"0:00"
The countdown hit zero. A flat, mechanical tone rang through the chamber — final, cold.
Then came the voice. That same voice. Always calm. Always in control.
Game Master:
"Time's up. Now… you face destiny."
From behind the podium, he moved with eerie ease, stepping toward a tall machine veiled beneath black silk. With a flick of his wrist, the cloth dropped — revealing a steel contraption filled with hundreds of small, numbered spheres. A randomized death lottery. A modern guillotine.
Game Master:
"To ensure impartiality, twenty-seven of you will now be eliminated… at random."
He flipped a switch. Inside the machine, the spheres erupted into motion — spinning, clattering, crashing against one another like a storm of chance. Numbers blurred into a silver blur.
No one breathed.
Then, the Game Master reached in.
His fingers hovered—hesitated—then closed.
Game Master (softly):
"Our first elimination is… Number 18."
Silence.
Then, a collective turn of heads.
All eyes locked on Cell 18.
The man inside — young, trembling, already weeping — took a step back. His lips moved, but no words came out. He knew.
He'd been chosen.
The slow click of boots echoed across the white chamber.
A masked referee moved forward, dragging a long, deliberate shadow behind him. The sound of his steps was deafening — each one a countdown of its own. He reached the cell, drew his weapon without a word, and—
CRACK.
A shot to the head.
CRACK. CRACK.
Two to the chest.
Blood splattered against the glass.
The body collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. Lifeless. Silent. The referee stepped in, took the corpse by the arm, and dragged it across the white floor. Red smeared behind.
No one spoke. No one screamed. Only the machine continued spinning — still hungry.
Game Master:
"Twenty six left."
"Death is Random. Power is Not."
Pandemonium exploded across the chamber. Screams, curses, fists pounding on glass. Some wept. Others roared. But none could escape.
Chaos had a number. And today, it had 25.
Still, the Game Master stood unmoved, untouched by grief or rage. His eyes were glassy, his posture perfect, his breath steady. If he felt anything at all, it was buried too deep to find.
He looked down upon the crowd like a man watching insects drown in a bowl of water.
The game had killed his heart long ago now
He was man with a dead heart.
"We must proceed."
His hand moved again and again into the machine, no hesitation this time. No pause for grief.
"Six. Eighty-nine. Eighty-five. Eighty-two."
"Eighty."
"Ninety-nine."
Each number was a death knell. A destiny.
"Twelve. Twenty-four. Twenty-two. Nineteen. Twenty-nine." he continued
Screams turned to sobs. Some simply dropped to their knees and whispered names they didn't know.
"And finally… Thirteen."
Silence.
The chamber reeked of fear. Blood. Metal. Desperation.
The Game Master turned back to the podium. Behind him, masked referees began dragging the bodies, one by one, painting crimson trails across the floor.
"Sixty-seven of you remain."
A single voice, raw and trembling, broke the silence.
Player 48:
"…We just lost twenty-seven people."
He wasn't wrong. He stood motionless, eyes tracking every fallen body. Not one of them had fought. Not one had begged.
Just fear. Cold, helpless fear.
Game Master (clapping):
"Congratulations."
"You are the ones chosen for the real game."
He smiled thinly, as if this was all a great gift. A twisted promotion.
"But for now… rest. You've earned it."
Player 43 didn't move. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes burned holes through the Game Master. The hatred was no longer quiet. It was visible. And dangerous.
Player 43 (muttering):
"I hate you…"
But before the moment could boil over, a quiet click echoed from the far left.
Cell 77 opened.
Gasps followed. All heads turned.
Player 77 stepped forward, voice shaking but clear.
"I do not want to play these games."
"I'm not a liar."
CRACK.
One bullet. No hesitation.
He dropped. Blood pooled.
Game Master (shrugging):
"Pity. I thought that one had potential."
He looked at the others, expression unchanged.
"But the earth swallows the weak."
"In this world, the truth is weak. The lie? The lie is strong."
The chamber dimmed slightly. The blood, the death, the hopelessness — it was no longer shocking. It was setting in.
By the time the lights cut to black for the night, eleven more had chosen death.
Some from despair. Others from defiance. A few, no one ever knew why.
55 remained.
Day 1 was now over.
Day 2
"Power Begins Here."
The lights snapped back on.
The Game Master stood waiting. As always.
Game Master:
"Now that the weaklings are gone… we begin the real game."
Player 43 was already awake, leaning against the glass, trying to make sense of it all.
"What does he mean, 'real game'?" he muttered.
The Game Master raised a hand, drawing attention back to the center.
Game Master:
"There are ten columns. Each group of ten forms a row. Today, you will form alliances — and name a captain."
The numbers flickered to life on the screen behind him. Rows formed as follows:
Row 1: 1–10 + 91–100
Row 2: 11–20 + 80–90
Row 3: 21–30 + 70–79
Row 4: 31–40 + 60–69
Row 5: 41–50 + 51–59
"Each row must nominate one captain. Five captains in total."
"The next phase will test their leadership… and your loyalty."
Captain choosing
"Leadership in a World of Liars"
For the first time, the players were let out.
The cells hissed open with a hydraulic groan, and what followed was not freedom — but exposure. For the first time, faces met at eye level. No barriers. No distance. Just flesh and suspicion.
They stepped out, blinking in the artificial light, hesitant. Some stretched. Some stood still, wary like animals in a new cage. The air was thick with unspoken questions.
Then the screens flickered on.
