Chapter 3: The Next Name in Blood

He hesitated, but someone in the group posted: “The new skin rocks, I got it for $5,000 credits, totally worth it.”

My sock puppet again, hyping up the offer. I watched his resolve crumble.

Tempted, he sent $8,000 without a second thought. Ricky looked at me in awe, but my sights were set higher.

Ricky gave me a thumbs up from across the room. I barely acknowledged him. My focus was all on the next step.

This time, he didn’t get any cashback. To unfreeze, he had to send $16,000. He trusted me by now, didn’t doubt a thing, and once again secretly used his mom’s bank card to transfer it.

He was hooked, deep in the hole, and I kept reeling him in. The bigger the loss, the harder they chase the win.

But it was still frozen. He freaked out. I told him an error had frozen the card, then coaxed him into giving me the password and verification code. There was a cool $400,000 in there.

He hesitated for a second, then caved. The numbers made my head spin. I kept my voice calm, soothing, never letting on.

The tech team moved the money to dozens of accounts in a minute, while I kept ReaperX calm, telling him my account was now frozen too, and he had to help unfreeze it or I’d call the cops.

I played the victim, told him we were in this together. He panicked, scrambling to fix it. I kept him busy while the techs did their thing.

He panicked, begging me desperately. Under my step-by-step guidance, he borrowed from every app I suggested—high-interest payday loans. Including friends and family, he borrowed $250,000 in total, all sent to me.

I sent him links, coached him through loan applications, even gave him pep talks. By the end, he was maxed out, exhausted, and utterly alone.

The huge sum set off alarms with Mr. Blake. He calmly directed the tech team, while telling me to keep ReaperX calm. This was a tightrope—one wrong move, the money would be frozen.

Mr. Blake’s voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his jaw. This was big money, high stakes. One slip, and it was over.

ReaperX kept messaging:

“Sis, I sent it. Is it done yet?”

“My mom’s calling nonstop. Hurry.”

“You’re not a scammer, right? Answer me or I’m calling the cops.”

His texts came faster, the panic rising. I could almost hear his breath hitching through the screen.

I calmly replied: “If I’m a scammer, may my whole family drop dead. System delay, haven’t gotten the money yet.”

I typed the words without blinking. It was an old trick, swearing on family. He bought it. They always do.

Minute by minute, we dragged it out to the ninth minute. Mr. Blake finally stopped directing, came over and draped his arm over my shoulder, giving me an OK sign.

The tension broke. Mr. Blake’s arm was heavy, his smile thin. I let myself breathe again, just a little.

“Go ahead and call the cops,” I replied, and blocked him.

The final message was cold, clean. I hit block, then leaned back in my chair, letting the adrenaline drain away.

Ricky leaned in and gave me a thumbs up. “That’s a hell of an oath.”

He grinned, eyes wide with admiration. The others looked at me like I’d just pulled off a magic trick.

I just smiled. He didn’t know—my whole family really is dead.

The words echoed in my head, heavy as a stone. But I kept smiling, kept playing the part.

He laughed, the scar by his eye crinkling. The people around us all flinched. Mr. Blake tossed me $16,000 in cash, looking very pleased.

The scar twisted when he laughed, a reminder of what happened to people who crossed the line. Mr. Blake handed me the cash, crisp bills in a rubber band. Everyone else looked away.

“Maya, I know talent when I see it.”

He raised his glass, a rare show of approval. I nodded, accepting the praise, but never letting my guard down.

I grinned. This haul was worth $650,000, breaking this year’s record. The reward for first place was a luxury single room—the kind with a shower and weekends off.

It was the kind of room you’d find in a cheap motel—still, it was paradise compared to the barracks. I almost let myself feel proud.

The rest were crammed dozens to a room, iron doors locked, each with a thin mattress or cot, sleeping wherever there was space, watched 24/7. If you spent too long in the bathroom, not only would you get fined, but you’d get branded.

The dorms smelled like sweat and fear. Guards patrolled the halls, cattle prods in hand. Bathroom breaks were timed. People learned to move fast, keep their heads down.

Branding meant a red-hot iron to the face, salt on the wound, festering for weeks.

The scars were badges of failure. Everyone knew what they meant. No one talked about it, but everyone remembered.

Everyone envied the top performer. When I carried my washbasin, happily walking to my single room, the guy I’d knocked out of first place stared at me like a snake.

I could feel his eyes on my back, cold and sharp. I kept my chin up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Before I came, this guy—Wesley Tran—was always number one. I heard he used to do research back in Boston, a real tech whiz. What a waste.

Wesley was tall, thin, glasses always sliding down his nose. He had the look of someone who used to believe in something. Now, he just looked tired.

As we passed, Wesley blocked my way, his voice cold in my ear: “Maya, guess which of us goes to hell first?”

He whispered it so only I could hear, breath hot against my cheek. I didn’t blink.

“You wanna send me to hell?” I shouted. Wesley’s face went white—he didn’t expect me to call him out.

My voice echoed down the hallway. Heads turned. Wesley shrank back, caught off guard. I smiled, daring him to try something.

Ricky heard, came over and slapped him. Wesley’s glasses went flying, blood trickling from his mouth. He shrank into a corner, but I could see the hate in his eyes.

The slap was loud, final. Ricky didn’t hold back. Wesley curled up, clutching his face, but his eyes never left mine. Pure hate.

I didn’t care. I even waved goodbye and headed for my single room.

I made sure to smile, slow and wide, as I shut the door behind me. Let him stew.

I asked Ricky for a pencil. He eyed me, wary—someone once tried to pick the lock with a pen, failed, and blinded a guard, so now they’re strict.

He handed it over, but not before checking it twice. “Don’t try anything stupid, Maya,” he muttered. I just shrugged.

I wrote a few names right under his nose, crumpled them into paper balls, and gave the pencil back. He looked suspicious, then finally said, “Maya, Mr. Blake’s got his eye on you. Don’t get any ideas.”

He watched me like a hawk, but in the end, he let it go. “Just keep your head down,” he warned. I nodded, all innocence.

I smiled. “This place is paradise. Why would I want to leave?”

I said it with a grin, the lie rolling off my tongue. He snorted, not buying it, but he let me be.

After Ricky left, I didn’t bother hiding from the cameras. I just lay on the bed, shook the paper balls in my hand, then spread them out and picked one. The name written there:

Lila Monroe.

The name stared up at me, sharp as a knife. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of it settle on my chest. Tomorrow, I’d start again. New mark, new game. Same old hell.