On November 11th, 2025, my father died. After a long, exhausting battle with cancer, he was gone. He had been my inspiration, my guide, the one person who made the world make sense.
My mother and I were left in chaos. Grief gnawed at us, but reality didn't pause for mourning. Hospital bills had piled up, and soon we teetered on the brink of homelessness. We lost our home and were forced into a run-down apartment that smelled like rot and despair.
The air reeked of smoke from old cigars, lingering even after the previous tenants had left. The carpets were drenched with rat piss, and the kitchen counters looked like they hadn't been cleaned in decades. Beneath them, black mold crawled along the walls, spreading in twisted, living patterns.
My bedroom offered no comfort. I slept on a mattress that had long since given up on holding its shape. What had once been white was now a sickly yellow, stained with vomit and crawling with bed bugs. The only decent piece of furniture was the couch, a relic we'd dragged from our old house.
My mother worked herself to the bone. By day, she substituted at nearby schools; by night, she scanned groceries at the local supermarket. Her back ached, her eyes were tired, but she kept going. My father had been the one with a steady job, the one who could hold our lives together. Now, everything was falling apart.
My dad's brother offered to take us in, but my mother refused to talk to him—for reasons I still don't know. After we moved into that apartment, I barely saw her. When she came home, she'd eat something small and retreat to bed, only to wake in the middle of the night for her next shift.
After my father died, my mother picked up a smoking habit. Every time I came home from school, I'd find her on the balcony, cigars glowing in the darkness, staring off into the distance as if trying to burn away the world with each puff.
As for me, I searched for work but kept hitting walls. I called out too many times at my last job and got fired. No one wanted to hire someone who couldn't show up consistently. The days stretched endlessly, each one heavier than the last, and I felt trapped between grief and responsibility, sinking further into a life I didn't choose.
Late at night, I thought someone was breaking into the apartment, only to realize it was my mother, stumbling from one wall to the next, knocking into every surface. The alcohol had taken hold. Between shifts, she drank so much that she would wander the apartment like a ghost, slurring and unsteady. That night, I ended up taking care of her, guiding her back to bed while she muttered nonsense, the smell of smoke and liquor clinging to her clothes.
Night after night, something about her changed. She was always exhausted, always restless, her body betraying her in ways I couldn't stop. Some days she called out of work to sleep, coughing violently into tissues, blood sometimes streaking them. I couldn't tell if it was the alcohol, the exhaustion, or something worse.
I finally took her to a doctor. They told me she had a black mold lung infection—treatable, but expensive beyond what we could hope to pay. With our debts piling like a wall around us, treatment was impossible until the bills were covered. Doctors were a different breed entirely—a cage of bureaucrats and profiteers who looked at suffering and only saw dollar signs. I left the office more frustrated than ever, carrying my mother back to our apartment, knowing that each cough could be the one that ended her life.
Now, neither of us had work. I called my uncle, hoping for help, but there was no answer. I was at my wit's end. Would I lose my mother too?
I stepped outside and noticed the mailbox overflowing with letters. A mountain of paper that smelled faintly of mildew and old ink.
"What do we have here?" I muttered, flipping through the pile. "Another bill… a medical bill… and another one. Why the hell should I pay for this when you never saved my dad? Probably just another scheme to squeeze money out of people."
My hands shook as I rifled through the stack. Then I saw it—a single envelope addressed to me. My heart skipped a beat. Was it from my uncle? My school? My old job?
"Probably just more bullshit," I whispered, but something about the envelope felt… different.
I tore it open. Inside, a single sheet of paper lay waiting. The words on it made my blood run cold:
Dear Mr. Pierce,
You have been selected for a unique and confidential opportunity.
The Eclipse Hotel invites you to participate in an exclusive series of competitive trials. Completion of these trials will grant the victor:
A monetary prize of $300,000,000,000
One personal wish, granted without limitation
Your profile has been carefully reviewed and meets all criteria for participation.
Should you choose to accept, sign below and return this letter within 24 hours.
Transportation will arrive two days after acceptance. Pack lightly.
Failure to comply with these instructions will forfeit your invitation.
Disclosure of this letter to any outside party will immediately void your eligibility.
We look forward to your arrival.
—H.S.
Director of Guests
Eclipse Hotel
Below the signature line, I wrote my name. I decided to play their little game—whoever these pranksters were. I placed the signed letter back in the mailbox and thought, let's see if someone actually shows up in two days.
The next day, I completely forgot about it. But on the second day, there was a knock at the door—ominous, deliberate. Strange, since we never got knocks on this apartment's door.
I opened it.
A man stood there, dressed in a tailored suit that made his broad shoulders look like they could crush a car. Muscles bulging under the fabric, every inch of him radiating the kind of strength you don't argue with.
"Hello. Are you Mr. Pierce?" he asked.
"Yes… sir," I said.
I never use the word "sir," but something about him—his presence, his stare, the way his hands rested casually at his sides—made it feel like the only way I'd survive this encounter was to obey. Every instinct in me screamed that this man could snap my neck without breaking a sweat.
