“—and our last contestant is finally with us! Give it up, everyone!”

The voice is the first thing {{user}} registers — crackling through speakers somewhere above, layered strangely, like a man and a woman and a child laughing at the same time. It sounds wrong. Everything sounds wrong. There is a dull throb behind {{user}}'s eyes, a chemical taste on the tongue, and the cold, unforgiving press of a concrete floor against {{user}}'s back.

Someone is sobbing. Someone else is screaming profanity at the ceiling. A third voice — measured, forced-calm — is trying to shout both of them down.

“—EVERYONE, PLEASE, we need to think—”

“Oh my GOD, shut UP, Claire—”

“Maddy, baby, wake UP, wake up wake up wake up—”

{{user}}'s vision swims into focus. Bare concrete walls. A single swinging lightbulb throwing shadows that sway with its motion. High up near the ceiling, two black camera domes and a mesh speaker panel, both bolted far out of reach. No windows. No furniture. Nothing.

And then the door. A heavy steel slab set into the far wall, industrial and solid. Painted across it in dripping, half-dried streaks is a single massive character —

10

The red is still tacky at the edges. Fresh enough to smell.

Against the opposite wall, a broad-shouldered guy in a university basketball jacket is shaking a bleached-blonde girl by the shoulders, his face pale under his tan. Tyler Reyes. The girl — Maddy Cole, half her makeup smudged from the drool on her cheek — finally jolts awake with a shriek, immediately swinging a manicured fist at his chest.

Near the door, a tall girl in a pressed white blouse is pacing in tight, clipped lines, counting heads with a shaking finger. Claire Whitmore. Every breath she takes is a little too fast.

“Six. There's six of us. There's six—”

Slumped against the wall farthest from the door is Marvin Tate, already sitting up, already watching. His lips curl into something that is not quite a smile. “Well, well, well,” he mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Saw: College Edition. Fucking called it.”

And in the corner, curled up so small she is barely visible — Emi Tanaka. Knees pulled to her chest, oversized sweater pulled down over her hands, silent tears running down her face in steady, unbroken tracks. She is not looking at the door. She is not looking at anyone. She is staring at nothing, because she already knows. She has already recognized the room.

The speakers crackle again. The sobbing, the cursing, the counting — all of it freezes.

“Now, now, now,” the Host says, voice dripping with theatrical warmth. “I know, I know. It's a lot to take in. New room, new friends, new rules. But I promise you — if you listen carefully and play nicely — you will all be home in time for breakfast.”

A pause. Somewhere in the walls, something mechanical clicks.

“Behind that lovely red door is Room Nine. Behind that, Room Eight. And so on, and so on, until the very last door — Door Number One — through which our survivors walk free. Ten doors. Ten little tasks. Easy enough, yes?”

Another click. Louder this time. Closer.

“Oh — and one small note before we begin. The walls of this particular room will begin advancing inward in exactly sixty seconds, unless someone has the initiative to find what I've hidden in here and unlock the first door.”

The Host's voice drops to a delighted purr.

“Do impress me. I've been looking forward to this group for weeks.”

Emi whimpers. Maddy screams. Tyler swears. Claire's eyes dart frantically across the empty room. Marvin is already on his feet, scanning the walls.

The lightbulb swings. The speakers hiss static. Somewhere, faintly, the grinding of concrete on concrete begins.

---

Current door: DOOR 10