GROUP ASSIGNMENTS – ROW FORMATIONS
Row 1: 1–10 + 91–100
Row 2: 11–20 + 80–90
Row 3: 21–30 + 70–79
Row 4: 31–40 + 60–69
Row 5: 41–50 + 51–59
Each row huddled together in different corners of the vast chamber. The Game Master's voice still echoed faintly in their heads.
"Each row must choose a captain. Leadership matters now."
Row 5: Blood and Balance
42 stood quietly among the others in Row 5. His face was unreadable, but his eyes moved constantly — observing, listening, measuring. The others began murmuring, unsure how to begin. No one wanted to be first.
Player 47, young, sharp-eyed, finally broke the silence.
"We need someone who knows how to play people, not just win games. Someone who can lead, and survive."
Player 45, more paranoid, shook his head.
"No. We need someone who can make deals. We don't even know what they'll ask captains to do — could be gambling, strategy, even betrayal."
Player 53, older, with a rigid military posture, crossed his arms.
"We pick wrong, we all die. Pick someone who's seen pressure — and can still think."
42 looked at each speaker. He hadn't said a word yet.
Then he stepped forward.
His voice wasn't loud. But it carried. Controlled. Clean.
"I don't want this role. Not for power. Not for pride."
He let that sit.
"But if none of you want to die in the dark, you need someone who doesn't panic when the rules change. Someone who knows what panic smells like — and knows how to keep others calm when it hits."
He paused, watching their reactions.
"I've been lied to. I've been forced to lie. I won't lie to you unless I have no other choice. And if I ever do — I'll carry the cost."
That struck a chord.
Player 55 raised his hand without hesitation.
"My vote's for 42."
Player 47 followed, quietly.
"Same here."
One by one, heads nodded. Hands lifted.
By the end of it, only one dissenter remained — Player 49, who muttered something about "playing his own game" — but no one listened.
Row 5 had their captain. 42.
Solid. Strategic. Dangerous if crossed.
Row 3: The Wolves
If Row 5 was a quiet election, Row 3 was a battlefield.
Player 30 — lean, intense, charismatic in the worst way — spoke first.
"I've read body language since I was sixteen. I've made a living breaking systems. I don't lose."
He turned to the group, all but daring them to argue.
But Player 70 did.
Broad. Stone-faced. Rumored to be ex-secret service.
"You sound like a liar who got lucky. Let's see how you lead when bullets start flying."
The group split almost instantly. Arguments erupted. Voices clashed.
Player 21 tried to mediate.
"We need unity. Not ego."
No one listened. For nearly fifteen minutes, 30 and 70 went at it — comparing credentials, challenging one another's resolve. Every word felt like a spark in a gas leak.
Then Player 75, silent until now, finally spoke.
"Look at them. The two people who most want power are the two who'll burn it."
But by then, the damage was done. Most were too intimidated by 30's presence to resist. His voice was honey-laced poison. He made violence sound reasonable.
He was elected. Not unanimously. But undeniably.
Row 3's captain was 30. And that row would either rise in power or burn in conflict.
Row 1: The Smile That Chose Itself
Row 1 was strange.
The moment they formed, they were quiet. Not from fear — from calculation. No one argued. No one gestured.
Player 100, tall, perfectly groomed, looked like a politician before the fall.
He didn't make a pitch.
He simply smiled.
And that smile — calm, cold, elegant — was enough.
Player 4, who hadn't spoken since the first elimination, muttered to the group:
"He scares me. But I trust him more than anyone here."
One after another, the others agreed. Not because they understood him.
But because they knew better than to challenge him.
Row 1's captain was 100.
A man who spoke power into being — without needing a single word.
Row 2: The Blade
Player 14 wasted no time.
He stood in the center of the group and began to speak like a lawyer in court.
"We don't know the nature of the challenges to come. But what we do know is that chaos rewards the cruel — and order rewards the focused."
"I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to ensure we last."
Others began murmuring. Someone suggested Player 18. But he was too shaken by the memory of the previous day's slaughter.
14 walked through the circle calmly.
"You want a captain? Pick the one who doesn't flinch. Doesn't weep. Doesn't forget the mission."
By the end of his speech, he wasn't asking for votes.
He was expecting them.
And he got them.
Row 2's captain was 14. Cold. Precise. Deadly.
Row 4: The Quiet Core
Row 4 was different.
Less chaos. More doubt.
Player 33 tried to campaign. Failed.
Player 64 stood silently at the edge, arms crossed, eyes scanning. He didn't try to speak. He simply helped.
He passed water to a player who looked dehydrated. He calmed two arguing players without raising his voice. Every move was subtle.
After an hour of discussion, Player 35 pointed at him.
"He's not trying to win. He's just trying to keep people from falling apart. That's the guy I want speaking for me."
Agreement spread fast.
Row 4's captain was 64.
The quiet kind — the ones who lead without making a sound.
The End of the Choosing
the Game Master reappeared.
He didn't ask who the captains were.
He already knew.
Five leaders. Five masks of strategy:
42
30
100
14
64
Now the players had gathered back into their cells waiting for destiny, as now Liars Gambit had really begun.
In shadows deep, where truths are sold,
A whispered word, a lie is told.
The mask of calm, the heart of fear,
A quiet smile that hides the sneer.
With every promise, each sweet vow,
The web is spun, the lies allow.
We trust the voices, soft and kind,
But hidden knots tie hearts and minds.
The world is twisted, bound by threads,
A tale of lies the heart dreads.
Yet in the dark, the truth remains,
A distant spark that calls the pain.
So here we stand, both lost and found,
In webs of lies, we're tightly bound.
The game is played, the cards are dealt,
But none can trust the hand they've felt.