Chapter Two: Circles
We walked for what felt like forever.
The terrain was surreal—nature half-dead, yet not fully alive. The trees were twisted and blackened as if scorched from the inside. Faintly glowing vines wrapped around their trunks, and the ground beneath our feet crunched like dried bone. The sky above wasn't real—just a gray dome stretching overhead, flickering with the faint static of a false sky.
At the front of our group marched the same broad-shouldered man who'd claimed one of the food packs earlier. He had the kind of body sculpted by years of labor or fighting—veins like ropes, biceps like boulders. He seemed annoyed as he repeatly cursed at everything in his path. Nobody questioned his place at the front. His jaw clenched with every step.
No one knew his name, but everyone followed him like sheep follow a wolf. Just close enough to feel safe. Far enough not to be devoured by the unknown.
We walked behind him in silence, in a long line through the eerie terrain, but after about ten minutes, something in my gut twisted.
I'd seen that tree before.
The one with the two broken branches shaped like horns. I'd memorized it. And now it was in front of us again.
We were walking in circles.
I said nothing.
If I pointed it out, no one would listen. They would either laugh or glare—or worse. So instead, I crouched briefly, pretended to tie my boot, and picked up a sharp-edged rock from the dirt. As I passed the next thick tree—bark pale gray and peeling—I quietly scratched a jagged X into it, low and subtle.
Then I drifted back toward the rear of the group, blending into the background.
Ten more minutes passed.
We passed the same tree again.
"Wait," I said suddenly, loud enough to be heard but not aggressive. I said loud and clear "We're walking in circles.
People turned. Confused.
I stepped forward and I pointed. "I marked that." "I scratched that X into the bark earlier. We're walking in circles."
Silence.
Then the panic started.
"What?! We've been here already?"
"We're not going anywhere?"
"This whole place is a trap—"
Several players turned to the masculine leader, voices rising in desperation.
"What do we do now?"
"Should we go back?"
"Where's the exit?!"
"Do something!"
He glared at me first, his square jaw tightening.
Then at the others.
His expression was steel, unreadable—but I saw the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Annoyance at losing control. At being questioned.
He said nothing. Just turned and kept walking.
A skinny build man with a #10 printed on his sleeves stepped forward, and said. "We should split into smaller groups. It might be safer. We can cover more ground and maybe find a way out or... a clue."
For a moment, no one spoke. But when the man still didn't object, others began nodding.
"Yeah, smaller groups."
"Smart."
"I'm not walking in circles all day."
But it didn't take long before things turned.
People swarmed toward the masculine players—the tall, the broad, the loud ones with heavy fists and angry eyes. Men who looked like they could fight, even if they couldn't think. It was like watching animals pick the strongest to cling to during a flood.
And the worst part?
They started fighting over them.
Two women clawed at each other's hair, screaming over a single team spot. Two men squared off, punching and shoving—one of them bleeding from the nose—until one dropped. The victor, panting, turned to the masculine man he'd fought for.
"Am I in now?" he grunted.
The man just shrugged.
"Whatever."
It wasn't strategy. It was desperation dressed up as loyalty.
And I?
I wasn't wanted.
Slender build. Quiet. Thin wrists. Shoulders that didn't fill my shirt. No loud voice. No fists. Not a "man" by their standards. Just something soft in a brutal place.
When the teams were set, the ones left over stood awkwardly on the sidelines.
There were three of us.
Me.
A quiet, tired-looking woman with graying hair—her number tag flashing a dull red #5 on her sleeve.
And a man who had been rejected from three teams already. They called him "too unstable," "too violent." His shirt was torn, his muscles tensed like a coiled snake, and his eyes burned with fury.
He walked toward us, and I felt the weight of his gaze land like a hammer.
"Guess I'm stuck with you," he spat.
His number read #22.
He had a scar across his chin and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. His voice was gravel and venom.
"You better not hinder me," he growled, then stalked ahead, taking the lead.
As we walked in tense silence, he suddenly stopped and turned toward me.
"You go to the front."
I hesitated. I knew what it meant—whoever was in front was the first to step on whatever trap in front...
But I said nothing. I knew that if I were to say no I would be punched. I just need to wait for the right time.
I walked to the front.
Behind me, I heard him turn to the older woman.
"You go back."
"No," she cried. "Please, not the back. If anything comes from behind, I'll die first."
She was shaking.
He stepped forward, fist raised.
"You go. Or I'll knock you out right now."
She stared at the fist. Then at the floor.
Tears welled in her eyes as she stumbled backward, placing herself at the end of the line.
The man took the middle for safety.
And so we walked—three strangers, one broken unit—through a dead forest inside a dome that wanted us to die.
But somewhere ahead, the game waited.
And the monsters in the game… were watching.
To be continued....