Doomsday Elevator

Ethan Quinn stared at the holographic trade interface, his fingers tracing the jagged edges of two gold coins. The chatroom's latest revelation scrolled past—a Level 2 survivor's ill-advised warning about elevator upgrade requirements. His lips twisted into a smirk. Idiot. Now every newbie would hoard coins like dragon's treasure.

He hefted the spatial backpack, its leather surface still streaked with dodo blood. The System's monotone answered his unspoken question:

Item: Void Satchel

Preservation Status: Chronostasis Active (All Contents Time-Locked)

"Good enough." Ethan drew his machete and slammed it into the juvenile velociraptor carcass. Flesh parted with wet schlicks—he needed anonymous meat, not Jurassic bragging rights.

[Ethan_L3]: Trading 0.5kg "Crocodile" Meat + 10kg Lumber for Custom Project

The reply came faster than expected:

[Archer_ANON]: Specs?

Ethan uploaded blueprints for armor-piercing bolts. The chat log pulsed with tension:

[Archer_ANON]: Wooden bolts? You planning to tickle someone?

[Ethan_L3]: Penetration test. 10 prototypes. Triple payment if effective.

[Archer_ANON]: Deposit first. 0.3kg meat.

He tossed a rancid scrap into the trade portal. Let the kid think he was desperate.

——

Three floors up, a gaunt teenager stared at the putrid meat chunk materializing in his elevator. His stomach roared. Three days without protein. The attached schematics showed crude but functional designs—fire-hardened tips, goose-feather fletching.

[Archer_ANON]: Tools?

[Ethan_L3]: You bragged about a blade. Prove it.

The boy—An Lan, according to his unedited profile photo—sank onto his mattress of shredded newspapers. His "workshop" consisted of a chipped survival knife and splintered desk panels.

Whittling sounds began.

——

Back in his expanded elevator, Ethan monitored the countdown to midnight. The blackboard's latest addition oozed fresh pigment:

Trust Hard. Betray Harder.

He loaded the crossbow with its sole remaining bolt. The System's alert blinked:

Next Floor: Carnival of Consequences

Hazard Level: 4

A notification pinged—the archer's first completed bolt materialized mid-air. Ethan caught it, running a thumb along the razor-sharp tip.

"Not bad, kid."

He snapped the bolt into place just as the elevator lurched downward. The carnival's discordant music already seeped through the doors.