Phil snapped.
"Of course, I am not stepping on those nails."
His voice bounced off the concrete walls, brittle and sharp. He pointed toward the eastern corridor where the floor shimmered faintly under the harsh white lights. Tiny metal spikes covered the entire stretch, packed so tightly they looked almost like silver fur.
He shook his head once, disgust twisting his swollen features, then turned and walked away. Each step was slow. Careful. Protective of his battered body.
Newton watched him go. Then he looked down at his wrist. The number glowed back at him.
Twenty.
Still twenty.
The blue light pulsed softly against his skin, indifferent to everything else. He let out a long breath.
"I guess this will take me through the week."
It sounded steadier than he felt.
Around them, the others began to retreat from the corridor. No one argued. No one debated the task again. The sight of those nails had been enough.
They returned to the main hall and lowered themselves onto the cold floor one by one..No one sat too close to anyone else.
"I will rather die than destroy my feet," Phil muttered from where he leaned against a pillar. His nose was still crooked from Newton's blow, dried blood crusted beneath it. "I won't even survive those nails."
Silence swallowed the statement. No one challenged him.
Newton turned his face toward the wall and folded his arms over his knees. The concrete was cool against his forehead. His stomach gave a slow, hollow twist.
He knew it wasn't over. The nails would still be there tomorrow.
And the next day.
Waiting.
For now, they had coins.
For now, they could pretend choice still existed.
The week dragged on. They rationed their food. One meal a day. Sometimes less.
The restaurant hall no longer buzzed with chaos. It moved slower now. Transactions were quiet. Students extended wrists with mechanical resignation. Trays slid forward. No one lingered.
Newton learned to eat slowly. He would stare at his food first. Count the bites. Break the bread in halves. Then halves again. Stretch the experience so his stomach would not notice how little he had given it.
At night, the floor felt harder. They stopped paying for beds early in the week. The corridor became their resting place again. Bodies curled inward to preserve heat. Breathing shallow.
The nails in the eastern corridor gleamed untouched.
Second week. The glow on wrists dimmed. "This is my last meal," Brandom said one afternoon, staring at his tray as if memorizing it. His voice carried farther than he meant it to.
A few heads turned. Everyone looked at their own wrist.
Zeros.
Twos.
A three here.
A four there.
Newton's read seven.
Seven.
The number looked heavier now. Brighter. Dangerous.
He pulled his sleeve over it instinctively. It did not matter.
They had already seen.
Eyes lingered on him longer than usual. Not hostile. Not yet. Just calculating.
By the third week the hall grew quieter. Stomachs growled audibly in the silence. Loud, embarrassing sounds that no one commented on.
Lips cracked.
Tongues dragged over dry skin and found no moisture.
When they stood too quickly, black spots swarmed their vision.
All wrists now glowed the same number.
Zero.
Uniform. Temporary. Brandom drifted back to the eastern corridor and stared at the floor again.
The nails were exactly as they had been on the first day. Sharp, pointed, and unforgiving.
"There is no way I am going to walk on these nails," he whispered. His voice no longer had the strength to rise. "This is death itself."
His toes curled inside his torn shoes as if the spikes could already feel him.
Newton remained in the main hall, lying flat on his back. He pressed his palm into his stomach as another wave of hunger folded him in half.
He rolled onto his side. Then onto his other side. His body felt lighter. Too light.
Each movement costs more now..He tried not to look at the corridor.
By the fourth week, the air changed.
Breathing became audible, dry, and rough.
Conversations stopped entirely. Lips peeled. Some students sucked on their own sleeves just to feel something damp. "I am dying," Andy croaked one morning.
He had tried to stand and failed. His body swayed and collapsed sideways, bumping into Phil's shoulder.
Phil did not react. Andy blinked slowly and pushed himself upright with shaking hands.
"Phil," he said.
Nothing.
Andy leaned closer. "Phil."
Still nothing.
He nudged him harder this time. Phil's body tipped slightly and stayed that way.
Too stiff.
Andy's stomach tightened for a different reason now. "Phil!" he shouted, voice cracking.
The word scraped through the hall like sandpaper.
Heads lifted.
Brandom began to crawl toward them, dragging his body across the floor inch by inch. His elbows left faint streaks behind.
He reached Phil. His fingers hovered over Phil's neck before finally pressing down.
They stayed there longer than necessary. Brandom's shoulders slumped. He shook his head. "He is dead."
The words did not echo. They sank.
A murmur rippled outward. Weak. Disbelieving.
Someone covered their mouth with both hands. Someone else turned their face to the wall.
Phil lay there, eyes half open, lips parted. His wrist still glowing zero.
Andy stared at him. For a moment, his hunger disappeared entirely.
The nails. The corridor. The choice.
It became clear in a way it had not been before.
Sit here. And become like this. Or walk and feel something worse first.
Andy swallowed.
He planted his hands on the floor and pushed himself upright. His legs trembled violently under his own weight, but they held.
He began walking.
Slow, unsteady.
Toward the western corridor that led to the east. "Where are you headed?" Samuel asked from the ground, his voice barely louder than a breath.
Andy did not stop. "I am crossing over."
The words hung there. Crossing over..No one moved. All eyes followed him.
Maybe if he can do it, Brian thought aloud, his voice thin but audible. "Then I can do it."
Hope did not enter the room. But something else did. Movement. Andy reached the corridor.
The light above flickered faintly. The nails stretched ahead of him, endless. Each spike caught the light along its edge.
He stepped closer. His breath trembled in his chest.
He could almost feel it already. The metal piercing through the thin fabric of his shoes. Through skin. Through flesh.
He whispered to himself, barely audible. "Staying would kill me faster than that nail." His foot lifted.
They dragged themselves toward the corridor..Not walking. Not running. Dragging.
Palms scraping against concrete. Knees leaving faint streaks of red where skin had thinned too much. Every movement was slow, heavy, as if the air itself resisted them.
They needed to see. They needed to know if Andy would stop.
"Andy! Don't do it!" Newton's voice cracked as he forced himself upright against the wall. His legs trembled under him. "It will kill you!"
Andy paused at the edge of the nailed floor. He turned his head slowly.
Even from a distance they could see the hollowness in his cheeks, the way his collarbone pressed against skin that had lost its fullness. His eyes looked too large for his face.
He forced a chuckle. Dry, and thin.
"You said it would kill me?" His lips twitched faintly. "Am I not dying already?"
The words did not carry anger..Just exhaustion. He turned back toward the corridor.
All eyes widened.
Chests rose and fell in uneven rhythm. No one breathed properly.