The Ghostly Dreamcrafters

"Where… where am I?" Halia woke with a start, her breathing sharp and erratic.

Panic surged through her as she realized her wrists and ankles were bound together by a set of heavy metal cuffs, each attached to a small iron box. A digital timer glowed ominously on the box, counting down from 10 minutes. The numbers flickered with each passing second, a cruel reminder of time slipping away.

She glanced around, her wide eyes scanning the room. It was massive—impossibly so. The walls were blindingly white, and when she craned her neck to look upward, she estimated the ceiling was at least twenty meters high.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice cracking with fear.

Her scream shattered the silence, stirring nine other figures who had been slumped across the room. Some were curled into fetal positions, shivering like frightened animals. Others lay sprawled across metallic tables, roused only by Halia's terrified cry. One by one, they blinked awake, confusion and terror mirrored in their eyes.

None of them knew each other. That much was clear from the way their gazes darted around, searching for familiarity and finding none.

Then Halia's breath hitched as her gaze fell on something—or rather, someone—directly ahead of her. She recoiled, scrambling backward across the cold, unyielding floor. Her panicked movements drew the others' attention, and soon they were all staring in the same direction, their collective fear rising like a tidal wave.

Standing a few meters away was a man. Or at least, something that resembled a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp black suit that seemed out of place in the sterile room. But it wasn't his clothing that froze them in terror—it was the mask.

A battered, ancient-looking samurai mask obscured his face. The grotesque design featured a pair of exaggerated eyes that seemed to weep streams of blood, the crimson streaks running down the worn surface. The mask, unmistakably an artifact of war, carried the aura of death itself.

"Welcome," the man said, his voice low and gravelly, echoing through the cavernous space. He took a step forward, and with him came an overwhelming stench—rotting flesh mixed with something metallic. It hit the group like a physical blow, and more than one person gagged, clutching at their noses.

"Who the hell are you?" barked a muscular Black man sitting near the center of the room. His voice was rough, matching his intimidating appearance. A tattoo of a fierce eagle stretched across his bicep, and a gold chain, dulled by years of wear, rested against his broad chest. He wore a leather vest over a plain T-shirt and baggy jeans, exuding the air of someone who thrived in chaos.

The masked man chuckled darkly. "Ah, the classic question. Predictable. Every group asks the same thing when they first arrive here."

At the back of the room, a young man named Orion sat quietly, observing. Unlike the others, he didn't let fear dictate his actions. His sharp eyes narrowed as he studied the masked figure, noting every detail—the ancient design of the mask, the blood-like streaks, the deliberate way he moved.

Meanwhile, an older man to Halia's left spoke up, his voice trembling. "We've been kidnapped. There are no doors, no windows. And our phones… no signal." His frail body quivered as he clutched his knees, the thick glasses perched on his nose magnifying his watery eyes.

Orion's gaze swept across the room. The walls were smooth and curved, creating an unbroken, seamless enclosure. It resembled an oversized basketball, utterly devoid of exits. If they were in Los Angeles, he thought, a place like this would have been discovered in no time—unless, of course, they were far from the city, somewhere remote and abandoned.

"You'd better let me out," a woman snapped. She had striking features—flawless pale skin, crimson lips, and a cascade of dark curls that framed her face. She twisted and turned like a serpent, attempting to slip free from the cuffs. But the more she struggled, the tighter they seemed to grip her wrists. Her efforts left angry red marks on her skin, and she finally gave up with a frustrated cry, her expression twisted in pain and anger.

Orion glanced at his own cuffs. The timer on the iron box strapped to his wrists showed 7:26. What happens when it hits zero?

The room descended into chaos. The group's fear erupted into shouting, desperate struggles, and wild accusations. But amidst the commotion, one man remained eerily calm. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his clean white shirt unwrinkled, his expression unreadable.

The tattooed man noticed him. Despite his rough demeanor, he had a keen eye for detail. He nudged the man with his shoulder, his voice laced with suspicion. "Hey, why aren't you scared? A place like this… only two types of people stay calm. Cops, or the ones running the show. Which one are you?"

The white-shirted man didn't flinch. He straightened his posture and spoke evenly. "You're focusing on the wrong person. Our attention should be on him." He gestured toward the masked man. "He's the only one here without cuffs."

Before anyone could respond, another man rose from the floor, his face twisted in defiance. He marched up to the masked figure, towering over him. "Unlock these cuffs. Now."

For a moment, the masked man hesitated. Then, to everyone's surprise, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the man's restraints without protest.

The freed man smirked and sprinted toward the wall, determined to find a way out. But before he could take another step, a deafening BANG echoed through the room.

Halia screamed, clutching her head. The man's body crumpled to the floor, his head grotesquely blown apart. Blood and fragments sprayed across the pristine walls, the metallic tang of death thick in the air.

The group froze, their collective terror palpable. Even the white-shirted man lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the floor.

The masked man's voice cut through the silence, cold and mocking. "Anyone else want to try leaving?"

No one moved.

"Good," he said, producing a deck of cards from his suit pocket. "Now that I have your attention, let's play a game."

He held up nine cards, one for each of them. One by one, he showed them their cards, instructing them to memorize what they saw.

"Among you," he continued, "there is a liar. If you find them before the timer hits zero, you'll survive. If not…" He gestured to the headless corpse on the floor, the blood pooling beneath it.

Orion's pulse quickened as he stared at the countdown on his cuffs. 5:00.

Time was running out.