No one spoke for a full minute.
Six strangers stood in a room that shouldn't exist, bound together by a system that never asked for consent.
Finally, the woman with short hair stepped forward.
"Registration isn't mandatory," she said. "But if you don't register, you stay blind."
Ethan frowned. "Blind to what?"
"To the rules you're already breaking."
She raised her hand. A faint blue interface shimmered above her palm.
[Registered Participant]
Tier: Entry
Visibility: Limited
The interface vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"The system tracks everyone," she continued. "But it only talks to those who pay the entry cost."
The man by the window snorted. "And the cost isn't money."
Ethan already knew the answer.
"Time," he said.
The woman nodded. "Lifetime. Future, potential, probability—call it whatever helps you sleep."
She turned her gaze to Ethan. "How much did it ask from you?"
"Twelve hours."
The room reacted immediately.
One man cursed under his breath. Another took a step back, as if Ethan had become dangerous.
"That's low," the woman said quietly. "Very low."
Ethan didn't feel lucky.
He felt targeted.
A screen flickered to life on the far wall.
Not a projector. Not a monitor.
It simply appeared.
[Registration Available]
Base Cost: 72 hours
Benefits:
– Access to Group Interfaces
– Eligibility Ranking
– Protection Threshold (Minimal)
Seventy-two hours.
Three days of his life—gone before he even understood the game.
"What happens if we don't register?" Ethan asked.
The woman didn't answer.
The man by the window did.
"You get filtered."
"Filtered how?"
"Accidents. Illness. Wrong place, wrong time." He shrugged. "The system hates inefficiency."
Ethan stared at the screen.
Protection Threshold: Minimal.
Even safety was sold in tiers.
A notification appeared—just for him.
[Special Condition Detected]
Registration Cost Adjusted: 24 hours
Reason: Early Eligibility Confirmation
Gasps filled the room.
The woman's expression hardened.
"That confirms it," she said. "You weren't chosen randomly."
Ethan clenched his fists.
He hadn't asked to be seen.
He hadn't asked to be counted.
Yet the system had already placed a value on his existence—and discounted it.
He pressed Register.
Pain didn't come.
Silence did.
[Registration Complete]
Participant ID Assigned]
Tier: Entry (Provisional)
Something changed.
The room felt… sharper. Clearer.
Above every head, faint outlines hovered—numbers, symbols, risk markers.
Too much to process.
Too late to undo.
The woman exhaled slowly. "Congratulations," she said. "You're official."
Ethan looked at his hands.
At the invisible clock he could now feel ticking inside his chest.
"How do you quit?" he asked.
No one laughed.
No one answered.
Because everyone there already knew the truth.