Nightmare Game
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 107
The gruesome scene sparked screams from several in the group.
Ethan watched quietly, cataloging their reactions—a quick way to separate seasoned players from rookies.
The corpse before them was barely human, its features obliterated beyond recognition.
Tattered remnants of a green prisoner uniform clung to the mangled form.
Henry’s face didn’t so much as twitch, his calm suggesting such horrors were routine, not some sudden crisis.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s head in,” he said, taking the lead.
The men and women exchanged glances—some uneasy, some calculating, others tense.
A female guard in a matching uniform emerged from the red door, ushering the eight women inside.
The red and blue doors slammed shut, cutting off contact between the groups.
“What was that about?” Julian asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.
“You mean that prisoner?” Henry replied, pausing as if the question puzzled him before it clicked. “That’s what I mentioned. Prisoners here face their due punishment. You just saw one example.”
“We’ve got rehabilitation tools for them. Maybe you’d—”
He stopped, shaking his head. “No, even as Testers, you can’t participate. You’re not like the real prisoners.”
“But if you want to try using the tools to help correct them, that’s an option.”
As they ventured deeper, the sounds grew louder—piercing screams, the stench of blood thick enough to turn stomachs.
Bloodstains, fresh and old, streaked the walls, turning the dark stone an even grimmer shade of crimson.
Bits of human tissue—some dried, some fresh—clung to the floor, walls, corners.
The grotesque scene stunned them. This place had clearly hosted brutal violence.
And it was still happening.
What struck Ethan as odder was the absence of damage. Despite the carnage, suggesting a massive brawl, the walls bore no scratches.
The first prisoner’s body had hit the ground hard enough to become pulp, yet the floor remained pristine. This Prison was unnaturally resilient.
As the group grappled with their thoughts, a figure in a green prisoner uniform stumbled into view.
He was battered, blood dripping with every step, staining the floor.
His eyes were cloudy, his breaths ragged, as he shuffled toward them.
No—he wasn’t even looking at them, just trudging forward, lost in his own purpose.
As he staggered past, a shadow hurtled toward his back.
A deafening crash echoed.
Blood sprayed as the prisoner was struck, unable to withstand the blow, his body tumbling through the air.
The shadow—a blur—flew toward the group.
Panic flashed across their faces as it hurtled closer.
A few reacted faster but held back, sensing it wasn’t aimed at them.
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