[Archival Footage - Participant #77 Screening]
The camera flickers to life, revealing a young man lounging in a sterile white chair, his relaxed posture contrasting with the titanium-reinforced door behind him. Across the steel table, a mountain of a man in a black tactical mask taps a stylus against his tablet.
Interrogator: "Let's begin."
His voice sounds like gravel dragged through mud.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Leon Voltaire."*
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
The interrogator's visor reflects Leon's face, distorting it into something predatory.
"Reason for joining Project Terror Island?"
For three full seconds, the room's humming air recyclers are the only sound—then his face turend into a smile.
"To become... number one, of course."
"What was your sin?
[GLITCH]
The video fractures into static. When it resolves, Leon's mouth moves but no audio emerges—just the interrogator's gloved hand tightening around his stylus hard enough to crack the screen.
"Final confirmation." The masked man leans forward.
"You understand this contract is irreversible?"
Leon meets his hidden gaze without blinking.
"I fully understand the risks."
His voice drops to a whisper.
"And I agree to become a product."
***
Leon's sigh was heavy with disdain as he leaned against the polished bar counter, the golden sunlight streaming through the ship's windows casting long shadows across his face. The cruise liner hummed softly with the chatter of other passengers, but his attention was fixed solely on the bartender—a young woman with a practiced smile and tired eyes.
She placed a glass of wine in front of him, the deep red liquid swirling lazily.
"Is this the best you got?" Leon sneered, his fingers tapping impatiently on the counter. "You think I look like someone that can't afford the good stuff?"
The bartender's smile didn't waver, though her grip on the cloth in her hands tightened slightly. "I'm very sorry, sir, but this is the only good wine we have here. If you're unhappy, then I suggest you take another ship."
Leon scoffed, snatching the glass with a rough motion. "All of you Chinese people are the same—always greedy."
A flicker of irritation passed behind her eyes, but her voice remained smooth. "But I'm Korean, sir."
He let out a sharp laugh, the sound dripping with condescension. "Figures. Someone from North Korea can't possibly know about good wine like us Italians."
Her smile tightened, just for a second. "Sorry if I offended you, sir, but I'm actually from South—"
"Whatever," he cut her off with a dismissive wave, already turning away, his Hawaiian shirt fluttering as he strode off without another glance.
The bartender exhaled softly, watching his retreating back before turning to the next customer—her smile never slipping, her professionalism unbroken.
The ocean stretched endlessly before Leon, its surface glittering under the midday sun like shattered glass. He leaned heavily against the ship's railing, the wind tugging at his loose shirt as he took another bitter sip of wine.
"Damn it, Dad…" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the crash of waves. "I didn't know my 'vacation' would be on some ugly ship to an island god knows where!"
The glass in his hand felt too small, too insignificant—just like this whole trip. He scoffed, tilting his head back. "Maybe I should've brought some of my friends…"
A dry chuckle escaped him.
"Wait, what am I talking about? I don't have friends."
The admission hung in the air, heavier than the salt breeze. Leon glared at his reflection in the wine—his sharp features, the unruly red hair he impatiently pushed back.
"It's not like I'm bad-looking or something. I'm just a recent graduate trying to enjoy myself at 18. But…" His grip tightened on the glass. "Why does everyone distance themselves from me? Is it because of my dad? My status?"
A pause. The ship's horn blared in the distance, mocking his thoughts.
"Or… maybe my personality?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he recoiled. "Tch—what am I saying? They're all just jealous anyway. They don't deserve me."
Leon pushed himself up off the deck, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. "I should get another one", he thought, already turning toward the ship's interior.
His steps carried him through the sliding doors when— THUD.
A soft gasp.Then pain blooming across his forehead as he crashed backward onto the carpeted floor.
"Hey, watch where you—" The words died in his throat.
Sunlight from the porthole illuminated her like a spotlight—blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, wide eyes the color of honey. She rubbed her elbow where she'd landed, wincing.
"I'm...really sorry," she stammered, voice lighter than he expected. "I should have been more aware."
Leon's spine straightened instantly. "No no, it's okay!" His tone flipped so fast it could've given him whiplash. "It was my fault too—I should've looked." He scrambled to his feet, offering a hand with what he hoped was a charming grin. "Hello, my name's Leon. Nice to meet you."
Her fingers were warm against his palm as she let him pull her up. "Lucia," she offered, brushing wrinkles from her sundress.
Leon's gaze flickered over her. "Vacation outfit? No luggage nearby... "
"You taking this trip with friends?"
She shook her head, blonde strands catching the light. "Just...trying to escape my personal life a little. That's why i saved up for this vacation."
"Imagine saving money for a shitty boat like this", Leon mused inwardly, lips twitching. "Just say you're poor already."
