle unfolding ahead.

64 seemed confident, even smug, as he muttered to himself, "No cameras. No one's watching. Just get to the other side."

But then, a loud buzz filled the air, followed by a deafening gunshot.

Sam froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat.

64 collapsed instantly, a single bullet piercing his head. Blood pooled around him, staining the once-pristine tiles.

A collective gasp swept through the players.

"Contestant 064 has been eliminated," the announcer declared, his tone chillingly neutral.

Finn grabbed Sam's arm, his face pale. "Did they just… shoot him? Is that blood?"

Sam didn't reply, his mind reeling. The gunshot echoed in his ears, the image of 64's lifeless body burned into his memory.

"This… this is insane," Finn stammered. "They're killing people? For stepping on the wrong tile?"

Sam's jaw tightened. 'So this is what they meant by 'eliminated.'

Around them, the players hesitated, their fear evident. But the clock was ticking, and hesitation could cost them their lives.

Sam steeled himself, forcing his legs to move. "Stay focused, Finn," he said, his voice firm. "If you panic, you're next."

Finn nodded shakily, ready to follow Sam's lead as they plan to carefully navigated the grid.

The game had officially begun—and it was far more deadly than any of them had imagined.

"We just have to understand how this works"