"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" boomed a voice in an absurdly theatrical British accent, as blinding lights flashed on like we were all about to be inducted into some bizarre cult. Blinking in confusion, I looked down and nearly choked—there I was, trapped in a glass box, displayed like a rare action figure in a giant hall. And, of course, I wasn't alone. Around me were others, all clad in equally ridiculous costumes like my own rabbit suit. Perfect. Apparently, we were all just toys on a shelf, and I was the limited-edition bunny. The room was dome-shaped, with glass boxes everywhere, all facing a central stage as though we were part of some twisted reality show. "Thank you for joining us!" the voice bellowed with way too much enthusiasm. "We welcome you to this year's exclusive game!"

And there he was, the owner of the voice, standing proudly in the middle of the hall like he owned the place. He probably did; who knows?

He was dressed in a light blue suit, with a feathered mask and an absurdly long beak. Whether he was talking through the beak or if it was somehow connected to a microphone was anyone's guess. Either way, the effect was nothing short of theatrical—ridiculously so.

That's when one of the glass compartments made a loud thumping noise. Inside was a man—this muscly, probably about 5'12" with a beer belly. If he wasn't here, I'd assume he was someone's dad, just minding his business at a BBQ. Then, I spotted the bullet holes on the glass. This guy had actually tried to shoot his way out. 

Seriously? What was he expecting? For the glass to magically break and him to plummet twelve stories? At this point, he might as well just shoot himself and save us all the misery. The glass was probably bulletproof anyway, so his little stunt didn't exactly have the desired effect. Meanwhile, the bird man turned to face Mr. Dad Bod and began laughing maniacally—like the Joker, if the Joker had skipped all the psychological depth and just stumbled out of a Miami street corner after a bad batch of something. This guy was laughing like he'd completely lost his grip on reality.

After laughing so much, I swear I thought he was about to start crying. Through his maniacal chuckles, the bird man finally got himself together enough to say, "The glass is indestructible, folks," with that same smug, mocking tone. "And the first game is The Elemental Gauntlet!" He grinned like a maniac, clearly thrilled to be ruining my life. "The contestants will face challenges based on the four natural elements. You'll build a raft for water, endure a simulated sandstorm for air, and somehow craft fire under pressure, among other delightful tasks." He paused, eyeing everyone in the room. "And you really can't escape."

The Elemental Gauntlet? Oh, totally not bullshitting me. What did I do, accidentally sign up for a game show in some twisted crossover between Survivor and The Hunger Games, where the prize is your life?

But then the Bird Man did something even more bizarre. He straightened up, a disturbingly smug expression plastered across his face, and began scanning the room.

"Ah yes," he said, clasping his hands together in that creepy way people do when they think they're about to reveal some deep cosmic truth. "If you are wondering why you are here... most of you aren't, but a couple of you are. Then guess what?"

I swear to God, he was looking directly at me. Who in their right mind would want to be here willingly? Does that mean everyone else knew what this was? Were they all in on some sick, twisted joke I wasn't privy to? Great. Just what I needed: a bunch of people who knew the rules and a game that was going to end in chaos.

"Well," Bird Man continued, grinning like a madman, "I have absolutely no idea why you're here, but you are here, and that's what matters! So let the games begin!"

And with that, he flashed a grin so wide I was pretty sure it could've split his mask in half. I could feel my blood boil, like a volcano about to erupt. I was this close to ripping his head off. Seriously, what kind of lunatic was I dealing with here?

But I didn't because the 'indestructible' glass was in my way. 

"You can choose one weapon," the bird man said, as if picking a weapon was somehow going to make this farce any less absurd. "Now, go back to your rooms, freshen up, and come back in one hour. You wouldn't want to keep us waiting, would you?" He flashed that same creepy smile before adding, "Oh, and each of you will be assigned a partner, but you get to pick that partner after the end of this individual game. So, see ya!"

Right, because nothing says fun like choosing a partner after a game designed to make me question every life choice I've ever made. It's like The Twilight Zone had a baby with Big Brother, but with way more existential dread, zero prize money, and significantly fewer cameras.

That's when the lights went out again. Seriously, are they trying to make us go blind before this absurd game even starts? A loud metallic clunk sound behind me as the door to my glass cage slid open. I braced myself, expecting the Receptionist's Demonic grin to be on the other side. But nope—no one was there. Just the blue empty hallway.

Relieved but still suspicious (because, let's be honest, nothing here feels safe), I stepped out and headed toward the open elevator waiting ominously down the hall. Of course, the button was already pressed: floor seven. 

After that, things became a blur. I got to my room and noticed a meal waiting on the table. By "meal," I mean bread, eggs, bacon, and orange juice. At 2 a.m., no less. Breakfast for dinner? Sure, why not.

Did I stop to question the meal? Nope. I inhaled it like I'd been on a month-long juice cleanse, barely chewing because fear and adrenaline apparently pair well with starvation. What if I was vegetarian, though? Well, joke's on me because my memories were wiped, so maybe I was. Either way, at that moment, I'd have gladly gnawed on a shoebox if it had been served. Honestly, I don't even remember tasting the food. Survival mode does weird things to a person.

That's when I heard a knock—not the aggressive I'm-about-to-break-down-your-door kind from earlier, but a proper, polite knock. Two taps, and then a note was slid under the door.

The note, ominous but deceptively harmless, read: "Come to the 2nd floor for a bath."

A bath? This madhouse has baths? Should I be thanking the heavens or side-eyeing this suspiciously considerate gesture? While I debated whether cleanliness was worth the risk, one thing was clear: this place has way too many surprises.

Then came the real dilemma—chainsaw or no chainsaw? I mean, it was covered in blood and intestines of Mr trust issues, so leaving it behind felt like a bad idea. Better safe than sorry, right? Clutching the gore-soaked chainsaw, I made my way to the elevator. Because, of course, it was already open and waiting for me.

Convenient. Almost too convenient.