Lucia's smile turned polite, distant. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Leon."
"The pleasure was all mine," he said smoothly, watching the sway of her hair as she walked away.
The moment she turned the corner, his smirk returned full force." Well, At least she looked cute."
He adjusted his collar, already plotting. "If I see her again, I'm getting that number!"
Leon stepped further into the ship's interior, his eyes scanning the crowd with growing irritation. The lounge was packed with every type of person and race imaginable.
"Damn, what a huge pain in the ass," he thought,
"I'm stuck here with these people for a whole week?"
He pulled out his phone, hoping to distract himself, but the "No Signal" icon in the corner mocked him. "Can't even call anybody here," he muttered, shoving the useless device back into his pocket.
Just as he was about to head to the bar, a familiar silhouette at the far railing made his blood run cold.
There, facing the ocean with her back to him, stood a petite girl with distinctive short brown hair blowing in the sea breeze. Even from this distance, he'd recognize that posture anywhere.
"Shit!" Leon hissed, ducking behind a nearby decorative statue of a mermaid. "That's Sofia! My ex from two years ago! We broke up after she found out I was sleeping with her best friend..."
His pulse pounded in his ears as he peeked around the statue's base. "I can't believe she's here! If she sees me, there's going to be a big fight."
A bitter thought followed: "Or maybe... she's moved on with her life by now."
Leon shook his head sharply, as if to dislodge the idea. "Well, whatever the case, it's too risky to talk to her."
Leon's brooding was interrupted by raised voices near the ship's atrium. A commotion had broken out - two rough-looking men were harassing a staff member. He drifted closer, more out of boredom than concern.
The ringleader was a middle-aged brute with a ragged beard so unkempt he looked like someone who'd lived exclusively in a jungle. Two other men had joined his protest, forming an intimidating semicircle around the young crew member.
"Hey!" the bearded man barked with a raspy, smoke-damaged voice. "Where are you taking us? It's been an hour since this ship changed course!"
"Yeah, what the hell is going on?" another thug chimed in, cracking his knuckles. "You need to explain yourself right now!"
The staff member stood frozen, maintaining that eerie plastic smile all service workers seemed to master. His silence only enraged the men further.
"Hey! I'm talking to you, kid!" The bearded man lunged forward, grabbing the staffer's collar violently. Just as tensions peaked, several passengers rushed in to break up the potential fight.
Leon watched the spectacle with disinterest.
They're obviously just taking a detour to arrive faster, you idiots.
Heshook his head and turned away, more annoyed by the disruption than concerned about the supposed course change.
Seeking quieter surroundings, he moved toward the deck. The sea breeze greeted him, carrying the sharp tang of salt. He checked his expensive wristwatch - 10 AM sharp.
Four hours since departure...
The realization made his stomach clench. At this rate, his unwanted confinement with these people would feel endless.
***
"Leon...?" A distant female voice echoed through the darkness.
Leon found himself standing in an unfamiliar room, the only illumination coming from a flickering candle in his hands. The flame cast eerie shadows on damp stone walls.
"What is this? Where am I?"he mumbled, his breath visible in the cold air.
Suddenly, a cheerful male voice spoke right beside his ear: "You did well, Leon!"
Leon whirled around, heart pounding. "What do you mean? Who are you?!" His shouts disappeared into the void.
Then - a bloodcurdling scream. A woman's voice, filled with pure terror-
Leon's eyes snapped open. He was back on the cruise ship, sweat dripping down his temples. "A dream...?"
But the screaming continued - this time horrifyingly real. His expensive watch glowed : 11 AM sharp.
He leapt from his plush seat, scanning the deck. Passengers stood frozen like statues, their wide eyes reflecting the sunlight as they stared at the approaching island. Murmurs of panic filled the salty air.
What could they possibly be scared about?Leon thought, pushing through the crowd.
Then he saw them.
The island's beach swarmed with figures in tactical gear - not regular soldiers, but mercenaries. Their black ski masks erased all humanity from their silhouettes. Sunlight glinted off assault rifles clutched in their gloved hands. One turned his way slowly, the blank eyeholes of his mask seeming to stare directly at Leon.
"What the hell is this shit?!" Leon heard someone shriek nearby.
Passengers erupted into chaos:
"This has to be a prank!" a teenager laughed nervously.
"A prank? Are you serious?" a businessman snapped, tie askew. "This is a fucking terrorist attack!"
"We're all going to die!" a woman screamed.
The deck became a nightmare. People trampled over fallen luggage, drinks spilled across the polished floors, and at least three different fistfights broke out in the panic.
Then—feedback screech.
A staff member appeared on the upper deck, microphone in hand. His crisp white uniform contrasted with the sinister curl of his lips. "Everyone please be calm."
