My name is Casimir.
Every morning, the alarm went off at 8:30. On weekends, 10:00. A strict routine: two glasses of orange juice, a brioche, nothing more. In summer, my little pleasure was the barbecue. Unfortunately, I never had anyone to invite. At noon, a film to fill the silence before heading back to work.
It was simple. It was my routine. It was my stability. I had finally found a balance in my life.
So would someone please explain to me why... WHY AM I IN THIS PLACE?!
I open my eyes again, disoriented. Around me, a completely white block — no windows, no visible doors. Rows of seats stretch out as far as the eye can see, like a sterile conference room. Above, a large screen displays a single number: "100."
I stare at it, uncomprehending. Then I look around: about a hundred people, frozen, confused, wide-eyed. No one speaks. The silence is almost religious.
I stand slowly, my legs trembling slightly. A woman beside me turns to an old man: — Do you know where we are? — No idea, he answers in a dry voice.
Their exchange wakes the others. Murmurs, questions, ragged breathing. A girl barely seventeen years old starts to cry. A guy behind me keeps repeating: — It's a dream. It's just a dream.
But the more I look at the others, the more I feel that it isn't.
I pull myself together and approach a small group. — Do you remember anything? A girl shakes her head: — No... I was asleep. And then... this. — Same, adds another. My last memory is my bed.
The same answer, everywhere. Like a collective echo. And suddenly, a thought chills me to the bone: no one remembers how they got here.
Time stretches. Some sit down, others pace. The tension becomes almost physical, like a weight in the air.
Then, without warning, a hum rings out. A low droning that makes the floor vibrate beneath our feet.
The screen lights up. White light floods the room. Hands rise to shield eyes. And a voice rings out. Cold. Metallic. Inhuman.
— Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am 404.
A shiver runs through the room. The voice continues, calm, almost amused:
— I am the founder and organizer of this place. And the one who brought you here.
A dense silence falls. No one dares breathe. The screen remains blank. No image, no face. Only that neutral, almost mocking tone.
— The room you are in is Point A. From here, you will be able to explore the Territories. A map will be provided to help you navigate. The Bloc contains approximately forty of them.
The words fall like stones into water. A man, in the back, lets out a nervous laugh. — Is this a hidden camera thing or what?
No one answers him.
The voice resumes, deeper now: — Before I explain your mission, let me tell you why you are here.
Breaths catch. I feel my heart pounding in my chest.
— Each of you was personally chosen. Because every one of you has committed one or more crimes.
An uproar erupts immediately.
— What?! — That's a lie! — I didn't do anything!
People stand, shout, defend themselves. A man in his thirties, wearing a rumpled suit, steps toward the screen: — This is a mistake! I never killed anyone!
I watch him, and despite his panic, I sense he's telling the truth. But deep inside me, something cracks. A doubt — small, insidious. What if we really had forgotten something? What if I too... had done something I no longer remembered?
I clench my jaw. No. Impossible. I know my life. I know every morning of my routine, every brioche, every midday film. And yet, the doubt doesn't leave.
The voice cuts through the chaos in a sharp tone: — You no longer have any memories. And that is perfectly normal.
Silence. A brutal silence, almost painful.
— Welcome to the Bloc — the prison I built for my own entertainment. Here, the rules are simple. You move forward, you fight... and some of you will die.
The word prison detonates the crowd. Shouts fly: — Bastard! — Show yourself, asshole! — We'll gut you!
I stand frozen. My stomach twists. And through the chaos, the voice continues, imperturbable: — Go on, go on. It's entertaining. You'll put on quite a show for me, you miserable lot.
The room explodes. Chairs fly, fists slam the floor. The anger becomes a collective storm.
I squeeze my fists. That emotionless, almost playful tone turns my stomach.
Then, in the middle of the uproar, a girl steps forward. Dark-haired, hard eyes, a scarf around her neck. — Wait... "die"? You actually said die?
The question lands like a slap. Everyone goes quiet.
The voice laughs. A digital, distorted laugh. — Of course. It's more fun that way. There are a hundred of you. You will collect points. The top ten will get out. And the first one... will become my successor.
Murmurs start up again, more nervous now. — It's a game? — He's insane? — What if it's real?
404 continues, relentless: — Across the forty Territories, you will find quests, resources, villages. And enemies. Defeat them to advance. Help the inhabitants. Or kill each other, if you prefer.
A girl near me steps back, tears in her eyes. A man screams: — You sick freak!
But the voice presses on, almost gleefully: — Save the souls of the Bloc, and perhaps — just perhaps — you will earn your redemption.
I feel my throat tighten. This is no game. It's a calibrated nightmare, a sealed arena.
And then: — One final point, announces 404. You will be separated into different Territories.
I freeze. Separated. So, alone.
The humming returns, louder. Trapdoors open in the ceiling. White smoke descends upon us — thick, heavy.
— What the hell is this?!
I cough, step back, but the smoke stings my eyes. The screams muffle. Silhouettes blur.
I reach out toward someone — a hand, a woman's hand, cold, fading into the fog.
And in that void, the last thing I hear is that mechanical laugh. The laugh of 404.
Then nothing.
Act 1
— Ahh... what a headache... this sucks.
I slowly open my eyes. A few seconds pass before my brain accepts what it sees.
The world around me has changed.
This time, it's no longer the suffocating white of the Bloc. It's... green.
Greenery as far as the eye can see. Trees, moss, damp ground. The air smells of earth, of forest, of something alive. I'm lying down, still numb, but alive.
— I'm seeing a color other than white... that can't be a good sign.
I sit up, wiping the sweat from my forehead. Every muscle aches. Where am I? How much time has passed?
— Where are we? I don't recognize this place.
I flinch. That voice... feminine. I've heard it before. I turn my head.
Our eyes meet.
A silhouette, a few meters away. I squint. A black scarf. I recognize her. It's her — the girl who had dared to ask the question back in the Bloc, when everyone was screaming.
She hasn't noticed me yet.
There are two of us. Alone, in an unknown place.
And somewhere above us, 404 is probably watching.