The Stranger’s Invitation

The heavy metal door sealed behind them with a dull thud, plunging the hallway into silence once more. A few flickering golden lights lined the corridor ahead, casting elongated shadows on the walls as the remaining seven players stepped forward.

They walked in silence, heads lowered, minds trapped in the echoes of what they had just faced. The Room of Truth hadn't just asked for memories—it had scraped wounds open, left them bleeding beneath their skin.

Then, without warning, a masked man emerged from a hidden side door. He wore a velvet coat of dark purple and a smooth white mask that covered his entire face. In his gloved hand was a small silver bell, which he rang softly. The sound cut through the silence like a whisper.

He spoke, his voice even, but laced with something unplaceable.

"You have completed the second trial. Some survived by truth. Some by silence. Some at the cost of others."

No one responded.

"You now have a choice," he continued. "The next trial can begin immediately… or, if you prefer, you may rest. A prepared dinner awaits you in your rooms. Choose."

Sameena looked up, her eyes tired. "Rest."

"Rest," echoed Haider, without hesitation.

One by one, each of the others agreed. Areeba simply nodded. Zayan muttered, "No more games for today."

Saira said nothing, but followed the group as they turned toward a side corridor, where seven unmarked doors waited.

The masked man gestured. "Each of you will be assigned a private room. Take time. Eat. Reflect."

He turned and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived, his footsteps swallowed by the hush of the corridor.

The players separated without a word, entering their rooms alone.

---

Saira's room was cold.

It was small, square, and simple—like a hotel room stripped of any comfort. A narrow bed rested along one wall, with white sheets folded neatly. A small table stood in the corner, with a silver cloche covering what must have been dinner. The ceiling hummed faintly, and there were no windows.

She closed the door behind her, hearing it lock with a soft click. There was no handle from the inside.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the food. Under the cloche sat a tray of steamed rice, grilled vegetables, and something that smelled faintly like cinnamon. A glass of water stood beside it.

She didn't touch it.

Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

The Room of Truth haunted her.

She kept hearing the voice.

Confess, or let another suffer.

Saira had confessed. But it hadn't felt like redemption. It had felt like exposing something dirty and old, something she'd locked away years ago. The guilt didn't lift—it sat heavier now, as if her truth had become more real after being said aloud.

She lay back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. She didn't think of Iqbal. She didn't think of who had fallen through the floor or who might return. She just thought of herself—what she had done, what she hadn't done.

And what she might be asked to do next.

---

In another room, Zayan didn't eat either. He had taken the plate and thrown it at the wall as soon as the door shut.

The clatter was loud, echoing for a second before fading into the padded silence.

He sat on the floor, back against the corner, arms wrapped around his knees. His face was tight, not with fear—but with frustration.

He had confessed too. But why did he still feel like a villain?

No one had said anything afterward. No one had looked at each other. Not even a nod.

They were all playing solo now.

---

Haider paced back and forth.

He had eaten every bite on the plate, though he hadn't tasted any of it. He needed energy, he told himself. For whatever was coming.

His confession had been small, he thought. A prank. A bad choice. But it hadn't hurt anyone that badly… had it?

He paused at the mirror in his room. It was just a plain one now. No voices. No visions.

Still, he turned it to face the wall.

---

Areeba sat on the edge of her bed with the empty plate on her lap. She hadn't spoken since the Room of Truth—not to the others, not even to herself.

Her hands were folded in her lap, tightly clenched.

She didn't regret confessing. What she regretted was how easy it had been. As if she'd been waiting to say it all along. Was that who she was now? Someone who craved release more than redemption?

She didn't want to know.

---

Sameena had curled into the corner of her bed, not under the sheets, but on top—fully dressed, her shoes still on.

She had confessed nothing.

And yet she had survived.

Not because the game accepted her words… but because someone else had paid the price.

Someone had guessed wrong. Someone had pointed to the wrong person.

---

Lina sat by her door, arms wrapped around her knees.

She didn't trust the bed. She didn't trust the food. She didn't even trust herself anymore.

She had confessed. It had hurt.

And now… she was afraid to speak. Afraid the walls might hear. Afraid that guilt might not be enough.

She wanted to talk to someone. But no one had looked at her when they left the room.

Not one person.

Maybe they were all the same. Monsters in children's memories. Players too scared to be anything else.

---

Hours passed.

Or maybe just minutes.

Time didn't move the same way here.

Eventually, the lights in each room dimmed, and a soft chime echoed from hidden speakers.

A final voice whispered into the silence.

> "Rest well, players.

Tomorrow brings another choice."

But no one slept.

Not really.

Because guilt doesn't let you rest.

And in this game, no one truly sleeps alone.