Forbidden Rules

"Congratulations, Mr. Miller. You have successfully enrolled in the 'Ultimate Survival' game. The winner will receive a cash prize substantial enough to pull you back from the brink of hell. Please be advised, for the sake of your... experience, the game site has numerous rules. We sincerely recommend you adhere to them strictly. Otherwise, the consequences are your own to bear."

The cold, emotionless synthetic voice scraped against my eardrums like a rusty awl. As the last words fell, the world before me melted, twisted, and reformed into a blinding, nauseating expanse of pure white. One moment, I was in a sealed metal room reeking of rust and desperation, signing a waiver as thick as a cursed tome with a trembling hand—a document that mentioned "death or permanent psychological damage" in the smallest possible font. The next, I was thrown into this sterile nightmare.

My name is Mike. I was once an ordinary man with a respectable job and a happy family. That was until a sudden illness stole my daughter's health and devoured all my savings. Debt coiled around me like a cold, massive python, squeezing tighter each day until even breathing felt like a luxury. When I stumbled upon the ad for this "high-return survival game" in the digital junkyard of the dark web, I knew it was the devil's olive branch. I took it.

I found myself standing in a hall so vast it could trigger agoraphobia. As far as the eye could see, everything was pure white. The walls, the floor tiles, the ceiling—all seemed crafted from a bizarre, non-reflective material that absorbed all color. Above, dozens of fluorescent lights hummed a constant, nerve-wracking buzz, illuminating the space without a single shadow, yet stripping it of all warmth. The air was thick with a chemical odor, a potent mix of bleach and formaldehyde that instantly brought to mind a hospital morgue.

Besides me, three other souls had been cast into this white purgatory.

A Caucasian man built like a grizzly bear, his muscles coiling like tree roots under a tight tank top. He wasn't bewildered like me; instead, his aggressive gaze swept over every inch of the space, as if searching for potential enemies. His vigilance was an ingrained instinct.

Another was a slender Caucasian man in a flamboyant silk shirt, looking like a playboy kidnapped from a tropical party. He nonchalantly adjusted his collar, a roguish smile playing on his lips, as if this bizarre scene were merely some eccentric millionaire's elaborate prank.

The last was a young man of Asian descent, wearing thick, black-framed glasses. Behind the lenses, his eyes were unnervingly calm. He didn't look around. Instead, he crouched down, tapping the floor tiles lightly with his fingers, his ear cocked to listen. His focus was that of a mathematician solving a complex equation.

"Well, looks like we're all each other has," the grizzly bear spoke first, his voice booming with an undeniable air of leadership. "Name's Hank."

"Rick," the man in the silk shirt shrugged, letting out a flippant whistle. "Hope the room service here has chilled champagne. This place is blindingly white; I need some color."

The young man with glasses stood up, pushed them up the bridge of his nose, and spoke concisely, as if conserving energy. "Li."

I took a deep breath of the cold, chemical air, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "Mike."

Hank, Rick, Li, and Mike. Four gamblers, each driven here by their own brand of desperation. After the brief introductions, a silence more suffocating than the whiteness enveloped us. We were temporary allies, but also potential rivals. That massive prize money couldn't possibly be split four ways.

"So, where are the rules? There's got to be a way to play," Hank broke the silence, his thick arm pointing to a wall in the center of the hall. "Look there."

We moved closer. On the smooth wall, several lines of text had appeared. It wasn't paint; it looked as if something had seeped out from within the wall itself. The color was an unsettling, coagulated dark red, as if the wall itself were bleeding. The font was twisted and frantic, filled with the terror and struggle of its writer's final moments.

[GAME SITE SURVIVAL PROTOCOLS]

This facility will provide participants with basic survival necessities. Food and water will be automatically supplied in the first-floor dining hall at 12:00 PM sharp, daily. Please collect them on time, as they will not be available afterward. Do not consume, or even touch, any other items within this facility, no matter how tempting they appear.