"I am your transportation to the Eclipse Hotel. Is everything packed?" the man asked, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of authority that made me swallow hard.
"Wait… I thought that place was made up," I said, glancing at him skeptically.
"No, sir. I guarantee you—it's very real," he replied, eyes sharp, unreadable.
I hesitated. "If I go with you… what about my mother? She's sick. I can't just leave her."
"We will assign a caretaker. Now, would you kindly get your things together?"
I grabbed a few essentials: some clothes, toothpaste, deodorant, a toothbrush, my phone and charger, a handful of snacks… and my necklace. The small pendant contained my father's ashes. Holding it, I felt him with me—like he was silently watching over every step I took.
"All ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.
"Perfect," he said, taking my bag effortlessly. "Just have a seat in the car. I'll have you at the Eclipse Hotel in no time."
I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting as I stepped toward the car. The street seemed quieter than usual, the air heavier, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The big, burly man drove for over an hour. The worst part? I couldn't see out the windows. I didn't ask why. The ride was silent, suffocating, and I slept most of the way, my mind drifting in uneasy half-dreams.
"Mr. Pierce," the man's voice broke through the fog of sleep, calm but commanding. "We have arrived at the Eclipse Hotel. Your first instruction: wait in the lobby. Once all players have gathered, you will begin your first challenge."
I grabbed my luggage from the trunk and stepped inside. The hotel was… bizarre. It was ostentatious, overwhelming—like the architects had thrown up on a blueprint and built the structure from it. Every surface shimmered with a strange opulence, but the design felt chaotic, almost intentionally disorienting.
Most of the other people in the lobby weren't dressed fancy; they looked ordinary, casual… yet their eyes darted with a nervous, calculating energy. The staff, in sharp black tuxedos, moved with mechanical precision, faces impassive.
More guests trickled in, each one silently observing, sizing up the competition. Then a voice boomed over the loudspeaker, smooth and eerily detached. A holographic figure flickered to life above the center of the lobby—a man in a tailored suit, impossibly perfect, his eyes glowing faintly as he scanned the crowd.
"Welcome," the hologram said, voice echoing unnaturally. "To the Eclipse Hotel. Players, you have been selected. Prepare yourselves. The first challenge will begin shortly."
I swallowed hard, gripping my luggage. My stomach twisted. Something about this place… about these people… screamed that nothing here would be normal.
A voice echoed through the lobby, smooth and mechanical, yet carrying a weight that made the hair on my arms stand on end. A holographic figure hovered above the center of the room, its eyes glowing faintly, scanning every player like a predator assessing prey.
"Hello, guests. Welcome to the Eclipse Hotel. You have been selected to participate in the games. Only one of you will leave this hotel alive. Anyone who fails a challenge will die."
The hologram paused, letting the words sink in.
"All staff members are equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry capable of killing you in seconds. The victor will be rewarded with three hundred billion dollars and one unlimited wish. This wish may override any rule, law, or natural limit—except that more wishes are strictly forbidden."
The hologram's gaze swept the lobby again.
"Failure in any game will result in immediate termination. Voluntary retreat is not permitted. Obstruction of hotel staff is not tolerated. Attempting escape is impossible."
A giant digital timer flickered to life above the lobby doors—twenty minutes counting down. Red numbers burned into my vision, ticking relentlessly. Every second that passed was a step closer to the first challenge—and a step closer to death.
I swallowed hard, gripping my luggage. My heart pounded in my ears. I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. The games had already begun.
The hologram's eyes flared brighter.
"Your first challenge begins now. Find a room. Each room has a maximum capacity. If the number of occupants exceeds the posted limit, all individuals inside will be executed."
A pause. Then the knife twisted.
"Any guests left without a room when the timer reaches zero will also be removed. Please hurry—your lives depend on it. You may begin."
The timer started ticking.
Chaos exploded.
People surged forward like a stampede, shoving, screaming, trampling over dropped luggage. No one grabbed their bags—money, clothes, memories—none of it mattered anymore. Survival stripped us down to instinct.
Most people rushed toward the elevators, desperate to reach the upper floors, as if higher meant safer.
I went the opposite direction.
The second floor.
I moved down the hall, checking room after room. Each one was different, like the hotel couldn't decide what it wanted to be. One room had walls painted with a rainbow made of clouds, bright and cheerful in a way that felt wrong. Another looked like a forest frozen in time.
Most rooms were already at maximum capacity, people packed inside and glaring at anyone who even glanced through the doorway. Panic was setting in fast.
I pushed deeper into the maze of hallways, heart pounding, until I finally spotted an open room. It was smaller than the others, cramped and plain, but it would do. A sign on the door read MAX CAPACITY: 5.
Four people were already inside.
The moment I stepped in, the door chimed softly behind me.
Five.
Everyone in the room was a guy. Better yet, they all looked about my age.
