The fluorescent lights cut out with a soft, mechanical click, plunging the dormitory into a darkness broken only by the pale glow of the towering coin-shaped piggy bank looming above. A low murmur rippled through the rows of metal bunks—then died as the guards finished their headcount.

The silence didn't last. Somewhere to the left, a man coughed. To the right, a woman whispered a prayer. The air smelled of sweat, cheap soap, and the metallic tang of fear. Everyone was still wearing the same green tracksuits from the first game. The blood had been washed out, but the memory of it hadn't.

Thanos lay on his bunk, one arm draped over his face, the small metal marble rolling lazily across his knuckles. He wasn't asleep. He never slept much anymore. The drugs he'd taken before the first game had worn off into a dull, throbbing edge at the base of his skull.

His bunk creaked as he sat up, scanning the rows. A dozen beds away, he saw her—Player 212. Ghost. She was curled on her side, facing the room. Even in the dark, he could make out the glint of one eye, not fully closed. Watching.

A few nearby players stirred, but no one spoke. They'd already learned not to get involved when Thanos started talking.