The facility's lighting system will operate continuously, 24/7. Ensure you remain in a well-lit environment at all times. Absolutely, under no circumstances, enter any area completely consumed by darkness. Light is your only sanctuary.

Within the facility, you may hear someone call your full name. The voice may sound like that of a loved one. Remain silent. Do not respond in any way. Remember: to respond is to invite.

The third-floor library is a designated safe zone, provided you maintain absolute silence. You may read any red-covered book to relax your mind. Do not touch any blue-covered book. They do not belong to your world, and reading them will contaminate your thoughts.

You may encounter staff members in white uniforms in the corridors. They are the facility's caretakers and pose no threat to you. However, do not engage in any form of communication with them, and especially do not attempt to make eye contact. Ignoring them is the highest form of respect.

The objective of the game is to survive for 7 days. Successful survival will grant you permission to leave and receive your reward.

Enjoy the game.

Reading the rules, I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Rick, however, let out an exaggerated laugh. "What the hell is this? Some massive, immersive escape room? Don't go into dark corners, don't talk to the NPCs, don't eat strange things... Sounds like it has more rules than the bachelor party I was at last week. Easy!"

"Easy?" Hank's voice dropped, his rough fingers gently tracing the bloody letters as if he could feel the writer's warmth. "Rick, can't you see the desperation between these lines? Every word is a warning written with a life. These aren't game rules. This is a last will and testament!"

Li remained silent, chewing over the second and fourth rules, the light behind his glasses flickering with an almost obsessive contemplation. As for me, I was frozen by the third rule. "Call your full name..." I thought of my daughter in her hospital bed. If I heard her weakly call out "Daddy"... could I stop myself from answering?

"Let's not overthink it for now," I said, forcing my fear down. "First, we need to figure out what time it is and get familiar with our surroundings."

It was then we discovered, to our horror, that all our time-telling devices—watches, phones—were gone. This white space was an island outside of time, stripping us of our most basic perception of its passage.

"Based on my body clock and hunger, I'd say it's morning," Hank, ever the pragmatist, concluded. "Let's head to the first-floor dining hall and verify the first rule."

It seemed the most sensible course of action. The four of us, a cautious party of four, left the main hall. The corridor was the same maddening white, stretching endlessly with identical walls on either side, not a single door or window in sight. Walking through it gave you a severe sense of being trapped in a loop, as if your feet were moving but space itself was frozen.

After about ten minutes, a crude sign, also written in blood-red, pointed towards the "Dining Hall."

The room was empty, but on a dozen tables sat exactly four meals: neatly wrapped sandwiches, brightly colored apples, and sealed bottles of water. Everything was just as Rule 1 had described.

"See? What did I tell you?" Rick grabbed a sandwich and took a huge, unapologetic bite. "Tastes alright," he said, his mouth full. "Guys, relax. This is just a well-produced reality show. The scares are part of the entertainment."

Hank's expression remained grim as iron. "Perhaps. But until we know the truth, we'd be wise to treat these rules as gospel."

Just then, Li, who had been silent as a ghost, suddenly spoke. "Wait."

His gaze was fixed, as if drawn by a magnet, on a forgotten bulletin board in the corner of the dining hall. The board was covered by a grimy, dark-edged white cloth, as if deliberately hiding something. Li walked straight towards it, his hand reaching out to pull the cloth away.

"Hey! What are you doing!" Hank's sharp voice cut through the air. "The rules didn't say anything about that!"

"The rules didn't say we couldn't look, either." Li's movement didn't pause for a second, his calmness laced with a stubborn resolve. He yanked the cloth off.

Screech— The sound of the cloth scraping against the board was piercing.

Beneath the cloth, a yellowed sheet of paper with scorched edges was tacked to the center with a rusty thumbtack. On it, written in an even more frantic and crazed black scrawl, was content that stood in direct opposition to the blood-red rules. The three words of its title were like three jagged wounds burned into our retinas.