Hour 25

As Rico left Emi, he passed by a room titled Aleksandr Medvedev (Ah-lehk-SAHN-dhr Med-vie-dev). Sasha sat in a quaint wooden chair painting on a large, impressive canvas. He hadn't painted in years, hadn't had the time, but somehow now when time had been the most valuable currency, he found some to spare. His common room had been equipped with an artistic setup just like how he used to have in his younger years, and it had called to him. Even though he bought a heal from the hours of the people who had attacked him at the end of the race his hand still shook, his skill rusted over with age. His passion for art had been stolen 14 years ago when his daughter Milana, only 16, had been killed by a drunk driver. Not a day went by that he didn't think about her, think about the woman she would've become by now. Emi had looked so much like her; her eyes were the wrong color, and her nose was a bit sharper, but the way her lips were set into her feminine jawline and the flow of her blonde hair were identical to Milana's. Maybe that's why he had felt so comfortable asking her for help? The pictures hanging on the wall of his common room showcased his life; one of the first ones was a black and white photo of him playing on a young ice hockey team. Another was his marriage to his wife, and the next was the birth of his daughter, Milana. There were pictures of his paintings, but those abruptly ceased after one of a funeral. As Sasha finished his painting, a beautiful portrait of Milana as he remembered her, he decided what his wish was, what it had to be. His wish was to live in a world where Milana hadn't died at 16 and got to live a long, fulfilling life.

In a room with the bronze nameplate "Margaux Beaulieu" (Mar-go Bow-lyoo), a woman in her late 40s sat in a chair sipping a mug of café au lait. She had long hair that used to be brown but had lost its intensity years ago and now began to detain waves of silver that weaved their way through columns of further expiring color. She felt like an imposter, like a villain as she sat in her elegant room, a room that was too exquisite for her. She had fewer wrinkles than most women her age, but the ones she did have more than compensated for that, deeply cutting through the contours of her face in conventionally unattractive curves. Her clothes were simple and faded, her shoes worn and falling apart, just like her. The pictures hanging on her wall that told her story forced her to relive the memories, to remember everything. She had been born in Toulouse, France, but had spent most of her adult life in Luxembourg, helping run her family-owned grocery store. She married a wealthy realtor early in life at the behest of her parents in hopes of getting them out of debt, but they only ever saw his refined side, his mask, she had to live with his true nature. She still remembered the first time he slapped her; it had been painful, but the utter shock had been what froze her. After being mentally and verbally abused by him for years she filed for divorce, but her mother and father weren't supportive, quite the opposite. After losing such a steady source of revenue, they disowned her, and she soon found herself battling a drug addiction, then on the streets. Though she had gotten clean she had still been homeless for the last 11 years, drifting from city to city, a whisper in the night and a ghost of what she could've been. She had killed so many people it was hard to think straight, hard to identify with the fact she missed the streets in comparison to the cruel game she was stuck in. Now, though, she was presented with a wish, something to fight for, a purpose. What was her wish, though? She had many wishes, but they changed daily and never went beyond a hot shower, soft bed, or nice food. She had all of that at this moment, and while it was nice, she still felt incomplete. Thinking back, she had seen the worst humanity had to offer, had been jaded from her neglectful parents and abusive husband, and even the uncaring public she was forced to coexist with. A memory flashed in her mind though, one represented by the most recent picture on her wall, a little girl giving her a €10 note as she sat cold and alone on a snowy street corner. The girls mother had stepped forward and Margaux was sure she was going to take the money back, but instead she bent down and hugged her daughter, complimenting her generosity. Tears had blinded Margaux's vision, the sight of such a loving dynamic she didn't know. She set her empty coffee mug down with a determination she forgot she was capable of and decided her wish would be to reshape the world into one where everyone had loving and supportive parents.

