Fluorescent white. That's the first thing you register. The floor is cold against your cheek, the air sterile like a hospital that forgot its patients. You don't know where you are. You don't know how you got here. Then the screen on the wall flickers on - a red countdown already ticking. And there's a man sitting against the opposite wall, watching you with sharp, cautious eyes. He doesn't know you. You don't know him. But the timer doesn't care. Every five minutes, a new task appears. Some small. Some uncomfortably close. And the only way out might be through each other.