They lost a few players to the heat. But the majority survived, still marching in the direction Brandon had sprinted.
Brandon's eyelids sagged. His legs had long gone numb. The sun was ruthless, and the sand unending.
**Thump.**
He collapsed face-first into the desert.
"Brandon!"
Several players rushed to him.
"He's alive," one confirmed, checking his pulse. "Still breathing."
"I'll carry him," another said, lifting Brandon onto his back and continuing the long, hot march.
"…Tom…" Brandon muttered weakly in his sleep.
But Thomas had never been in danger.
—
Liam trudged through the desert alone, head down, aimless. He had no clear destination—only a goal: keep moving.
He still wasn't sure if he'd made the right call.
If this was all a setup by Detective Knight, he'd be in handcuffs by sunrise.
But if he'd gambled right… he might have a real shot at destroying the game. Not for himself.
For him.
That thought kept him going. Fueled his resolve. Until the game was ended—until the monster behind it all was dead, with their blood on Liam's hands—no sacrifice would be too great.
—
Antarctica.
The mood had shifted.
Laughter. Casual conversation. Players sat in the snow, no longer fearing another crack beneath them. If this was a game, it was clear now—the avalanche had been the final attack.
Connor and Flynn sat side by side. Jason was nearby, resting. Thanks to the avalanche's momentum, their iceberg had drifted closer to Samantha's. Communication between them was now possible—with some yelling.
"This is annoying," Flynn muttered.
"What is?"
"This." Flynn gestured vaguely at everything.
"Ah," Connor nodded.
"I'm tired, man. My family avoids me. Think I'm crazy because I insisted this game was real. Every night, we face death. But worse than that… everyday just stops feeling normal."
"I get it," Connor replied. "We wake up like usual, but it's different. Not because of sleep deprivation, in fact I feel more energetic out of bed lately. It's that it's never just a normal day anymore."
Flynn nodded. "Can't even drink coffee the same way. Can't talk to my wife normally. Can't play with my daughter without wondering if it's the last time I ever will."
"…But isn't that how we're supposed to live?" Connor said.
Flynn raised an eyebrow.
"Like—it's some cliché, right? 'Live each day like it's your last.'"
Flynn scoffed. "That motto doesn't hit the same when it might actually be your last day."
Connor chuckled. "Okay, yeah. Fair."
"Oh, I know I'm right. Speaking from experience here."
They both laughed—dry, bitter, but real.
"Where do you live?" Flynn asked. "Maybe we grab a drink tomorrow. Celebrate being alive."
"Damn, that's dark," Connor grinned. "I don't drink. Coffee?"
"I'm in."
From across the way, Samantha cupped her hands and shouted:
"HEYYY! JASON!"
"YEAH?!"
"REMEMBER! I'll find you tomorrow!"
Jason didn't shout back. He just raised a big thumbs-up.
—
4:00 a.m.
Time froze.
The desert oasis—once teeming with wind, water, and movement—froze.
Ripples in the pond paused mid-splash. Sand hung in the air like suspended dust. Palm trees stood perfectly still.
One by one, the surviving players collapsed into sleep.
Liam too fell face-first into the sand. Whether it was the game… or just exhaustion from his aimless march.
A man in a three-piece suit appeared—not dangling from a helicopter this time, but simply strolling in from nowhere. Impeccably clean. Not a speck of sweat on him.
He walked straight to Liam's unconscious body, crouched beside him.
"Why'd you do that?" he asked, more to himself than anyone. "It won't work anyway."
He reached into Liam's pocket, pulled out a blood-stained knife, inspected it.
"Filthy."
He smiled, slid the knife back into Liam's pocket, and stood up.
—
4:00 a.m.
Time froze.
The blizzard stopped mid-surge. Snowflakes hovered in midair. The frozen ocean stilled.
Players dropped, one after another, into unconsciousness.
"See you there," Flynn muttered before collapsing.
"Yeah. See you there," Connor replied calmly, still standing.
Jason was already asleep, broken glasses clutched in one hand.
Connor walked over and gently picked them up.
"Hmph. Might need to make these stronger," he said under his breath.
Then, casually, Connor stepped onto the very edge of the iceberg—and kept walking.
**Snap.**
With a crisp snap of his fingers, he strolled above the frozen waters, several meters off the surface, until he reached Samantha's iceberg.
He stood silently over her sleeping form.
"Hm."
Then turned and walked back—across thin air—returning to his own iceberg.
He looked down at Jason's face.
"Hm."
Checked his watch: 4:07 a.m.
"Let's see…" He scanned the sleeping figures all around him.
"…87%? Did I do the math right? I think." He scratched his head and vanished.
—
At the desert oasis, the man in the suit now stood beside the pond, surrounded by unconscious players.
"72%," he said to no one in particular.
"They did really, really well."
He smiled faintly.
"Or maybe it was just too easy."