Chapter 4: The Test

The bald man swept his gaze over the car, making sure everyone was in their seats. With a sharp nod, his team fanned out, blocking every exit. The crowd shrank back, tension ratcheting higher.

The men in black stopped at each row, dropping a thick questionnaire onto every tray table. The paper was stiff, questions printed in bold, official font. The thump of each clipboard felt like a verdict.

A teenager with a nose ring glared at the nearest agent. "Why should I answer a questionnaire?"

The bald man’s reply was deep and cold: "For your safety. Something has slipped in."

The car went silent, except for the squeak of sneakers and the nervous rustle of paper.

People started grumbling, their nerves fraying. "What thing? Explain yourself! We’re not filling out anything until you tell us what’s going on."

A woman in yoga pants stood, hands on hips. A businessman nearby demanded, "Who are you people? What right do you have to monitor us?"

The bald man’s jaw tightened. "No comment."

His men lined the aisles, arms folded, eyes sweeping every face. No one dared move, not even for a sip of water.

When a man tried to push past, one of the agents stepped in his way: "Please cooperate with the questionnaire."

The guy tried to shoulder past, but the agent dropped him with a gut punch—fast, practiced, like he'd done it a hundred times. The man doubled over, gasping, and slumped against a seat. Everyone stared in horrified silence.

An old man in a battered Army cap called out, "Son, don’t try to fight these people. Look how they stand—they’re professionals."

I watched the agents, noticing their stances—feet apart, always covering each other’s backs. It was like something out of a SWAT documentary. This was way beyond my old security gig.

The crowd got the message. We had no choice but to fill out the forms.

But the questions themselves sparked fresh panic. A college guy frowned at his clipboard, voice shaking: "What kind of survey is this? These questions are messed up."

My own hands shook, creasing the paper as I gripped it. I stared at the questions, heart pounding. This was no ordinary survey—this was a test, and I had no idea what the right answers were.

The first question glared up at me:

Question one: Which of the following pictures do you think looks the most delicious?

A. A young and beautiful woman.

B. A baby with a sweet smile.

C. A hunched-over old man.

D. A cute orange tabby cat.

I stared at the pictures, my pulse thundering in my ears. I had a terrible feeling that one wrong answer could get me killed.