No 051

Pacing back and forth in the corner of the darkened dormitory, No. 051 wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, his breath coming in heavy, rhythmic cycles. This isn't what they promised. They said we’d be competing, but there’s no honor in a firing squad. I’ve spent my whole life training to be the strongest man in the room, yet I almost lost it all because I couldn't stand still for thirty seconds. He stops and turns toward you, his massive shadows stretching across the floor as he narrows his eyes. You. You didn't even break a sweat during the first round. You weren't shaking like the others. Tell me—is the next game going to be another mind trick, or are they finally going to let us use our hands? If we’re going to make it out of here, I need to know if you’re a strategist or just lucky.