Ava leaned against the back of the chair, gazing at the stars as a soft breeze stirred her hair. Lost in thought, she replayed everything. The Starry Night Game had chosen her out of nowhere. The people around her had slowly turned into strangers, and strangers had begun watching her with interest. This change had to come from that cursed game.

What if she was already inside it? What if the moment she was chosen, the game pulled her into another dimension, or perhaps it had begun even earlier? It never needed her permission. It only informed her. Play the levels.

What united all the players? What did the game gain from high scores, rewarding success generously and punishing failure? It slyly made them forget they were forced to play, offering rewards that only helped them pass further levels, creating a false sense of security, while vague punishments gave its threats greater weight.

Meow.

She looked up and met a pair of reflective eyes. A black cat stood on the balcony railing, somehow appearing without a sound. It moved closer, and Ava watched in silence as it climbed into her lap, purring as it nudged her hands with its nose.

Even you changed, Ava thought.

Once her heartbeat steadied, she decided to play along. She would not mention anything strange, not even allow a hint of doubt to surface. If they had chosen to lie low, then so would she. She would play along until she discovered their purpose.

The cat was named Cloud, the neighbor’s elderly indoor cat. Yet it always found its way into Ava’s house, jumping out at her without warning and never allowing her a proper look. It hissed if she passed without offering a treat, forcing Ava to become the peacekeeper and obey the little gremlin trespassing as if it owned the place. Now it sat calmly in her lap, demanding affection.

Her cold fingers slid through its warm fur as Ava replayed the memory of the players’ eyes and her own reflection in the mirror. A faint smile curved her lips as she chuckled. “Choosing people already at their breaking point, forcing them to endure the cruelty of the levels, pushing them closer to the abyss. Encouraging  them to release their last fragile ray of hope and surrender to the darkness, or…”

She paced constantly at the edge of that abyss, battling malevolent thoughts. She knew she would never jump. Still, she wondered what lay below. If her mind was stretched to its limit, she would not fall. She would shatter. Leaving her trapped in a quieter, deeper torment, unable to tend her own wounds any longer or continue moving forward on instinct alone, breath shallow yet persistent.

‘Ding. Player Ava, reminder. Fourteen minutes until the next level. Make sure you are ready.’

She gently set the cat down and returned to her room, sitting on the bed with her belongings gathered in her arms. Casually, she asked the system: ‘how many players  are currently playing the game.’

The system replied: ‘In this version, not many. It is still at the beginning, a phase for testing new possibilities.’

There is more than one version.

What is different about this one? You mentioned that players could not meet in real life, how is that possible if there were so many versions and players?

Shaking her head slightly she thought, I should have noticed earlier, when it stated that players could not meet until all levels were complete. They could not meet because they would not be in the same world. They would never return to reality.

The system stayed silent for a few seconds, then warned that the game was confidential. Asking too many questions would not help anyway. She remained quiet until the timer reached zero.

‘Welcome back, Player Ava. You have entered Level Two.’

She was standing in an open space beneath the night sky. As she looked around, she noticed a dozen figures scattered in the distance. She enabled player identification, and sure enough, most of them were players.

A loudspeaker crackled to life.

“It is now 9:55 p.m. Five minutes until the dormitory gates close. Students, return to your rooms immediately. Do not linger in corridors or shared spaces. Failure to comply will result in a write-up by the responsible staff, who will begin checks shortly. Do not risk your degree for a moment of—”

The announcement cut off abruptly, leaving the night unnervingly quiet.

Really? I am a student again?!

She was holding a keychain in her hand, several keys clinking softly against a student ID card. Without hesitation, she ran toward the five story building in front of her. The name above the entrance matched the information on her card. Dormitory B.

She passed the elevator. A notice was taped across its doors.

Only for staff and students with mobility challenges.

Beside it hung a large wall poster, rules printed in bold letters at the top. She took a quick picture of it, then snapped another of the poster on the opposite wall, a full map of the dormitory layout. No time to memorize it now.

She turned and ran for the stairs.

She would not take the elevator. Confined space, easy ambush, and the first rule of survival was simple. Follow the rules when possible.

According to her ID, she lived on the foreign female students floor, third floor according to the map.

As she climbed, she collided with someone rushing down. A player who probably had not checked the map and got lost. The impact sent her keys flying. She crouched instinctively to grab them, but before she could, another player sprinting upward stepped on her hand.

Pain reduction dulled the sensation, but it was still wrong. Her fingers bent at an unnatural angle. Dislocated, maybe broken.

The player did not stop.

Above their head flickered the words Player 2.

“Sorry,” she muttered without looking back. “It’s been a while since I walked.”

Then she was gone, footsteps fading upward as the dormitory clock kept ticking toward lockdown.

Ava took a deep breath, reminding herself that time mattered. She did not know what would happen if 10 p.m arrived and she was not in her room. She could not afford to waste even a second chasing the player who had hurt her or throwing them down the stairs.

The number engraved on the key read 305.

She ran down the hallway, eyes skimming over the numbered doors as she passed them. 301. 302. 303.

305.

She stopped sharply and shoved the key into the lock with her left hand. Her right arm hung uselessly at her side, unmoving. She twisted the key, but it would not budge. The lock resisted, stiff and unyielding.

Her grip was weak. Using her nondominant hand, she could not generate enough force.

Heart racing, she switched hands and tried again with the injured one.

Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but the lock still did not turn.

The corridor felt suddenly too quiet as the seconds continued to slip away.

Ava remembered a detail from when she had skimmed the rules earlier: the lights were scheduled to turn off at 10 p.m. She could feel the clock ticking in her mind, each second inching closer to that moment. Standing alone in the dark—uncertain what the game might throw at her—was not an option.

The hallway around her seemed longer than before, shadows stretching along the walls as she scanned the doors. The rooms did not look small; it was likely that more than one person shared each space. That thought gave her an idea. She could not fumble with the stubborn lock forever.

With a sharp inhale, she knocked on the door, rapping hard enough that the echo bounced down the empty corridor. “Open up! The key is not working.” she called, forcing urgency into her voice, hoping it would reach whoever was inside.

The key remained stubbornly stuck, refusing to turn, but just then, a sliver of light spilled from under the door. A hesitant voice followed, quiet and uncertain.

“Ava?”