The streets were almost silent.
Tama zipped up his hoodie and walked quickly, the cold wind slicing through the gaps of his clothes. The map had led him deep into the industrial zone—long-abandoned factories, shattered windows, graffiti-tagged concrete walls. He glanced at his phone screen. The red pin blinked steadily. He was close.
Only three people had ever known about the fire from fifteen years ago.
Two of them were dead.
And now, someone else knew.
Someone who had Risa.
Someone who had turned his past into a playground of threats and twisted challenges.
The message had been clear:
Level Two starts in 3 hours. Be there. Or she burns.
It was now 2 hours, 58 minutes later.
Tama arrived at the marked building—a rusted warehouse with a crooked metal sign: "Block 7 – Storage". The front door hung ajar, creaking in the wind. He pushed it gently and stepped inside.
Darkness.
And silence.
Then—a soft mechanical click.
Lights flickered on above him, one by one, revealing a massive empty space. Old crates, broken tools, and tangled wires lay scattered. At the center, a chair. A laptop.
And nothing else.
Tama's breath fogged in the air. His instincts screamed that he was being watched.
He approached the laptop cautiously. The screen came alive the moment he touched it.
LEVEL TWO: CHOOSE THE MOLE
(One of them betrayed you. Choose wisely. You have 20 minutes.)
The screen split into five panels.
Faces.
All familiar.
Five people Tama had once trusted.
1. Imran – his college roommate, a fellow hacker who had mysteriously disappeared last year.
2. Dina – an ex-lover who broke up with him after a leak he never admitted to.
3. Ray – an informant who once saved Tama from a police trace.
4. Rafi – his older cousin, who warned him to quit hacking or risk "burning everything."
5. Risa – his sister.
Tama felt his blood run cold.
"No," he whispered. "Not Risa. Not even as an option."
Another line appeared below the photos:
One of them sold your data. One of them is dead. One of them wants you dead. One of them is innocent. One of them… is watching.
He had twenty minutes.
19:12…
Tama's mind raced.
Imran disappeared after their last project together. That project was risky—government-grade. Tama had buried it, erased every trace. But Imran had been acting strange near the end. Paranoid. Could he have leaked something?
Dina… she was smart. Too smart. She always asked how Tama covered his digital footprints. She said she hated what he did—but never left until her bank account was mysteriously full. Had she sold him out?
Ray. Untraceable. Unpredictable. The type who always "knew" too much. Once told Tama to "watch his back" but never explained why. A friend—or a setup?
Rafi. Loyal, but traditional. Told Tama hacking was dishonorable. That it would "bring shame and ghosts." Last year, they fought. Rafi hadn't spoken to him since.
And Risa.
He couldn't even consider it.
But then he remembered the voice in the first video:
"One lie will save her. Or end her."
Was this another trap?
A new message appeared on the laptop:
You may only choose one. If you're wrong, the innocent dies.
Tama's breath caught.
This was real.
It was no longer about games.
It was life or death.
Time: 13:57
Sweat dripped from his temple. He clenched his fists.
He ruled out Risa.
No matter the logic, he couldn't accuse her. He wouldn't.
So who?
He remembered Imran's paranoia. The way he used to say, "We're in deeper than you think, Tama." Maybe Imran had gotten in too deep—and sold them both to survive?
He took a deep breath.
And clicked on Imran's photo.
The screen froze.
Then blinked.
Analyzing…
Long pause.
Then—
Correct. Imran was the mole.
He's dead now. But the trail he left still burns.
Tama exhaled sharply and leaned back. Relief flooded through his system. But it didn't last long.
The screen switched again. A new video appeared.
It was Risa.
Still tied. But this time, she was in a different room. Brick walls. Dim red lighting. Her lips were trembling.
Then a voice—distorted, familiar.
"You cleared Level Two. Impressive. But you're not a hero, Tama. You're just surviving your own sins."
Another image popped up. An address.
Somewhere deeper in the city.
Level Three begins at midnight. Come alone. No devices. No lies.
The screen shut off.
The lights in the warehouse dimmed.
Tama stood in silence.
His phone buzzed—this time, a voice message.
He pressed play.
Risa's voice. Weak. Choked.
"Tama… please don't trust anyone. Not even—"
static
The message ended abruptly.
Tama stood motionless for several seconds.
Then, he whispered, "Not even who?"
---
Meanwhile, in a hidden room, the game master smiled behind a mask.
Monitors lit up with names, maps, files. Every choice Tama made, every breath he took, every flicker in his eyes—it was all recorded. All part of the game.
The masked figure leaned forward and whispered to no one:
"You're doing well, Tama. But heroes don't exist in my game. Only survivors... or corpses."
They pressed a button.
And Level Three began preparing itself.
---
To be continued...