Ten Day Ultimatum

An outdated incandescent light bulb hung from the center of the room, suspended by a black power cord, flickering dusky rays of light. The still atmosphere resembled ink dripping into clear water, spreading its bleary taint throughout the space.

In the middle of the room sat a large round table, its surface heavily mottled. Resting at its center was a small desk clock adorned with an intricately engraved pattern, ticking with a steady, mechanical rhythm.
Ten people sat around the table, each clad in unique yet worn-out attire, their faces stained with dust. Some slumped forward onto the table, others leaned back in their chairs—but one thing remained consistent: they were all deeply asleep.
Standing beside them was a man in a black suit, his face hidden behind a full goat-head mask. His gaze, intense behind the weathered mask, fixated on the slumbering figures before him.

As the minute and hour hands aligned at twelve, the desk clock on the table emitted a sharp alarm.
At that exact moment, a muffled bell echoed distantly from somewhere beyond the room.
Right then, the ten people seated around the round table began to stir, slowly returning to consciousness.

As awareness seeped back in, their first response was confusion as they looked around. Then, exchanging puzzled glances with each other, doubt and suspicion crept across their faces.
No one could remember how they had come to be in this place.
"Good morning, you nine," the goat-headed figure finally spoke, shattering the silence. "I'm pleased to see you're all here. You've been asleep in my presence for twelve hours."

His bizarre outfit and abrupt greeting unsettled everyone in the dim, flickering light.
The man’s mask looked to be made from a real goat's head—its once vibrant fur now yellowed and darkened in places, with tangled and matted sections. Where the goat’s original eyes had been, °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° there were now two holes, through which the man’s cunning gaze stared out. Every move he made carried not only the musky stench of livestock but also a faint trace of rot.
A man with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms looked briefly confused before registering the absurdity of the situation. Hesitantly, he addressed the goat-headed man. “Who... are you?”

"I'm sure you all have that question," the goat-headed figure replied, giving a theatrical wave of his hands, as if he’d anticipated it. "So allow me to introduce myself—to you nine."
Seated furthest from the goat-headed man was Qi Xia, a young man who swiftly examined the room. A solemn look settled on his face within seconds.
Strange. This room is far too strange.

There were no doors—only walls on all four sides.
In other words, the room was entirely sealed, even the floor and ceiling. Yet somehow, there was a large table in the center.
If so… how did we get in?

Were they placed here first, and the walls built up around them afterward?
Qi Xia scanned the room again. Every surface—floor, walls, ceiling—was etched with intertwining lines, forming a pattern of large square grids.
But what disturbed Qi Xia even more was the phrase you nine used by the goat-headed man. No matter how he counted, there were unmistakably ten people seated around the table. Including the goat-headed figure himself, there were eleven in the room.
What does you nine mean?

He reached into his pocket, only to discover that his phone was missing—predictably confiscated.
"There’s no need for introductions," an aloof woman said coldly to the goat-headed man. "I suggest you stop whatever you're doing immediately. I suspect we've been detained for over twenty-four hours, which amounts to the crime of false imprisonment. Everything you say from this point on will be used as evidence against you."
As she spoke, she brushed the dust off her arms with visible revulsion, as if the grime offended her more than the captivity itself.

Her words had a sobering effect on those present. For someone to have abducted ten people like this—it was a flagrant violation of the law.
"Wait..." a middle-aged man in a white coat interjected, drawing the room’s attention. He calmly regarded the woman before asking, "We’ve just woken up. How do you know we’ve been imprisoned for twenty-four hours?" His voice was smooth, but his question struck deep.
With measured poise, the woman pointed at the desk clock and replied, "The clock says twelve o'clock, but I’m a night owl. When I last checked the time at home, it was already midnight. That tells me we’ve been out for at least twelve hours."

Then, gesturing toward the seamless walls, she continued, "You’ve probably noticed the lack of any door, which shows a deliberate effort to seal us in. He claims we’ve been asleep for twelve hours, yet the clock still reads twelve o'clock—implying the hour hand has circled twice. Hence, my conclusion: more than twenty-four hours. Anyone care to disagree?"
Hearing her logic, the man in the white coat gave her a cold stare, skepticism lingering in his eyes.
She was disturbingly composed for someone held captive.

Would a normal person really speak that way in this situation?
Breaking the tension, a burly man in a black T-shirt asked, "Goat Head, why did you say you nine when there are clearly ten of us?"
The goat-headed man gave no answer.

"Hahm-ga-caan[1]! I don’t give a damn how many are here..." spat the tattooed man. He tried to stand but immediately realized his legs were too weak to support him—paralyzed.
He jabbed a finger at the goat-headed man and growled, "Lan-joeng[2], you better watch yourself. You have no idea what kind of hell you’ve just stepped into. I swear, I’ll kill you."
At his outburst, the expressions of several men turned grim. It was clear someone needed to take control. If they could overpower this freak, they might still have a chance.

But their hope quickly evaporated. None of them could move their legs—each lower body was dead weight, as if something had been injected into their systems.
All the tattooed man could do now was hurl threats, shouting curses at the goat-headed figure.
Qi Xia remained silent. He touched his chin lightly, his gaze fixed on the desk clock. This situation was far more complex than anyone assumed.

If the goat-headed man welcomed nine participants, then logically, one person at the table wasn’t a participant at all.
Then who?
Six men. Four women.

Was one of them the kidnapper?
The goat-headed man stopped speaking and began walking toward Qi Xia’s side, stopping behind a young man.
Everyone followed his movements. The young man in question stood out. Even with dust on his face, he wore a serene, almost blissful smile—completely at odds with the grim tension on everyone else’s faces.

Slowly, the goat-headed figure raised his hand and placed it on the back of the young man's head.
The young man's smile deepened into something unnerving. His eyes darted around excitedly, as if he knew exactly what was coming.
Without warning, the goat-headed man slammed the young man's head down onto the table with brutal force. A muffled thud echoed—pink and white matter burst forth, splashing across the tabletop like spilled paint. Blood sprayed across everyone’s faces. The young man’s skull had been obliterated on impact.

Somewhere beyond the sealed room, the bell tolled again.
Qi Xia, closest to the body, felt something hot and sticky on his face. Though he considered himself mentally resilient, his body now trembled uncontrollably.
The young woman seated beside the corpse froze—then let out a shriek, raw and piercing, that shattered what remained of anyone’s composure.

The goat-headed man had just crushed a human skull—with his bare hand.
Was he even human?
How could such a thin frame possess such terrifying strength?

Unshaken, the goat-headed figure offered a single explanation:
"There are ten people here because one is necessary—to settle the rest of you down."
 

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TL Note:
[1] Hahm-ga-caan (冚家铲) – A Cantonese curse expressing extreme anger and contempt. Literally translates to “death to your whole family.” It's a vicious insult used to convey intense hostility. In English, it would be roughly equivalent to “goddamn your entire bloodline.”

[2] Lan-joeng (粉肠) – A Cantonese insult meaning “pig intestines,” used euphemistically in place of the vulgar slur 𨶙樣 (“dickface” / “fuckface” / “fucking bastard”). It's an aggressively demeaning term commonly heard in street-level Cantonese speech, especially in Hong Kong.
Both phrases are distinctly Cantonese, not Standard Mandarin, and help convey the cultural background and raw temperament of the tattooed man.