Metal chains hung from the ceiling in a wide circle, motionless and silent, waiting for something that hadn't started yet.

  The warehouse buzzed with chaotic noise—laughter, shouting, and the scrape of boots against concrete—but most of the men scattered around the room weren't tense or worried. They leaned casually against wooden crates, sat on metal railings, smoked cigarettes, and joked with each other because they didn't understand what was actually happening.

  They didn't know the Reaper.

  They didn't know what the Harvesting Game truly meant.

  They only knew something important was taking place, and that the people closest to the action were cheering with anticipation.

  The Reaper's voice carried easily over the background noise when he finally spoke. "Participation is optional," he said calmly. "It's only for those who are brave enough." He paused deliberately, letting the implication settle.

  "Those who choose to participate will be rewarded generously."

  That simple promise was enough to motivate action. A few men laughed and stepped forward confidently, swaggering with false bravado not because they trusted the Reaper's word, but because everyone else in the warehouse was watching their decision. Others followed behind them, glancing around nervously and taking reassurance from numbers rather than logic, because no one wanted to be excluded from potential rewards.

  The circle carved faintly into the concrete floor was larger than it had appeared from a distance, with each position clearly marked beneath a hanging chain. As the first volunteer stepped into his designated place, the chain above him dropped without any warning whatsoever.

  Click.

  The metal wrapped around his ankle and locked instantly. The man jerked in surprise, then laughed uncertainly. "The hell is this—"

  Click. Click. Click.

  More chains fell one after another as additional men filled the remaining positions, each restraint snapping shut the moment someone took their place. There was no signal, no countdown, no explanation.

  By the time hesitation and second thoughts began setting in among the remaining crowd, twenty-two men already stood bound within the circle. Takeda remained beside Arata, his body stiff as stone while his eyes stayed fixed on the chains that held the volunteers by their ankles like fishing hooks.

  "Arata," he muttered with growing unease.

  Arata didn't respond immediately because his stomach was twisting as he watched the last chain lock into place around another volunteer's leg. The men trapped inside the circle were still laughing and making jokes, but the sound had become forced and uncertain, lacking the confidence they'd displayed moments earlier.

  The Reaper's attention shifted toward them. "Two spots left," he said mildly.

  The focus of the entire warehouse snapped onto Arata and Takeda. Takeda turned sharply toward his companion. "No," he whispered with panic creeping into his voice. "We're not doing this."

  Arata looked at him steadily and said quietly, "We are."

  Takeda stared at him in disbelief. "Are you insane? There's him… and a hundred of them."

  "I know," Arata replied calmly.

  His thoughts were becoming fragmented and difficult to hold onto long enough to build anything coherent or useful. Everything felt too fast, too loud, too overwhelming to process properly.

  "If we don't step into that circle right now," he continued while forcing himself to breathe steadily, "we die now. And if we do participate in whatever this is—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "I get time to figure something out."

  Takeda's jaw tightened with frustration, but he understood the logic even if he hated it.

  They stepped forward together, and the chains above them dropped instantly.

  Click.

  The restraints locked around their ankles with the same mechanical finality. Arata flinched involuntarily as cold metal snapped tight against his skin, and the circle was complete with twenty-four participants total.

  Only now did the cheering from the watching crowd finally stop completely.

  Above them, the ceiling waited. Steel beams crossed like the ribs of some massive skeleton. Dozens of scythes hung suspended from these supports, curved blades fixed in place and angled inward toward the circle below. Some of the weapons were stained dark with dried blood, while others gleamed clean and untouched, waiting for their first use.

  Arata swallowed hard as he realized they were much closer than he'd initially thought—close enough that he could see tiny chips and scratches along the edges of individual blades, close enough that the metallic smell of dried iron reached his nostrils from the warehouse floor.

  At the far end of the building, elevated on his throne constructed from welded scrap metal and iron plating, sat the Reaper himself. He hadn't moved since the chains had locked into place, remaining motionless with white hair spilling over the back of his chair while his dark coat draped loosely around his frame. One elbow rested casually on the armrest with fingers hanging slack, and his eyes appeared half-lidded and unfocused, as if he was already bored by the proceedings.

