Chapter 3: A Different Set of Rules

The sound of his own breath was a ragged storm in his ears, each gasp burning his lungs. The slap of his sneakers on the polished floor was the only rhythm in a world that had fallen silent, save for the frantic drumming of his own heart. He didn't dare look back. The image of the boy’s eyes was seared into his mind—not the eyes of a lost child, but of something ancient, cold, and vast, looking out from a seven-year-old’s face. Rule 5: If you see a small boy crying, run. For the first time, he was grateful for a rule, even one so monstrously illogical.

He pumped his arms, his good hand clenched into a fist, his mangled left hand held tight against his chest. Every jarring step sent a fresh explosion of agony up his arm, a white-hot reminder of his first, catastrophic mistake. The pain was a grim companion, a brutal tutor teaching him the terminal's unforgiving curriculum.

The terminal itself seemed to warp as he ran. He sprinted past Gate 84, then 97, then 112. The numbers were impossible. No airport terminal was this long. The concourse stretched before him like a digital error, a corridor copied and pasted into infinity. The sickly green-orange emergency lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to chase him, to reach for his heels. Grinners dotted the landscape, their heads tilting in that same, awful, synchronized rhythm. He weaved between them, a frantic mouse in a maze of smiling, predatory cats. They didn't pursue, but their vacant, glassy eyes and grotesquely wide smiles felt like a thousand silent judgments.

His lungs were on fire, a stitch lancing his side. He had to stop. He had to rest. He saw an alcove ahead, a darkened seating area tucked behind a pillar next to a shuttered currency exchange booth. It looked defensible, a small pocket of deeper shadow. He veered towards it, his legs screaming in protest.

He rounded the pillar at a dead sprint and slammed directly into something solid.

The impact sent a fresh jolt of agony through his hand and knocked the breath from his body. He stumbled back, his mind screaming Grinner!, his one good arm coming up to defend himself.

But the figure didn't smile. It groaned. A low, human sound of pain and exhaustion. "Ngh... watch it..."

Liam’s eyes widened. Standing there, swaying on his feet, was a man. He was older than Liam, maybe in his late thirties, with a haggard face, a two-day stubble, and deep, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He wore a rumpled business suit, the tie loosened and askew. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't tilting. He was just a man, pale and trembling, looking as terrified as Liam felt.

"You're... you're real," Liam gasped, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "You're not one of them."

The man flinched, holding up his hands. They were shaking. "Stay back. Who are you? How are you not...?" His voice was a dry, cracking whisper, the sound of someone who had been screaming for hours.

"I'm Liam. I was at Gate 12," he said, the information feeling absurdly mundane. "I hid. I ran. What's your name?"

"Ben," the man rasped, his eyes darting around nervously, never settling in one place for more than a second. "I was... in the lounge. The lights went out." He looked Liam up and down, his gaze falling on the blood-soaked rag wrapped around Liam's hand. "What happened to you?"

"The restroom," Liam said, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Rule One. I didn't know."

Ben’s eyes, which had been wide with panic, suddenly sharpened with a flicker of recognition. A fragile, desperate connection formed between them in the oppressive silence. "The rules," Ben whispered, a new energy in his voice. "You got them too? On your phone?"

Relief washed over Liam so powerfully his knees almost buckled. He wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one chosen for this twisted game. He fumbled for his phone with his good hand, the blood-smeared screen glowing to life. "Yes! See?"

He held it out. Ben squinted, taking a hesitant step closer to read the text. He nodded slowly, a shudder running through his exhausted frame.

"Seven rules," Ben breathed. "Yeah. Me too." He swayed again, putting a hand against the pillar to steady himself. He looked awful, like a man who hadn't slept in days, his skin pale and clammy.

"We have to stick together," Liam said, his voice urgent. "We can figure this out. We can watch each other's backs. That rule... about not closing your eyes for more than five seconds..."

"I know," Ben muttered, his own eyes drooping heavily. "It's been... I don't know how long. I can't... I have to stay awake."

"We'll take turns," Liam insisted, his mind racing. "We can find a better place to hide. But first... the rules. Are yours the same? We need to know everything." He was thinking of the boy. Had Ben seen him? Did he understand the threat? "Rule Five," Liam said, his voice low. "About the crying boy. You know we have to run, right? I just saw him."

Ben's bloodshot eyes lifted to meet Liam’s. The flicker of connection they’d shared vanished, replaced by a profound and chilling confusion. He looked at Liam as if he'd just announced the sky was green.

"Run?" Ben whispered, his brow furrowing. "No... no, that's not right."

A cold knot formed in Liam’s stomach. "What do you mean? It's right there. Rule Five. 'If you see a small boy crying, run'."

With a trembling hand that seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, Ben reached into his own suit pocket. He pulled out a sleek, expensive-looking smartphone, its screen cracked in one corner. He tapped it, his thumb clumsy with exhaustion, and a list of rules appeared, illuminated on the screen.

"Look," Ben rasped, holding the phone out.

Liam leaned in, his own phone still lit in his other hand. The format was similar—plain background, simple text. He scanned down the list. Rule 1: Avoid sealed rooms. Rule 2: Don't look at their faces. Rule 3: Chicago is a lie. Rule 4: Five seconds is all you get. They were close, paraphrased versions of his own. The core concepts were the same.

Then he reached Rule 5.

The words on Ben's screen seemed to burn into his retinas, a venomous contradiction to the one truth that had just saved his life.

Rule 5: Your Rule 5 is a lie.

Liam stared, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. He looked from his phone to Ben’s, then back again. His own screen clearly ordered him to run. Ben's screen declared that Liam's rule—his specific rule—was a falsehood.

The implications crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow. The rules weren't a universal guide. They were personalized. Tailored. And they were designed to contradict each other.

This wasn't a game with a single solution. It was a maze with different maps, handed out to different rats, designed to make them turn on each other. Or to make one of them make a fatal mistake.

"What... what does that mean?" Liam stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

Ben shook his head, his body slumping further against the pillar. "I don't know," he murmured, his eyelids fluttering. "But it means you were wrong. You ran... maybe you were supposed to talk to him. Maybe he..." Ben's voice trailed off as his eyes finally slid shut.

"Ben!" Liam hissed, grabbing his shoulder. "Ben, wake up! Five seconds!"

But Ben was dead to the world, his body finally succumbing to the crushing weight of exhaustion. Liam looked from the man's slack face to the two glowing phones in his hand, each one a beacon of conflicting truth.

He had run from the boy, following his rule. Ben's rule said he had been deceived.

Had he just run from his only hope of escape? Or had Ben just been handed a different key, to a different lock, in the same impossible prison? The relief of finding another survivor had curdled into the most terrifying realization yet: he was more alone now than he had ever been.