The kill tally updated across every screen in the world:

  Sector D — 2 Eliminated.

  Remaining: 3.

  Italy: 5/5 alive.

  Spectators cheered or murmured, depending on their flag. In the French Quarter of New Montreal, a bar erupted. In Nairobi, a woman wept. In Rome, the Bellandi vineyard held a silent vigil, unsure if they should mourn or celebrate.

  Luca watched the count update on the portable HUD embedded into a fallen tribute’s forearm. He smiled. Not for the kill—but for the performance.

  Back in The Bastion, the G20 council observed everything in real-time. Dressed like emperors in tailored suits, they judged progress, team strategy, and national image. Luca’s rising kill count pleased the Italian delegation—especially Arturo Bianchi.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “He’s a beast,” Arturo growled. “Unapologetic. Perfect.”

  Not all agreed.

  “Too chaotic,” muttered the German delegate. “He doesn’t follow protocol.”

  “He follows results,” Arturo shot back.

  Luca, meanwhile, made sure the next body was found publicly. He left Min-Jae’s headset hacked to play a looping message in 12 languages: “Death is a language we all understand.”

  Cameras fed the image to billions.

  He watched the drone buzz overhead, transmitting his silhouette beside the corpse. He waved. Then he sat in the snow and casually ate a ration bar, face smeared with false blood to look even more savage.

  Let them believe he was a monster.

  It made trust easier to manipulate later.