  Then, without warning, the Reaper reached out toward a thick chain that hung beside his throne, separate from all the others. This particular restraint was older and heavier than the rest, and he wrapped it once around his wrist before pulling downward.

  Something metallic clanged overhead in response. A metal container dropped from the ceiling on a secondary line, slamming into the concrete floor with a hollow, ringing impact that made several people flinch reflexively.

  The Reaper leaned forward. He opened the container and removed a single folded sheet of paper, taking his time to unfold it completely before reading the contents once, then again for confirmation.

  A slow grin spread across his face as understanding dawned. "Interesting," he murmured to himself with genuine satisfaction.

  He stood up from his makeshift throne, and the earlier indifference burned away completely, replaced by something sharp and eager.

  "Ah," he said while laughing softly with anticipation, "I’ve wanted this one for a long time."

  He lifted the paper slightly, displaying it like a host presenting tonight's special menu. "The game we'll be playing," he announced, voice bright with excitement, "is called Majority Rule."

  A collective shiver ran through the circle of bound participants as the implications began sinking in.

  “This,” the Reaper continued, pacing a few steps along the platform, “is one of my favorites. It’s clean. Honest. No tricks.”

  He looked down at them with genuine interest for the first time.

  “Twenty-four participants,” he said happily. “Perfect.”

  A few gang members laughed appreciatively, feeding off their leader's obvious enthusiasm.

  Takeda didn't.

  Arata barely heard them.

  The chain around his ankle suddenly tightened without pulling or lifting—just cinching down like a reminder of his situation.

  It was too tight.

  He twisted his foot slightly in an instinctive but useless attempt to relieve the discomfort. The chain didn't give even a single millimeter of slack because this wasn't designed as a simple restraint—it was a symbol of ownership.

  Panic surged through him, hot and immediate, making his chest feel constricted while his hands seemed wrong, too light and disconnected from the rest of his body. He experienced the sudden, irrational urge to sit down and curl forward protectively around his ankle, as if that might somehow matter or help his situation.

  It wouldn't change anything at all.

  “This game is simple,” the Reaper said, still smiling. “There will be five rounds. No extension.”

  A large screen flickered to life behind him, casting cold artificial light across the warehouse interior while displaying the current status.

  MAJORITY RULE

  TOTAL PARTICIPANTS: 24

  REMAINING ROUNDS: 5

  Worried murmurs began spreading through both the participants and the watching crowd.

  "During each round," the Reaper continued with obvious satisfaction, "you will be permitted to cast a single vote targeting the participant of your choice."

  Metal panels slid up from the concrete floor directly in front of every trapped person, revealing simple keypads with minimalist designs. The interfaces had no labels beyond a grid of numbers, each one corresponding to someone's specific position within the circle.

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  Arata stared down at his keypad as the numbers seemed to blur together. His pulse was beating so loudly in his ears that it threatened to drown out everything else happening around him. He wiped his palm against his pants without realizing it, bringing his hand away damp with nervous sweat.

  “You may vote for anyone,” the Reaper added lightly. “Excluding yourselves, obviously.”

  “The participant with the lowest number of votes will be harvested.”

  Someone in the circle scoffed dismissively. "That's it? Just a popularity contest?"

  The Reaper tilted his head slightly. “Yes.”

  Another voice called out more sharply, "What happens if there's a tie?"

  The Reaper's smile widened. “If there’s a tie,” he said pleasantly, “they all get harvested.”

  Complete silence slammed down over the warehouse. Takeda's fingers slowly curled into tight fists while Arata felt him lean a fraction closer without realizing it.

  "And when you say harvested, you mean—" one of the gang members started to ask.

  The Reaper snapped his fingers.

  One chain that had been hanging empty near his throne suddenly went completely taut, shooting upward with tremendous speed. It moved fast enough to create a whistling sound as it cut through the air, fast enough that the metal became a blur until it stopped just inches away from the suspended scythes.

  The sound of metal screaming against maximum tension echoed throughout the warehouse like a warning. Arata felt his stomach drop as his vision narrowed with understanding, and the full reality of their situation crashed over him like a physical weight.

  The Reaper rested his chin thoughtfully in his hand, eyes now shining with anticipation.

  “You’ll see.”

  Arata's breathing pattern broke completely—too fast, too shallow, impossible to slow down or control properly. This wasn't a threat or a bluff designed to intimidate them.