"How can we be calm, you prick?!" a muscular guy roared, heaving a deck chair at the railing.
The staffer's smile never wavered. "I understand your confusion, but please don't worry about the men on the island. They won't hurt you..." A deliberate pause. "...as long as you follow the rules."
Leon's stomach dropped. "Rules?"
The murmuring crowd sounded like a swarm of angry bees. With theatrical grace, the staffer gestured to the ship's monitors. "I'll let my manager explain. For your own safety... do be quiet."
Every screen flickered to life simultaneously.
The screen revealed a man in an immaculate black suit, his silhouette framed by an opulent chair. At first glance, he appeared normal—short black hair, polished smile—until the camera panned upward.
Are those... antlers? Leon's breath hitched. Two dark, branching protrusions curled from the man's temples like a twisted crown.
"Hello, my dear products!" The antlered man spread his arms. "I hope you enjoyed your time aboard the Quincy!"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. "Products?!" someone shrieked.
A businessman in a rumpled suit charged forward. "Who the hell do you think you are? Are you kidnapping us?!"
The man chuckled, steepling his fingers. "No no, Mr. Klum. Not at all..."
Klum froze. "How... how do you know my name?"
The screen zoomed in as the antlered man's grin widened. "Oh, I know you all. Every single 300 souls aboard." His gloved hand made a circle in the air. "This isn't a vacation—it's something far more... exhilarating."
"A game!" he declared, eyes glinting. "But not just any game—"The camera lurched closer, distorting his features. "—one that involves killing your fellow passengers!"
Klum slammed his fist on a nearby table. "You're insane! Turn this ship around or I'll—"
"Or you'll what, Mr. Klum?" The man tilted his head, antlers catching the light. "Call the police?" His laugh was a blade down Leon's spine.
A college-aged kid suddenly lunged at a staff member, locking him in a chokehold. "Everyone! Get to the captain! We can still—"
BANG.
The staff member's pistol smoked. For a suspended second, the boy's shocked expression held—then he crumpled, blood blooming across the white deck like a grotesque rose.
The gunshots' echo faded into unnatural silence as the antlered man sighed through the screen. "I'm afraid that wasn't a good plan, Mr. Smith."
Leon's muscles locked. Around him, passengers recoiled from the corpse—until two more gunshots cracked overhead. The staff's rifles smoked, enforcing frozen obedience.
"You see," the monitor flickered, zooming in on the man's antlers as he stroked one like a pet, "I haven't explained the most critical rule..." His pupils dilated. "Absolute obedience to our staff."
Leon's voice tore through the silence: "This is murder! You think we'll play your sick game?!"
The antlered man's fingers paused mid-caress. "Oh, but you already are." The screen glitched violently. "Every one of you... signed the contract."
A Black woman shoved forward. "The hell we did! Who'd agree to this?!"
"24-year-old Miss Graham," he sang, antlers twitching, "charged with butchering her ex-husband? Ring any bells?"
She collapsed to her knees. "H-how—"
"You wept as you begged us to help you!"
The monitor split—showing security footage of the same woman in a sterile white room.
Recording-Graham nodded eagerly: "I fully understand the risks. I agree to join Project Terror Island."
The screen changed to different people as they all said the exact same thing.
The live feed returned as the man giggled. "Ahhh, the memory drugs work beautifully!"
Miss Graham's knees hit the deck with a hollow thud. "You fucking liar! That's not me!" Her nails scraped against the screen. "This is all fake! A goddamn setup—Why would i agree to—"
The antlered man's chuckle crackled through the speakers. "If you don't believe we altered your memories... then kindly explain how you boarded this ship."
"I—" Her breath hitched. "I drove my car to the pier, entered through a red door, then I..." Her pupils dilated. "Then I... I..."
Murmurs erupted.
"Yeah, I went through a red door too—" a voice said
"Why can't I remember anything after that?" Another voice said.
Leon's back hit the wall. How the hell can't I remember?
Fragments flashed—a red door, a clipboard thrust into his hands, the smell of antiseptic—then nothing.
"What the fuck?"His whisper was lost in the growing panic.
On screen, the man reveled in the chaos—until the ship lurched violently.
THUD.
The engines died. Waves lapped against the hull like hungry mouths.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the figure purred, antlers glinting, "you've been handpicked from across the world for our new project! To hunt eachother and be The last one standing!"
Behind him, masked figures boarded the ship.
"My associates will explain the rules onshore. So please...be patient. "
The maksed men commanded the passengers to get out the ship while their rifles were pointed at them.
The screen brightened as the antlered man raised his arms like a conductor.
"WELCOME... TO TERROR ISLAND!"