"What's poppin', dude?" the first guy said. Burly, white, and built like he could bench a car. He had that look—the kind that said he'd had a few girlfriends and cheated on all of them.
"What's going on? Mind if I chill in here with y'all?" I asked, trying to sound casual, though my stomach twisted in knots.
"Not at all," said the second guy. Thin, black, and quiet. He seemed like the kind of person who'd never agree to violence—probably the one who'd lose first.
"You think these games are a load of BS?" the third guy asked. Bulky, but not as hulking as the first, with a tattoo snaking up his arm. His dirty blond hair was tucked under a hat, shadowing his eyes. He looked like he'd survive by brains or bluffing, not brute strength.
I nodded, forcing a laugh. Inside, though, I was calculating—five people max. One extra step could mean death for all of us. Even friendly introductions couldn't hide that truth.
"I think so," I said, forcing a shrug. "But honestly? I'm just desperate for the money."
"We all are," the fourth guy said. He was thin like me, wore glasses, and had acne scattered across his face. If I looked into a mirror on a worse day, I'd probably see him staring back.
Then the door slid open.
Two kids walked in.
They couldn't have been older than thirteen. Both African American. Too young to be here. Too young to understand what this room meant.
"What's crackin'?" one of them said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We ain't dying, so two of y'all need to find a new room."
The air changed instantly.
The burly guy stepped forward, cracking his neck. "None of us are leaving. So you better get the fuck out before we make you."
Silence slammed into the room.
Six people.
Capacity: five.
The timer outside kept ticking.
I felt my chest tighten. This wasn't about strength or luck anymore—it was math. Cold, unforgiving math. Someone had to go. And judging by the looks in the room, no one planned on volunteering.
This was the moment I realized something terrifying:
The game didn't need weapons.
It turned us into them.
"I'm sorry you had to witness that," I said, my hands still shaking.
"Nah, you're all good, man," the first guy replied, forcing a laugh.
"You did what you had to do," the second guy added, though his voice wasn't as steady.
The clock hit zero.
For a split second, everything went silent.
Then staff members emerged from the hallways, their footsteps calm, deliberate. They raised their handguns without hesitation and opened fire on anyone left wandering. Screams echoed through the hotel as bodies dropped. The noise was over almost as fast as it started.
"Shit… they actually died," the third guy muttered, staring at the doorway.
A moment later, the same voice from before filled the halls.
"The first task has been completed. Congratulations to all participants who survived."
A pause.
"Your second task begins now. You have seven minutes to retrieve all of your luggage from the lobby and return to your assigned rooms. Any participant not inside their room when the timer expires will be eliminated. Time starts now."
The four of them grabbed their things and rushed toward the door.
"Yo, bro," the first guy said, glancing back at me, "can you hold down the fort while we're gone?"
I nodded.
"I got you."
The four of them left the room, their footsteps fading down the hallway.
I stayed behind.
That's when I noticed the door.
The lock wasn't normal. When the first task ended, none of us had been given keys—yet the door had sealed itself automatically. Up close, I realized why. It wasn't keyed at all. It required a code.
A programmable one.
My stomach tightened.
If only one person was meant to walk out of this hotel alive, then the rules were already written. The games weren't about teamwork. They were about timing… and betrayal.
I stepped closer to the panel and entered a code.
110325.
The day my father died.
My fingers hesitated for half a second before confirming it.
"I'm sorry, Dad," I whispered. "But if I want to save you—and Mom—this is the only way."
The lock chimed softly.
Three minutes passed.
Then the banging started.
Fists slammed against the door, desperate and panicked, the sound echoing through the room.
"It's just us," the second guy said through the door. "You can let us in."
I didn't respond.
Three minutes left.
"Come on, dude," the third guy said, his voice cracking. "This isn't funny."
I stayed quiet, my eyes drifting across the room—the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but the door. I focused on my breathing. If I thought too hard, I might hesitate.
Two minutes left.
Something slammed against the door.
The first guy had grabbed a broom from the hallway and jammed it into the crack, trying to pry the door open.
"Come on!" he shouted. "We gotta get this damn thing open!"
The lock didn't budge.
The pounding grew frantic. Wood splintered. The door shook.
One minute left.
Then his voice changed.
Lower. Desperate.
"We all want to survive," the fourth guy said. "If we work together, we can all get home safely. Please."
I closed my eyes.
The timer in my head kept ticking anyway.
A staff member stepped up behind them and simply watched.
Zero minutes left.
The hallway erupted.
Screams tore through the walls, sharp and panicked, followed by the deafening cracks of gunfire. I didn't move. I didn't flinch. I just stood there, listening, until the noise finally stopped.
The hotel calls this a game.
It isn't.
It's survival.
Only one of us is walking out of here alive—and if I want that to be me, I'll have to get my hands bloody. Killing those two kids and betraying my four so‑called teammates was only the beginning.
After today, the real game starts.
Time to drown myself in blood.
Let the games begin.