There were already fifteen contestants in the luxurious drawing room of the castle when the Owl arrived.
Sunlight filtered through massive stained glass windows, casting fractured jewel tones across ornate furniture and polished marble floors. The ceiling stretched high above, carved with gilded vines and constellations, while a trio of golden chandeliers bathed the space in soft, opulent light. Classical music played faintly from an unseen source, but the real soundtrack was tension — thick and buzzing, heavy with expectation.
The Owl's gaze flicked across the room, sharp and trained. Everyone here was a stranger by name, face, and past — but some of them shared the same purpose. And more specifically, the same team. All the contestants wore identical black uniforms, but their keys—solid gold, shaped uniquely for each team, and adorned with different-colored straps—were the tell.
They spotted them in the left-front corner, by the marble bar: three individuals with keys identical to their own—serpents engraved in it, tied with an emerald green straps. They headed toward them, careful not to draw attention but equally uninterested in hiding.
The contract had demanded more than just their signature. It had required reinvention. New name. New age. A carefully constructed persona designed to disarm suspicion. One contestant per nation—an iron rule. That meant no one from their homeland would be present. No one who could recognize the bones beneath the mask. And only one contestant had made it out of their pre-entry assessment. The Owl knew—knew—if someone else had emerged alongside them, their cover would have cracked.
After all, ten had tried to slit their throat over the past four weeks alone.
"You're with us?" a tall man asked, turning toward them as they approached. He was white, roughly 5'10, with slick black hair and a drink in hand that smelled like mint and lime.
The Owl held up their key and gave a sharp grin in answer.
"Thank god," the blonde girl beside him groaned in relief. She was nearly as tall, skin pale like milk, and her white-blonde hair fell in sleek sheets past her shoulders. "I'm Klara. I was starting to get a complex watching the blues multiply like rabbits."
"I think the blues are the Shark team," said the tallest of the group—Elijah, he introduced himself as, with an unmistakably thick Australian accent. He leaned casually against the bar, one ankle crossed over the other, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. "You can call me Eli."
"Definitely Sharks," confirmed the third in the group, a shorter girl with copper-toned skin, sharp cheekbones, and long, straight black hair. Her dark eyes glittered as she took a sip from a glass of water. "I'm Ilira. I hate sharks. Terrible aesthetic. Worst group here, honestly. And—ugh—another one just walked in."
All four turned their attention toward the grand double doors.
A tall girl had just entered, holding a gold shark key with a sapphire blue strap. She barely glanced around before walking confidently toward the already-forming group of blues across the room. The four exchanged a look and then broke into low, ironic laughter.
"Guess we're four against four now," Eli muttered, smirking.
"I'm Minho, by the way," added the man with the mojito, his tone sly as he raised his glass in greeting.
"Think our fifth will be a guy or a girl?" Eli asked idly, folding his arms behind his head, looking at the ceiling like it might cough up an answer.
"Fifth?" Ilira frowned. "Ugh, I thought we were done."
"I'd bet there'll be twenty-five of us total," Minho said, keeping his voice low. "Five teams, five per team. Just like the pre-entry assessments. Five finalists per category, one per team."
"Yeah," Eli nodded, "makes sense. Five keys per emblem. It adds up."
"Hopefully our last one's a girl," Klara said, almost wistfully.
Ilira snorted. "Doubt it. Gut tells me this hellhole leans heavy on testosterone."
"Another one coming," Minho said under his breath, drawing their attention once more.
A girl with a graceful stride entered, dressed like the others, but with a golden eagle key and a canary-yellow strap. She looked Chinese, with a sharp, serene expression and long, dark hair pulled into a sleek bun.
All four watched silently as she made her way across the room to where four others with eagle keys already stood.
"The Eagles are the first full team," Eli muttered, jaw tightening. "Three guys, two girls."
The Owl's eyes followed her, lingering not on her, but the tallest in that cluster. He was leaning back, arms crossed, his posture almost lazy—until their eyes met. Arrogance radiated off him like heat from a forge.
The Owl felt their instincts snap to attention.
That one? No. No. They could already tell. That man would be trouble. They didn't know his name, his country, or his story. But they knew the look of a predator who thought the world owed him deference.
"I wonder who'll fill up next," Klara whispered.
"Anyone but the Sharks," Ilira replied, her voice low and venomous. "If they finish before us, I might lose my mind."
"There's only two of the Bears," Eli noted, tilting his chin toward a duo with purple-strapped keys.
"They look like they'd have the most girls," Klara said.
"That's not a thing," Minho rolled his eyes.
"Of course, it is. My instincts are tingling," she replied dramatically.
"Oh, god. What are you—Spider-Woman now?" he snorted.
She flipped him off. "I'm sensitive to energy, asshole."
Minho just grinned at her. "Whatever helps you sleep, sweetheart."
Klara rolled her eyes, but it was more amused than annoyed.
"Still think the Sharks will be the last to fill up," Minho added, looking smug.
"Bet you a test lead they won't be," Eli fired back immediately, eyes gleaming.
Minho turned fully, meeting his gaze with interest. "You're on."
"If I win, I lead the team for the first two trials. If you win, you do."
Minho's grin widened. "Deal."
"I'm betting Eli wins," Klara teased, clearly enjoying the game.
"You're just saying that to spite me, Blondie," Minho muttered.
"Not at all. Just following my tingly instincts," she said sweetly.
He gaped. "You—!"
Ilira groaned. "Am I the only adult here? You all sound like high schoolers on a reality show."
"You say that like we aren't literally on a reality show," Minho said with mock seriousness.
"That's fair," Ilira admitted.
They all chuckled—low and cautious, but real.
The Owl, meanwhile, stayed quiet, observing. Their eyes remained fixed on the door. Fifteen had arrived. That left ten to come. The tension wasn't fading—it was sharpening, concentrating. This wasn't even the real start yet. It was still the polite phase, the civil phase. But underneath the civility, the cracks were already spidering.
They'd felt this kind of silence before. The kind that came before gunshots. Before a crowd turned on itself. Before a knife went into someone's ribs.
And just like before, they knew: this room was going to burn.
By the end of the night, someone's halo would turn into horns.
And they intended to make sure it wasn't theirs.