  This was real.

  Not a threat. Not a warning.

  Five rounds.

  Lowest votes die.

  He felt very small.

  “Round one starts now,” the Reaper said, delighted.

  “You can cast your votes.”

  ***

  ROUND ONE

  The keypads illuminated with soft light, and the mood among the participants shifted dramatically. Gang members began glancing at each other with renewed confidence as grins crept across their faces and shoulders visibly relaxed.

  "Well," someone muttered, "I guess it really does pay to be popular around here."

  "Just vote strategically," another added with casual advice. "Don't do anything stupid."

  Takeda leaned toward Arata, keeping his voice low and urgent. "We should vote for each other—that way we can give each other votes and minimize the risk of either one of us getting eliminated."

  Arata nodded because the strategy was obvious and logical. If they voted for each other, they could ensure neither of them ended up with the dangerously low vote counts that would lead to elimination.

  The countdown timer began. Arata carefully entered Takeda's participant number while Takeda entered Arata's number in return.

  Around the circle, the gang members voted with casual confidence. Some made jokes about their choices, others whispered quick consultations with their neighbors, and a few appeared thoughtful as their eyes moved between allies, weighing loyalty.

  The timer reached zero with a soft electronic chime.

  Nothing happened for approximately half a second, creating a moment of false hope.

  Then three chains snapped taut simultaneously.

  Three gang members positioned at different points around the circle froze mid-laugh as they realized what was happening.

  “Wait—”

  “Hey, what the—”

  “Hold on, this isn’t—”

  The chains yanked upward with tremendous force, ripping the men off their feet instantly and launching them toward the ceiling like broken marionettes. Their screams cut off abruptly as the acceleration crushed air from their lungs and rendered them incapable of making sound.

  They collided with the suspended scythes with wet impacts. The blades didn't need to swing or move because they were positioned perfectly for their grisly purpose. Sharp steel met human flesh with horrible efficiency, and blood sprayed across the support beams in dark patterns.

  Something that no longer resembled a complete human body fell back down to the concrete floor with sounds that would haunt the survivors forever.

  Takeda immediately turned away while gagging violently. Several gang members stared upward in stunned silence, trying to process what they'd just witnessed. Then one of them broke into high, nervous laughter that sounded more like hysteria than amusement.

  "Holy shit," he said with forced bravado, "I guess those guys just weren't popular enough to survive."

  The Reaper sighed with returning boredom, as if the spectacular deaths had already lost his interest. "Three participants shared the lowest vote count and have been eliminated accordingly," he announced.

  The screen updated to reflect their new reality.

  MAJORITY RULE

  TOTAL PARTICIPANTS: 21

  REMAINING ROUNDS: 4

  Arata realized his hands were shaking.

  He forced them still.

  ***

  ROUND TWO

  The atmosphere within the warehouse changed completely as the reality of their situation became undeniable. No one was making jokes anymore, and the earlier confidence had evaporated entirely.

  The keypads illuminated again with their cold light, signaling the beginning of another round.

  Takeda swallowed hard, his voice emerging cracked and uncertain. “This doesn’t stop when we die, does it?”

  Arata didn't respond.

  Around them, tension crept sideways instead of upward. Some participants started engaging in desperate whispered conversations, trading information and making promises that would probably be broken within minutes. Others stared at Arata and Takeda with open resentment and growing hostility.

  "This whole situation isn't fair," someone hissed with barely controlled anger. "It was supposed to be them."

  “Yeah,” another muttered. “The kids.”

  “They’re the reason we’re here.”

  Several voices rose louder as frustration boiled over into accusations.

  “This was meant to punish intruders!”

  “That wasn’t the deal!”

  At the edges of the warehouse, the watching crowd's reactions split into distinct groups. Newer faces—recent recruits and casual hangers-on—stood frozen with pale complexions, watching the blood drip from the ceiling like something simultaneously sacred and deeply wrong.

  The veterans, however, displayed different reactions entirely. Some leaned back with arms crossed, shaking their heads with cynical amusement. "Idiots," one muttered with disdain. "Walking into that circle like pigs heading to slaughter."

  "Greed always gets you killed faster than bullets," another observed with the wisdom of experience.

