Chapter 047 - Skyscraper 07

  No. 96: “What the hell just happened?”

  No. 39: “Who cracked it? How? I’m still out by North Lake checking flyers for clues—what’s going on?!”

  No. 120: “Anyone found anything concrete yet?”

  The comms group exploded into a storm of confusion and frantic messages.

  I quickly took the lead, summarizing our findings and everything that had just transpired in a few concise, direct sentences.

  A heavy silence followed.

  Then, a lone message popped up, hesitant and full of dread:

  “Is this kind of experiment… reversible?”

  “…Probably not?” came the tentative reply from someone else.

  Sensing the rising tide of panic, I hit the voice call button and spoke with steady confidence, “Let’s talk through voice. I’ve got an idea, but we’ll need to act together—and in perfect sync.”

  One by one, our icons lit up until all 61 of us were connected on the call. I kept my tone calm, measured.

  “Here’s the plan. I want everyone to close their eyes at the same time. No visual input. No sound, no touch, no smell—block out as much sensory input as you can. Obviously, I doubt this game actually demands full sensory deprivation, but just humor me. Thirty seconds. Eyes closed.”

  “Okay,” Elliot said softly beside me, his voice soothing and steady. “Just give the word.”

  With a leader in place, coordination came easy. Dozens of voices responded almost instantly with a collective, “Got it.”

  I waited a beat, then said, “Three… two… one. Eyes closed.”

  I could picture it then—sixty-one players scattered across the sprawling cityscape, each in their own corner of this digital world, yet united in purpose. A synchrony forged in desperation and hope.

  Then, like a fading memory surfacing from the subconscious, the sounds began to seep in.

  Car horns. Bus engines. Street vendors shouting. Public announcements echoing from far-off speakers. A thousand voices—laughter, chatter, arguments, cries.

  It was the same ambient noise I’d heard back in that blinding white void, right before we were thrust into this simulation.

  For a fleeting moment, hope flared.

  Then, it was shattered.

  A voice screamed out—sharp, urgent:

  “Doctor—no! Don’t start the machine!”

  But it was too late.

  A mechanical *beep*, followed by the whir of activation, filled our ears.

  Then a man’s voice, trembling with madness and triumph, rang out:

  “Hahaha! I did it! I did it! As long as this machine stays on, no one will ever overcrowd the cities again! Earth is saved!”

  We sat in stunned silence, letting the soundscape unfold like a twisted radio drama from some broken timeline. A farce. A tragedy. A confession of madness echoing into digital eternity.

  Finally, I found my voice again.

  “…Everyone, you can open your eyes now.”

  The second we did, the sounds cut off like a severed thread.

  The city lights still shimmered in the distance—cold, beautiful, hollow.

  But the people… they hadn’t returned.

  The world remained empty.

  ---

  Finding the machine didn’t take long.

  We’d heard the low hum when we first entered the research facility—had even peeked into the massive lab—but dismissed it then as just another cold, sterile room.

  But stepping into the space now was like entering the lair of a sleeping giant.

  The machine dominated the room, monstrous and awe-inspiring. Towering steel coils arced around thick insulation tubes, while dust shields and warning labels covered the curved walls. The control panel alone was the size of a small car, blinking with unreadable code.

  I walked up to the console. It was sealed tight—no prompts, no access, no off switch.

  So I fired at the main frame with a submachine gun.

  Nothing.

  The bullets bounced off harmlessly, leaving only scorched marks.

  Indestructible.

  No. 25 climbed onto the machine’s framework, wire cutters in hand. He struggled for several minutes before sighing in frustration. “No use, Sylas. These cables won’t cut. They’re... wrong somehow.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The voice chat was still open.

  Someone, apparently close enough to hear our gunfire, shouted, “No. 32! That the machine on your end?! The one that lunatic doctor switched on?!”

  “Yeah,” I replied, my voice flat. “We found it.”

  “You guys trying to shut it down?”

  “Yeah. Control panel’s locked tight. Guns don’t work.”

  A burst of cursing exploded through the call.

  “Hang tight! We’ve got explosives!” another voice chimed in—loud, brash, full of manic energy. “We’re holed up at an air force base—tons of bombs here! I refuse to believe this bastard machine can’t be blown to hell!”

  I vaguely recognized the voice. No. 53. A wildcard—loud, bold, unpredictable.

  I heard him turn away from the mic:

  “Hey, should we fly there or take the subway…?”

  Another voice chimed in skeptically, “Can you even fly a plane? What if you crash?!”

  “What’s there to crash? It’s just like driving, right?”

  “…"

  “…"

  “…Don’t. Fly,” I cut in quickly, horrified by the image of an untrained man hurtling across the sky with live ordnance. “Take the subway. There’s a direct route—Line 5. You’ll be here in twenty minutes. That’s fast enough.”

  “You got it! On our way!”

  Fifteen minutes later, No. 53 and his crew came charging into the facility, soaked in sweat and high on adrenaline.

  Each carried bomb packs strapped to their backs like delivery drivers on a suicide mission. One of them had even brought a rolling cart, like he’d robbed a fireworks factory.

  My eye twitched involuntarily. “You’re not afraid those’ll detonate from all that bouncing around?”

  No. 53 grinned, undeterred. He took one look at the machine and got to work without a word.

  Within minutes, he shoved a detonator into my hand. “Here. You hit the switch. Better than one of us bumping it mid-setup.”

  I stared at the device, then silently passed it to No. 25 and rolled up my sleeves to help. Elliot did the same.

  Elliot looked distracted, brows furrowed.

  I asked quietly, “What’s up? You look… unsettled.”

  He blinked, then smiled faintly. “Nothing. Just thinking… once this game ends, what happens? Will the two versions of reality—this one and the original—merge? Or stay separate?”

  I scoffed lightly. “You think too much. It’s a game world. Virtual.”

  But he was staring up at the machine—this towering symbol of mankind’s ambition and hubris.

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “But maybe… we’re not that real in here, either.”

  There was something fragile in his expression. Without his usual clear glasses, his face looked younger—almost innocent. The kind of person strangers instinctively trust.

  His momentary melancholy felt… shared. Like we were all silently grappling with the same existential dread.

  Five minutes later, the bombs were set.

  Dozens of players retreated to a safe distance—nearly a kilometer away. I stood at the edge of the blast radius, surrounded by flickering shadows and anticipation.

  I hit the detonator.

  A thunderous explosion ripped through the night. The lab vanished in a firestorm, metal and fire rising like a furious sun. Debris rained down like a broken sky.

  And then… the sound returned.

  Voices. Footsteps. Chatter.

  But this time, we didn’t close our eyes.

  We *looked*.

  And we *saw*.

  Flickering silhouettes blinked in and out of existence—like static on a dying TV screen. Faces. Bodies. Movements.

  Then came the cats—dozens of them. Black cats on billboards, logos, rooftops. They howled in eerie unison, their eyes gleaming with uncanny light.

  And then, they leapt—out of posters, off walls, from rooftops. Living shadows that raced through the city’s neon glow and crumbling silence.

  A few brushed past us—phantom fur against real skin—before the entire swarm vanished into the depths of the city.

  And then came the voice.

  **"Congratulations to the 61 players for successfully locating humanity. Please return to the initial gathering point within ten minutes to complete the game."**