"What the fuck, Bern. What the fuck did you do?"
"HUUUUUUUURL." I vomited everything in my stomach. Blood, flesh, bones, teeth—everything splattered across the floor.
Bern's room was a total nightmare. His bed was wrecked, the walls painted in crimson, and a thick, foul-smelling puddle pooled beneath the shattered wooden planks. The stench of sex and blood clung to the air. But Bern himself? He was nowhere to be found. The only thing left of him were scattered bones, picked clean like something out of a horror movie.
"What the fuck happened here?"
His bed was nothing but pallets stacked together, topped with a thin mattress. Now it was split in half—like it had been torn apart from sheer force alone.
"This can't be real. This has to be a goddamn nightmare." My legs trembled as nausea crawled up my throat again.
Forcing myself to stay calm, I analyzed the scene. My eyes scanned over the room, focusing on the details—the evidence left behind. Two deep footprints were stamped into the marble floor at the foot of the bed. His hands had been pressed into the side walls, streaks of blood smearing across the surface.
My breath hitched. I looked at the other rooms down the corridor, each one eerily silent. The further I looked, the more my stomach twisted. A thick, red curtain—no, a wall of blood—coated the floors and walls beyond.
"What kind of hell is this? Everyone's dead. I'm the only one left."
I turned back to Bern's room. My mind raced, replaying every detail. Then, I tried something—I stepped into my own room and mimicked his stance, placing my hands and feet exactly where his had been. And suddenly, everything clicked.
A broken, hysterical laugh tore from my throat. The answer was horrifyingly clear.
"He destroyed the bed... with his own cock. And when the bed broke, he tried to fuck the walls. When his body started breaking, he still kept going. Even when his dick was gone, he tried using his balls. When his balls were gone, he used his legs. And when his legs were nothing but mush, he found something else—until there was nothing left."
"This is insanity. This experiment is beyond human comprehension. What's next? A biological weapon that wipes out entire nations through pure, mindless lust?"
I let out a shuddering breath. Understanding came with exhaustion. My body couldn't take it anymore. Without another thought, I collapsed onto my bed.
At least mine was still intact.
We've been surviving on nothing but those damned fruits for seven days now. Seven days since the "room of lust" claimed more victims. Seven days, seven deaths. Bern was the only one who lasted longer than a day.
The number of slaves had been cut drastically. Maybe it was because of the new guidelines for the pink gas experiment. Maybe it was just luck. Either way, every single day I survived was thanks to one thing—sticking my head into the toilet to avoid inhaling the gas. And every single day, by morning, everyone else in my corridor was dead.
But the worst part? You can't resist eating the fruit.
On one hand, it's the most filling thing I've ever eaten. Even a small piece makes you feel completely full.
Not that I've eaten much in this life, but at least Glenn's memories give me something to compare it to.
On the other hand, the next day, it feels like I haven't eaten in weeks. The hunger is so deep it's like a black hole inside my gut. The one day I refused to eat it, I fainted three times during the mining shift. If I stopped eating, I'd collapse, and the enforcers would beat me to death.
"My strategy has worked so far... but why do I feel like the worst is still coming?"
My instincts screamed at me to conserve energy. To prepare for something worse.
And the next morning, it happened.
"Where the hell are they?"
I stood in front of my cell door, waiting. It was the eighth day after we received the fruit, but today... no enforcer came to drag me to the mines.
A small hatch opened near the base of the door. A straw tray slid through, five fruits rolling onto the floor.
I turned sharply. The semi-translucent film separating my room from the next suddenly turned pitch black. The other side was completely obscured.
A voice muttered from behind the door.
"Eat up, Glenn. It might be your last meal."
It was the same executioner who had beaten me three times before.
A dense pink mist slithered in through the vents. But this time, it was different.
Before, the gas had been subtle—barely visible, just a faint pink haze in the air. But now? It was thick. Heavy. Almost liquid-like in how it filled the space.
I bolted for the bathroom, tray in hand, and stared down at the fruit. My mind raced.
"If I pass out from hunger while my head's in the toilet, I'll drown. But if I eat, I'll end up like Bern—I'll want to fuck myself to death."
The decision was made in seconds. I cracked open two of the fruits and devoured them.
"If my theory is right... this is going to be hell."
Before I even inhaled the gas, I felt it. My vision snapped to black. Consciousness vanished.
I barely had time to realize I was falling—before my head plunged into the toilet water, shocking me awake.
"Bluuuuuuup—blup—blup!"
A scream of rage and despair tore from my throat.
I didn't even have time to think about it.
The first three hours passed in agony. My body was wrecked, bruises forming where I gripped the stone. My arms and legs trembled, barely able to move.
Again and again, I passed out with my head in the toilet. Again and again, I woke up in a blind panic—only to inhale another lungful of gas. A vicious, merciless loop.
"Everything hurts." My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. I didn't even know it was possible to feel pain in my hair.
My body shook. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst. My chest convulsed in violent spasms.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to focus. Sleep. I needed sleep.
But three hours later, the cycle started again.
Three hours later, it ended.
Three hours later, it began anew.
Seven days of unrelenting hell.
And still... it wasn't over.