  Inside the circle of participants, one man reached his breaking point completely. He was shaking with full-body tremors, teeth chattering audibly, eyes darting frantically from chain to chain as if the restraints might suddenly loosen if he stared hard enough.

  "This isn't right at all," he said loudly, far too loudly for discretion. “I—I can’t do this.”

  Several heads turned.

  "I have a family waiting for me at home," he continued with his voice cracking from strain. "I have children and a wife who depend on me. This wasn't what I signed up for when I came here. What the hell is this supposed to be?!"

  He took a step backward in a futile attempt to distance himself from the horror, then another step as panic overrode rational thought. The chain attached to his ankle stretched to accommodate the movement, but only briefly.

  Then—CLANG.

  The sudden tension yanked him completely off balance, and he hit the concrete floor hard with air exploding from his lungs as the chain reached its maximum limit just a couple of feet from where he'd started.

  The entire warehouse went absolutely still as everyone processed what they'd just witnessed.

  The fallen man scrambled desperately on hands and knees, panic completely overtaking any sense of dignity or self-preservation. When he looked up and saw the Reaper staring directly at him with obvious annoyance, he froze completely.

  A dark stain began spreading down the front of his pants as his body betrayed him.

  For a split second, no one reacted.

  Then explosive laughter erupted.

  "Look at him!"

  "He actually pissed himself!"

  "How pathetic can you get!"

  Cruel insults filled the air as people found an outlet for their fear and desperation. The Reaper observed this display with growing boredom, then sighed heavily and snapped his fingers.

  The chain attached to the terrified man jerked upward with just enough force to flip him upside down, leaving him hanging by his ankle as blood rushed to his head. Tears streamed freely down his face while broken sobs escaped his throat, and his shirt fell toward his shoulders, exposing his torso completely.

  "Please," he cried with desperate pleading, "please don't do this—I didn't mean to—"

  The Reaper waved a dismissive hand, already losing interest in the spectacle.

  As everyone had expected, there was a death this round.

  No one had voted for him.

  The familiar chime rang out across the warehouse, followed immediately by the screaming sound of chain under maximum tension.

  Arata turned his head away before the blades hit.

  He had a family.

  MAJORITY RULE

  TOTAL PARTICIPANTS: 20

  REMAINING ROUNDS: 3

  ***

  ROUND THREE

  The Reaper slowly stood up from his throne, and the simple movement alone drew every eye in the warehouse toward his elevated position.

  He leaned forward with renewed interest flickering across his previously bored expression.

  “Before we proceed,” he said, “I’d like to adjust the rules.”

  The screen flickered again.

  ROUND THREE — SPECIAL CONDITION

  MOST VOTES = ELIMINATED

  The warehouse erupted into chaos as the implications became clear.

  "What the hell?!"

  "That's complete bullshit!"

  "You can't just change the rules in the middle—"

  Takeda turned to Arata with eyes wide and wet with fear. "If they all decide to vote for us now—"

  Arata stared at the screen with growing dread as the Reaper watched him closely with obvious satisfaction. The man was clearly enjoying this moment of revelation, and his smile had returned with full intensity.

  “I want to see how our little intruders behave when numbers turn against them,” the Reaper explained with clinical interest.

  Takeda's breathing became irregular and panicked. "They'll all vote for us now. Every single one of them."

  Arata felt it then.

  Real fear.

  Not just of dying, but of being completely cornered with no possible escape route available.

  The keypads lit up again with their soft glow, signaling that voting could begin.

  No one moved initially, as if hoping the situation might somehow resolve itself. Then one of the gang members laughed loudly and sharply, breaking the paralysis.

  “Finally,” he said. “This shit is all because of them.”

  Other participants nodded in agreement, smiled with anticipation, and began entering their votes with renewed purpose and direction.

  Takeda's hands shook visibly as he stared at his keypad. "We can't escape this situation. There's no way out."

  Arata closed his eyes as the full weight of their circumstances settled over him. For a brief moment, he looked exactly the way the Reaper wanted him to look—completely overwhelmed and utterly trapped.

  The countdown timer continued its relentless march toward zero while the Reaper leaned forward with obvious amusement, savoring every second of their despair.

  The timer hit zero with its familiar electronic chime.