Mark's hands trembled as the heavy steel door clanged shut behind him, sealing his fate. The labyrinthine corridors of Bastille Maximum Security Prison echoed with the distant sounds of chaos—a cacophony of shouts, clashing metal, and the eerie hum of electric barriers. Convicted of a crime he didn't commit, Mark found himself thrust into the darkest corners of a dystopian society where justice was a distant memory.

The guards, indifferent to his protests of innocence, had thrown him into the fray of the most brutal punishment reserved for the damned: the Battle Royale. It was a televised spectacle, a perverse form of entertainment for the masses, where prisoners fought to the death for the promise of freedom. Mark's heart pounded as he surveyed the arena—a sprawling urban wasteland, littered with makeshift weapons and the remnants of past battles.

As the blaring horn signaled the start of the game, Mark's instincts kicked in. Survival was the only option. He sprinted towards an abandoned building, seeking cover and a moment to gather his thoughts. His mind raced back to the night of his arrest, the setup, the planted evidence. He had to stay alive, not just for himself, but to uncover the truth and clear his name.

Days blurred into each other as Mark navigated the deadly arena, scavenging for supplies and avoiding confrontations. The environment was as much an enemy as the other prisoners—booby-trapped streets, unstable structures, and the ever-present drones broadcasting the carnage to the outside world. Every encounter with another inmate was a gamble, a test of trust and desperation.

As Mark searches for anything resembling a weapon in an abandoned warehouse, he takes a moment to scan the dilapidated building. Metal rusting, wood eaten by termites, and plastic debris strewn everywhere. A far-cry from the civilised and aristocratic lifestyle he was so used to. Desperation quickly fills his state of mind, and Marks realises that the longer he stays unarmed, the less he is able to stay alive. Suddenly, a creak fills the room. Mark takes refuge behind a large but torn box as he prays for the stranger to abandon their latest endeavour. The footsteps get louder as if they were conscious of his creeping sense of dread.

Mark grits his teeth, and the sound of footsteps slowly wanes. He lifts his head above the cardboard, hoping to see the threat disappear. And then, he feels a cold hand wrap around his neck, and a sharp but broken utensil is pricked up against his back.

"Don't move!"

The voice was gruff but feminine.

Mark convinces himself that his effort to plead for his life may prove futile, but he tries anyway.

"Please! Don't kill me!" He begs.

Mark feels the sharp weapon start to push into his back. With no proof that he can, he mutters the words, "I can help!"

"No! You can't. You're just another thorn in my side, and frankly, your death is my only ticket out! Unless you can help me on the outside, you are no use to me!"

With those words, Mark may yet see the morning sun.

"No no no no, wait wait wait!" Mark pleaded desperately, grimacing from the sharp point menacing against his back. "I-I can help you, o-on the outside! I got--I got connections! I'm friends with Landon Sommers' cousin! A-and I got bank accounts! I'm worth like, a hundred grand, at least!" They weren't complete lies; it was more like he knew Landon Sommers' cousin's husband's brother (and they weren't exactly on the best terms), but it was close enough.

The stranger narrowed her eyes, jabbing the point of the weapon further against Mark's spine.

"Fuck! No, please! I can't fuckin' die here! I can't! I'm not even supposed to be in this goddamn fuckin' hellhole! I'm innocent! I was fuckin' framed! I'm not supposed to be here! Fuck!!!"

Mark was all but resigned to his fate. What a joke of a life. There was no justice here, inside the prison or outside. He could feel the tears well up in his eyes, but he wasn't going to cry. He refused to leave this godforsaken world in that way. Gritting his teeth, he swore he would take vengeance on those responsible in his afterlife -- if there was one -- and braced himself for the end of his life.

The blade pressed harder into Mark’s back and he let out a sound that was definitely not dignified.

The stranger spoke at last. Her voice was low and bored, like she had stabbed a hundred Marks before breakfast.
"You are worth a hundred grand," she repeated. "Congratulations. You are still annoying."

Mark choked on his terror. "Annoying but valuable. Valuable. Like a rare coin. Or a limited edition sneaker. You do not just throw that away."

She tilted her head. "I am tempted."

Mark whimpered. "Please. I am innocent. I was framed. I should be at home right now eating instant noodles and arguing with seventeen year olds on BattleForge Two."

"Tragic," she said. "A lost scholar of the digital arts."

Mark swallowed. "Look. If you kill me here it will be a waste. The universe will lose a future legend of mediocrity."

That earned him a blink. Not mercy. Just confusion.

Then she sighed and stepped back a few inches.
"Fine. Talk. But if you lie again I will introduce your spine to the floor."

Mark straightened very slowly. "I do not lie. I only embellish aggressively."

She gestured at him. "Start explaining."

He opened his mouth, brain racing through a collection of excuses, stories and whatever counted as charm.
But all that came out was,
"I really am not supposed to be here."

She stared.
"Then make yourself useful. Or you will leave even sooner."

Mark nodded rapidly.
"Right. Useful. I can do useful. I am practically made of usefulness."

She raised her weapon again.

"Okay. Maybe not made of it. But I can try."

And that was how Mark began the worst job interview of his life.