Their silent exchange was interrupted by the Executive’s voice booming through the room, commanding attention.

“I guess that’s it for you losers. It doesn’t seem like any more of you are getting saved. Hahaha!” The Executive’s mockery was laced with malice, and the second-floor crowd erupted into echoes of laughter and scorn.

“Who the fuck would waste three million on these worthless people?”

“I could buy a slave in a third-world country for like 100k. These people are crazy.”

“Look at their faces. They think they deserve to be saved. How many of them down there are fucking murderers?”

The second-floor participants looked down at the losers below, their disdain and superiority palpable. It was ironic. If the roles were reversed, the first-floor crowd would likely feel the same way. Every human, when placed in a position of superiority, harbors some level of arrogance and ego. It was the guilty pleasure of being the one looking down.

“Take them away!” the Executive commanded.

Administrators began escorting the first-floor losers out of the hallway. Despite their defeat, many clung desperately to hope, shouting pleas for another chance or praying for a miracle that would never come. But their cries fell on deaf ears. The second floor was soundproofed, and their voices could not reach the winners above.

“Well then, it’s time to wrap things up,” the Executive continued. “Those with four coins or more may now exit through the black door, and those without will await further instructions.”

With that, the game’s conclusion was clear. Several participants on the second floor bolted toward the black door, eager to escape this surreal nightmare. Among them was Don, running frantically while glancing back at Claude and Clara. Their eyes met by coincidence, and Clara immediately jolted up from her chair.

“This motherfucker!” Clara hissed, her voice trembling with rage.

Don turned his attention back to the door, showing no sign of regret or remorse. He continued running, focused solely on his escape.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Clara growled, her hands clenched into fists as she prepared to chase after him.

Claude grabbed her arm firmly, stopping her in her tracks. “Let me go… Please,” Clara pleaded, her voice desperate. “The fucking shit he did… Quite a few people are running toward the door. He can’t get out so quickly! If he needs to queue up, I could catch up and punch him…”

Claude shook his head, his grip steady. “It’s fine. Let the scum be. You need to focus on regaining your energy now. We might have a second game, so you need to eat.”

Surprisingly, that single statement was enough to calm Clara down. She sat back down reluctantly, returning to her meal. What she didn’t yet realize was how much she had come to rely on Claude. His words carried weight for her now—every word he spoke felt significant, almost sacred. In her heart, she had already recognized Claude as her savior, though her mind hadn’t fully processed it yet.

“Alright…” Clara muttered, her voice soft as she resumed eating.

Claude watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Internally, a sarcastic thought crossed his mind. “I mean, even if you do catch up, he’s a guy, and you’re a girl. Just based on physique alone, you’d probably lose the fight…” He smirked faintly at the thought but kept it to himself, letting Clara eat in peace.

His attention then quickly shifted to Elaine.

“Elaine…” Claude began, his tone steady but laced with curiosity.

Elaine’s response came swiftly, almost cutting him off. “Let’s go to the washroom, Jenn. We need to clean up all this dried blood on your face,” she said, her voice louder than usual. It was clear she was avoiding any interaction with Claude, her dismissal deliberate.

“Mhm… yeah,” Jenn replied softly, her voice barely audible. She followed Elaine without hesitation, the two of them walking away in search of a bathroom.

Claude watched them leave, his thoughts lingering for a moment before Clara’s voice brought him back.

“Do you… know them?” Clara’s expression was a mixture of worry and nervousness, her eyes searching his face for an answer.

“No… not really. We only talked a bit about how we both wanted to save someone from the first floor,” Claude replied, keeping his explanation simple and vague. The lie rolled off his tongue effortlessly, designed to put Clara at ease.

“Oh…” Clara’s voice softened, and her heart stirred once again.

Her thoughts swirled with guilt and admiration. “To think he was already working to save me, even after all the horrible things I screamed at him before he left… I’m… horrible…” The memory of her earlier outburst replayed in her mind, weighing heavily on her conscience.

As Clara finished her meal, she glanced toward the black door. The once-crowded queue had disappeared; those who wanted to leave had already departed. The area now felt eerily empty.

“Can we go to the washroom together? I need to use the washroom…” Clara suggested hesitantly.

Claude nodded in agreement, standing up with her. But just as they prepared to leave, a familiar voice echoed through the hallway. The Executive’s announcement boomed loud and clear, cutting through the silence.

“Winners of the first game! I congratulate you once again. Without further ado, I would like to bring you to the second game. Can’t have your winning momentum interrupted for too long, can I? Hahaha! Gather around the red box again within 30 minutes. Failure to do so… would result in you joining the first-floor losers.” The Executive’s voice dripped with mockery.

“Now then, I eagerly await your arrival. Thirty minutes starts now.”

The announcement left the hallway in an oppressive silence. No one dared to speak, the weight of the Executive’s words sinking in. The participants had barely gotten any time to rest—not enough to recover from the trauma of the first game—and already the second game loomed ahead. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with dread and uncertainty. After witnessing the brutality of the first game, the question lingered in everyone’s minds:

What horrors awaited them in the second game?