The Ghostly Dreamcrafters

The chatter in the room ceased abruptly as the masked figure's cold, gravelly voice echoed through the space. A suffocating silence fell over the group, their expressions frozen in disbelief and fear. No one dared to speak again. The crimson liquid from the lifeless body pooled on the floor, a chilling reminder that death here was far too real.

"Now," the masked man began, his tone carrying a sinister authority, "each of you will recount a story—something that happened before you came here. Once everyone has spoken, there will be a vote. If all eight of you unanimously identify the liar, the liar will be eliminated, and the rest will survive. But if even one person votes incorrectly... the liar walks free, and the rest of you face the consequences."

The tension in the room thickened. A man with tattoos snorted, crossing his arms impatiently. "This is just a goddamn killing game," he muttered, his gaze darting around nervously. "We've got to find the liar, or we're all dead." He jabbed his finger at Halia, seated to his left. "You're up first. Let's get this over with."

Halia's voice rose in protest. "This isn't fair! At least give us two minutes to discuss!"

The masked figure turned slightly, raising a withered, claw-like hand. The skin was parched and cracked, resembling the bark of an ancient tree. "As you wish," he said coolly.

The timer on their watches abruptly stopped, leaving Halia momentarily stunned. She looked down at her wrist, her brow furrowed in confusion.

At the far end of the group, Orion sat silently, his sharp eyes observing every movement, every word. Something about the masked figure wasn't right. Its movements were too calculated, too mechanical. The dried, blood-stained mask and hollow eye sockets radiated something inhuman. As Orion's gaze flicked to the others, unease gnawed at him. Why were they here? And why were nine strangers brought together like this?

"Go ahead, discuss," the masked man said, stepping back to the shadows.

The group erupted into a cacophony of hurried voices.

An older man with spectacles stood up, raising his hands. "Listen to me! This game is like wolves hunting sheep. It's a battle of psychology and strategy. If we work together, we can outsmart this."

"Sit down, old man," the tattooed guy barked. "We all know the rules. Stop wasting time."

The tattooed man stood abruptly, walking toward the metal wall. "This box isn't indestructible. Let's smash these handcuffs against the wall. Once we break free, we'll gang up on that freak in the mask and get the hell out of here."

He slammed his metal cuffs against the wall with all his might. The sound reverberated through the room, a deafening clash of metal and concrete. But the cuffs didn't even dent. Panting, the tattooed man glared at his reddened hands. "Fuck, What the hell is this thing made of? My hands are numb!"

"See?" the old man said, adjusting his glasses. "Violence won't work. We need to stick to the plan."

The tattooed man whirled around. "Then tell us your plan, old man! We don't have all day!"

The old man hesitated but stood firm. "If we all tell the truth—yes, even the liar—then there won't technically be any lies to detect. If we unanimously vote that no one is lying, we all survive."

The room fell silent, the logic of his suggestion sinking in.

"But how do we know you're not lying right now?" Halia asked sharply, her eyes narrowing. "If you're the liar, you'd want us to trust you so you can survive."

The old man faltered, his mouth opening and closing before he slumped back into his seat. "If you won't trust me... I don't have another idea."

"Enough," the masked man's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Time's up. Let's begin."

All eyes turned to Halia, who sat at the far left. The tattooed man nudged her with his shoulder. "Ladies first, right? You love to talk, don't you?"

Halia shot him a withering glare, then took a deep breath. "Fine. My name's Halia. I'm a journalist from St. Petersburg. The night before I came here, I was working on a report at an insurance company. It was about fraud—financial scams involving large sums of money."

She adjusted the lanyard around her neck, her press badge catching the dim light. Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of hesitation.

"And?" the tattooed man pressed. "Don't leave anything out, glasses girl. If you're hiding something, I'll vote you out."

"Shut up!" she snapped. "I was getting to it. That night, the building's lights started flickering. The whole place went dark. Suddenly, someone grabbed me—covered my mouth. I couldn't breathe. Everything went black, and the next thing I knew, I woke up here."

The group exchanged uneasy glances. Orion noted the subtle shifts in their expressions, their nervous fidgeting. Something about her story had struck a nerve.

Halia's words echoed in Orion's mind. Someone had grabbed her, smothered her... and then she was here. That sounded eerily familiar.

"It's my turn now," the tattooed man announced loudly. "Name's Michael. I'm from Harlem, New York. I'm in the business of... let's call it luxury goods. Designer handbags, high-end stuff."

"Scammer," muttered the woman sitting next to Orion, her voice dripping with disdain. She adjusted the sapphire pin on her lapel, her elegant suit pristine and unwrinkled.

Michael shot her a dirty look but continued. "Anyway, I was in a subway tunnel making a deal. Fifty bucks for a Chanel crocodile-skin bag—good price, right? Then, bam! The lights flickered. Just like she said. Everything went dark, and someone grabbed me—just like her. When I woke up, I was here."

His animated recount seemed genuine, perfectly matching his brash personality. Orion listened closely, piecing together the puzzle.

Orion listened intently. Florida and New York—two people over 1,100 miles apart, yet both brought here overnight. The logistics seemed impossible. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of information.