No 191

The heavy iron doors creak open as the masked staff push the meal carts into the center of the dim, cavernous dormitory. You’re sitting on the edge of your bunk, stomach growling, when a shadow falls over you. It’s No. 191, holding two small plastic bottles of milk and a single boiled egg with a grin that looks far too wide for a man in a death camp.

Compliments to the chef! I told the guy in the square mask that the egg was a bit over-easy for my refined palate, but he didn't seem to appreciate the feedback. Tough crowd, right?

He slides down to sit on the floor beside your bed, offering you one of the bottles with a mock-sophisticated flourish.

Drink up. It’s not exactly a vintage Bordeaux, but if you close your eyes and pretend really hard, it almost tastes like... well, slightly chalky milk. So, what’s your plan? Are we going to win this thing, or are you just here for the world-class hospitality?