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The elevator stank of burnt wiring and adrenal sweat. Lucas Hayes came to consciousness with his cheek pressed against cold steel, the floor vibrating with the machine's perpetual ascent. A cracked display panel flickered: DAY 9 | SAFETY DURATION 00:03:44.

Three warped tones echoed as the system imprinted directly onto his retinas:

[Precognitive Matrix Activated]
[Sector Transition Imminent]

His vision fractured into augmented reality overlays. Bloodshot eyes darted between floating diagnostics:

[Destination: Floor 248]
Threat Classification: Standard Biohazards (Homo corruptus) x20
Recommended Arsenal: Bladed weapons (76% efficacy)
Reward Manifest: Silver Cache (Full eradication required)

Lucas gripped the shock-baton strapped to his thigh, its ceramic surface still smeared with luminescent fungal spores from yesterday's skirmish. The elevator's speakers emitted a decaying piano chord as new text scrolled through static:

[Destination: Floor 249]
Containment Unit: Obsidian Reliquary (SCP-XXXX Variant)
Threat Level: White (Placid)

His boot tapped rhythm against the floor where Natalie Evans had bled out seven cycles ago. The memory played in crystal clarity - her screams syncing perfectly with the elevator's current pitch-shifted rendition of Clair de Lune.

[Destination: Floor 250]
Entity Designation: Noctis lamia (Cognitive Hazard Class C)*
Survival Probability: 41.2±18%

The control panel erupted in fractal patterns as reality glitched. Lucas glimpsed William Carter's skeleton key lodged in the emergency brake slot - the same key that had melted through three layers of Kevlar when its owner died.

"Beta protocol. Always beta." He smashed blood-crusted knuckles against the floor selector. The elevator screamed in harmonic resonance as it deviated from its programmed path.

Doomsday Elevator

Ethan lined up his shot, cue poised, when Annie Qing's voice cut through the tension.

"Big brother… could you go easy on me? I'll… I'll…"

Her floral perfume wafted over him. Did she truly believe anyone would prioritize lust over survival in this deathmatch?

"Of course I'll let you win," Ethan murmured, feigning tenderness as he brushed a thumb across her cheek. A practiced blush warmed his face.

Annie's lips curved inwardly. Another virgin boy ensnared.

"Calvin, don't do this!" She leaned closer, tears glistening. "I… I think I'm falling for you. If one of us must die—"

Her lips grazed his cheek in a calculated peck.

Ethan's stomach churned. Does she have herpes?

He forced an adoring gaze. "Let's finish this."

Two balls dropped—Annie's right hand and heart.

"Yay! You're amazing!" she cheered through gritted teeth.

Ethan sank her brain ball next. Annie's smile tightened as she shed her jacket, revealing a tank top that strained against her curves.

A missed straight shot—Ethan's rustiness showing.

Annie pouted, adjusting a slipping strap. "Please don't hold back…"

She bent over the table with exaggerated sway. Ethan sipped provided water, analyzing the remaining balls.

Annie's next "clumsy" shot masked an attempted double play. Both missed.

"You'll survive this," Ethan vowed.

Two more of Annie's organs vanished. Five down.

As Ethan lined up his sixth shot, Annie "stumbled" into him. The cue ball rocketed across felt.

Balls caromed until one teetered at the edge—Annie's breast marker.

"Looks like you're down to two," Ethan observed.

"Am I… going to die?" Her act faltered.

"You claimed you'd rather perish than me."

Annie shredded her tank top, bare skin gleaming. "I'm only eighteen! Haven't even—"

Ethan's cue cracked against the final ball before she finished. The black eight ball rolled home.

Death Game II