60 Days In Hell

I awoke in total darkness, the kind that presses in from every side, thick and unrelenting. My pulse thudded in my ears, loud and insistent, but I forced myself to remain calm. Part of my life learning is that panic was for the weak. Breathe. Assess.

I pressed my hands to the cold, smooth floor beneath me. No walls, no corners. Just an endless flat surface. I couldn’t tell if I was in a room or some kind of void.

Perfect. Another normal day. I allowed myself the briefest smirk in the dark.

“Alright,” I whispered, barely audible. “Let’s figure this out.”

I scanned the space with my mind more than my eyes. My instincts told me nothing was immediate danger—yet. Still, the pounding in my head was too real, too sharp for this to be a dream. The darkness felt... intentional, like it was meant to unsettle me. Someone’s idea of fun?

Suddenly, a face flashed in my mind—my mother, frail, smiling through pain, she endured so much. I’d promised her I’d come back. No matter what. And I always kept my promises.

Before I could think further, a sharp, metallic noise cut through the silence, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once. I tensed. Slowly, a line of light carved through the void—a door, slowly opening. The light grew, too blinding after the oppressive darkness, but it was all I had.

Another trick? Probably. But staying here wasn’t an option. The door was the only move.

I stood, cautious but steady, steps deliberate. Whoever—or whatever—put me here wanted me to make this choice. I reached for the door, feeling the cold metal, and stepped through.

The instant I crossed that threshold, the world shifted. The darkness was gone. Instead, I saw a bustling city street, alive with noise and movement. Cars honked. People rushed by, each on some urgent errand. The air smelled like grilled food, almost pleasant. But something wasn’t right. It was too… orchestrated.

I scanned the crowd. Everyone moved in perfect, mechanical patterns, not a single glance in my direction. NPCs? Simulations? No one looked real. And that’s when I heard the voice.

“Welcome!” The voice was inside my head, as clear as if someone stood next to me. I reached up instinctively, fingers brushing something cold and metallic behind my ear. A device, implanted there. How long had it been there?

“You’ve been chosen to be part of the greatest game in the world!” the voice continued, almost cheerful. “I’m Zero, and this is your one chance to change everything. Think of this as your second chance of living your life because you will end up destroying yourself after all.”

My jaw clenched, but outwardly I remained calm. A game? That explained the weird city, the staged people. I wasn’t in a normal world anymore.

“Here’s how it works, couch potato ” Zero said, mockingly. “You’re one of 21 players, all stuck in this beautiful city. The rules are simple so make sure to avoid being an idiot: Hunt, or be hunted. Track down the most dangerous criminals in the city—murderers, traffickers, the worst of the worst. Take them out before they take you.”

I felt a cold knot form in my stomach, but my mind stayed sharp. Criminals. Twenty-one players. Hunt or be hunted. There was more. There always was.

Zero didn’t disappoint. “And here’s the fun and exciting part! You and the other players will also be hunting each other. Take out a player, and you get a bonus. Here's aanother exciting news for ya! You can earn money just by catching your fellow players or eliminatjng some dangerous criminals. You can use that money to buy your freedom to get out of here earlier than you expected, That's the pros! The cons however is that you can't participate for the main prize if you purchase your independence and you will earn nothing. That's it! And be careful—you target the wrong person, and it’s game over for you.”

A chill shot down my spine, but my body language remained controlled. This was bigger than just hunting criminals. The stakes were life and death.

Zero laughed softly, as if it enjoyed my realization. “Oh, and there’s a massive main reward too just like I said. The winner—the last player standing—walks away with a fortune. Enough to solve all your problems, including that little issue with your sickly mother. Win, and she gets the surgery that you cannot afford even if you work all your life. Lose, and... well, you know.”

The mention of my mother hit me harder than anything else. I clenched my fists, feeling the weight of it all. Her life depended on this. My body remained relaxed, but my mind was racing. This isn’t just survival. It’s a game of control. And control is something I must learn.

“I assume you understand, Mushroom head,” Zero’s voice was smug now. “You’ve been chosen because you’re the perfect kind of player. Lazy fool, you know you can do better than that but you chose to be a lazy bastard. You became smart when motivated, what the hell is wrong with you. Generally you are fucked up. And maybe this game will not only earn you your mother's surgery but it can also finally get you to stop wasting your potential.”

My teeth gritted for a moment. The voice wasn’t wrong. I’d been content to drift, coasting by on smarts without effort. But now? Now I had no choice. My motivation was clear—my mother needed me. And I wasn’t going to fail.

“You’ll have weapons, of course,” Zero went on, as if this was just some casual conversation. “Anything from knives to guns. But remember, everything’s being watched. Kill an innocent, and you’re out.”

Weapons? I barely held back a bitter laugh. I wasn’t a fighter. I was a thinker. Still, a tool in the right hands... maybe I could make this work.

“And just so you know,” Zero added, voice darkening, “there’s no hiding. You can’t wait for the others to tear each other apart. They’ll come for you, too. The criminals, the players—they’re all in this for survival. Just like you.”

I stayed silent, processing everything. This wasn’t just about taking out criminals. It was about playing the game smart, manipulating the other players, figuring out the right moves before anyone else did.

And it comes to the part that I have to choose my weapon.

I’ve always liked precision. It's not about obsession or some neatness disorder. It’s about control.

When I stare down at the weapon laid out before me, a line of cold metal gleaming under fluorescent lights, the choice comes naturally. The Desert Eagle .50 AE. I love it, it's the gun that I frequently use when I'm playing online. Not because it’s flashy, though people love to mistake it for that. No, it’s tactical. Brutal. One shot, done. Efficient. That’s what matters when your life is constantly teetering on the edge of someone else’s trigger finger.

I wrap my hand around the grip, the cool surface biting into my skin with just enough pressure to remind me I’m still alive. Barely.

"Scattered!"

The voice crackles from the earpiece, sudden and sharp, yanking me back into the present. The system is setting the game now. I steady my breath. In, hold, out. There’s a strange calm that comes right before the storm—when every nerve sharpens and the world starts to make sense. In a second, everything’s going to shift. I know it. It’s how it always goes. The chaos isn't about the noise or panic. It’s in the quiet moments, where you feel like you have control, that it all unravels.

My eyes flick to the streets outside the window. People. Everywhere. Faces I’d normally pass by without a second thought, now seem too composed, too intentional. The streets of this city—alive with a hum of chatter, the occasional car horn, distant laughter—don’t change. But I do.

I step outside, and the feeling hits immediately. It’s subtle at first, like an itch at the back of my neck. The hairs stand on end, tension crawling beneath my skin. The civilians—if they’re even that—are too calculated in their movements. Like they’ve been briefed on a role and are playing it with a little too much conviction. I can feel them watching. A glance too long, a conversation too quiet. Like background noise suddenly turned up just a notch too loud.

Another breath. Control.

I move, letting the rhythm of the streets carry me forward, the Desert Eagle heavy in my jacket pocket. Each step calculated, deliberate. Panic means mistakes, and mistakes mean you lose. It also means eliminating my past self, laziness, and other factors that may destroy me through this process. I must eliminate my usual self so that I won't lose. I won't lose, not when the stakes are this high.

The city seems to pulse around me now. Every shout, every laugh, every whisper twists into something more. I can hear it. That underlying current of fear they try to mask with forced smiles. But it's there. Clear as day. They know what’s coming, just like I do. The question is: who’s going to make the first move?