The Ghostly Dreamcrafters

Orion's mind raced as he replayed everyone's statements over and over. One truth loomed above all: he had to survive. There was no alternative. Only by making it out of this wretched place could he claim the money—the money needed to treat Vivian's illness. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and his resolve hardened. He had been assigned the role of the liar, a role that came with a cruel reality: for him to live, the other eight had to die.

The third person began speaking, breaking Orion's grim train of thought. It was the old man's turn.

"My name is Elton," the man started, his voice steady but tinged with weariness. "I'm from Washington. I'm a professor of economics at the university there, specializing in international trade. You can easily find my credentials online. The night before I came here, I was in my second-floor office at the business school, reviewing a student's thesis. It was a quantitative analysis of risks in the modern insurance industry."

He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses, which magnified his eyes like oversized marbles.

"The lights in my office started flickering," he continued. "At first, I thought the bulb had burned out—it's an old building, and maintenance is rare. I was about to open the door and leave when I felt hands cover my mouth and nose. My vision blurred, and the next thing I knew, I woke up here."

Elton's faded shirt and the pen clipped to his front pocket gave him the air of someone perpetually consumed by academia. His thick glasses, practically as dense as slices of bread, reflected the dim light in the room. He sighed.

"Frankly, I can't imagine why anyone would want to kidnap a retired professor," he said, spreading his hands in exasperation. "I have no enemies. My world is confined to the campus and my research."

Orion's ears perked up. Something about Elton's story aligned too conveniently with his own experience—the flickering lights, the sudden attack. It was a detail shared by all who had spoken so far. His mind looped through his rehearsed mantra: My name is Orion. I'm from Miami. My name is Orion...

Then came the fourth person: a burly man in a plain white shirt. His muscular arms rivaled those of the tattooed man who had spoken earlier.

"I'm Thomason," he said. His voice was as solid as his frame. "I'm a police officer from Oakland, a small town outside Orlando. I live there with my wife, Joyna—she's Vietnamese—and our two kids. Life was good... until now."

He paused, his jaw tightening before continuing. "The night I ended up here, I was on a stakeout in my patrol car, watching for a suspected fraudster. Hours passed with no sign of the perp. Then, suddenly, the dome light in my car went out. Before I could react, I felt someone yank my head back with incredible force. I grabbed at the hand with my left, but he managed to cut my right hand with a knife before I blacked out."

To emphasize his story, Thomason raised his right hand, revealing a jagged red scar running along his palm.

The tattooed man—Michael, if Orion remembered correctly—snorted derisively. "He's lying! Did you hear that, everyone? He said he grabbed the guy's hand with his left, but the cut is on his right. How does that add up?"

Thomason's eyes narrowed as he shot Michael a withering glare. "You ever been in a fight?" he snapped. "When someone's struggling, you don't get to choose where they're aiming their knife. I grabbed his hand with my left, but in the scuffle, his blade slashed my right. If you think that's a lie, maybe you're the liar here."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Thomason's nostrils flared as he glared at Michael, who, for once, had no retort. Meanwhile, Orion sat quietly, his expression neutral but his thoughts churning. Thomason's story seemed airtight—the scar on his hand matched his account perfectly. The rules were clear: only one person in this room could lie. The others had to be telling the truth. Orion's eyes flicked to the countdown timer on the wall. Time was running out.

Next to speak was a timid woman who had been huddling in the corner, her frail frame almost disappearing into the shadows. She wore a blue floral dress and scuffed canvas shoes. Her long, unkempt hair framed a face that seemed perpetually on the verge of tears.

"M-my name is Solara," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm from Seattle. I work at a bank… well, I'm still an intern, technically. The night before I got here, I was working late, entering client data into the system so the sales team could pitch them our financial products. Everyone else had already gone home. The office was so quiet… then the lights started flickering. I thought it was just a power surge."

Her voice quivered as she continued. "Then… someone grabbed me from behind. They covered my mouth and nose. I couldn't breathe. I tried to scream, but everything went black. When I woke up, I was here."

She shrank further into herself, her hands clutching her knees. The group exchanged glances, but no one pressed her further. Orion noted the way she avoided eye contact, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

Michael, ever impatient, clapped his hands loudly. "Time's ticking, folks! Less than two minutes left!"

The reminder sent a ripple of panic through the group. All eyes turned to the woman standing beside Orion. Her sharp features and commanding presence immediately set her apart. She wore a tailored blazer, sharp heels, and an air of authority that seemed unshakable.

"I'm Avalon," she said, her tone clipped and efficient. "I'm the CFO of an insurance company in Boston. The night before this nightmare began, I had just finished a late-night Zoom meeting. When I got home, I changed into my swimsuit—I swim every evening for thirty minutes, no exceptions. After my workout, I was toweling off in the changing room when the lights went out. I stayed calm. I grabbed the nearest fire extinguisher and swung it at the intruder. Missed, unfortunately. A few moments later, they overpowered me, and I ended up here."

Her delivery was quick and precise, like a bullet fired from a gun. There was no room for doubt in her voice, no cracks in her story. Orion couldn't help but admire her composure. Yet he knew better than to trust appearances.

Time was running out. Orion thought in his mind that I must find a sure way to win, the eight people just now are all from different cities, and he himself is from New York, so that it is not really easy to be found broken, and it is hard for other people to find out, so why don't we start from the city, and make up a little bit of it, it is the least likely to be found out.

With the eyes of the group now fixed on him, Orion straightened his back and began to speak.