Across from Margaux's room was one named "Akachukwu Abebe" (Ah-kah-choo-kwoo Uh-bee-bee). In it sat a young man no older than 20 with skin as black as midnight and eyes that were a deep brown, almost amber in the right lighting. He wore clothes so faded it was hard to guess what their original colors were and short, neatly trimmed hair. He was currently seated cross-legged on the fine carpet of his floor that was stitched with his village's emblem, eating from pottery that held a pile of Matungulu fruit, his favorite childhood snake. The fruit was small and red with a long body, not too much larger than a big strawberry, but had a tangy, almost savory taste. As he used his calloused hands to pick the flesh from the peel, he reminisced on what the pictures adorning his wall displayed. He had been born in a small village in South Africa just below where the border touched Zimbabwe to strict but loving parents and 6 older brothers. Life wasn't easy, but his family unit had been nothing short of fantastic, instilling the very essence of "do good, get good" into him at a young age, and while they had been financially poor, they had been abundantly rich in love. Since his village had always been impoverished, he had only been around modern appliances a few times while visiting the inner city for work with his brothers, so right now it was nothing less than fascinating to be in a single space surrounded by such aggressive modern conveniences like air conditioning, running water and TV's. As he finished his fruit, he remembered how he had always dreamed of going to the University of Cape Town. His oldest brother, Sizwe (S-EE-Z-w-eh), had been the most supportive of him when others in the village had laughed. Unfortunately, Sizwe had gotten involved with a local gang to help pay his parent's bills and was brutally killed over a land dispute of rival territory. Akachukwu had been lost and had felt like his body had been on autopilot for months after losing him. Now, this ugly game had offered him a chance, a once-in-a-lifetime wish to change the world. He politely set his dish aside and laid on his back, gazing at the pattern of his detailed ceiling much like he used to gaze at the stars with Sizwe. Originally, his wish was to bring Sizwe back, but his thoughts kept pestering him about the violent gangs that had ruined the inner city, even extending their unsavory reach to his lonely village. He had then thought about using his wish to get rid of all gangs in the world, but after thinking on it more pragmatically, he decided he would reshape the world into one without any crime at all, one where people could live in peaceful harmony and never have to endure what he had.

In a room a few doors down named Jeon Sang-Wook (Chun-Sung-Ook) a man coughed up blood into his bathroom sink. He slammed his fists down in anger onto the granite countertop as he thought, "I just need a little more time!" He was in his early 50s, had sharp black hair with a faint receding hairline, and wore doctors' surgical scrubs. His bushy eyebrows hooked the skin of his forehead down with unmistakable anger as he stared at his pale face in the mirror. Those damn pictures on the wall had awoken memories, memories he didn't have time to consider but was forced to anyway. He had been born in South Korea in the province of Andong to a family of wealthy doctors. He was destined to follow in his father's footsteps from a young age, even made it into SNU (Seoul National University) at the young age of 16, and was considered a child prodigy. Nothing he could maintain, achieve, or realize was up to his father's standards of performance, though; he was constantly denigrated and shackled to life in the shadow of his father's expectations. While his father was an outstanding doctor when it came to his abilities and expertise, he would only see patients with money and refuse to even look at those without. Later in life, his father contracted pancreatic cancer and died 1 year later even with the best care possible. By then Sang-Wook had already made a name for himself, even opened up a clinic in his own name, but was soon cursed with his father's genetics and succumbed to early onset pancreatic cancer. It wasn't fair, he had done his utmost to be the opposite of his father, to be the most charitable man possible, even sacrificing potential relationships and hefty salaries in the pursuit of healing. Now, he was dying. The same disease that had ravaged his father's body ate away at his own, it just wasn't fair. Now that he had nothing left to lose, now that there was nothing left to believe in, this game pushed him far beyond his normal quiet and humble nature. He rationalized that he could cure his cancer if he won, which made it easier to kill people in the beginning, but as the games went on, his reasoning shifted. Witnessing firsthand all the unfairness these games birthed, his wish became more altruistic, deciding to use it to reshape the world into one devoid of sickness or disease, a world without pain. Seeing his wish as pure led him to justify his killing, to bleed away all his mercy like the blood currently running down the drain of his sink.

Rico's room was farthest right at the very end of the corridor, and as he entered it, his name read, "Ricardo Guzman." The pictures that hung on his wall were a view into a life most couldn't comprehend. At the age of 14, he joined the cartel his family was part of; at the age of 15, he was already flying their flag and standing in front of dead bodies. At 16, he was ordered to kill his father and uncle, who had been found guilty of siphoning drug money into their own pockets. After he had proven himself by dispatching of them he rose through the ranks and became a trusted member. What had been exciting at first had become stale, though, while he did take pride in his skills and enjoyed ending lives, something was missing. This game had been his answer, though; he was bored of killing weaklings and wanted to kill to survive, to be pushed to his limits and then beyond them. He hadn't cared about a wish at first, but now he knew what he wanted. He wanted to resurrect all who died and play the game again, then win and play it again. And again. And again.

Just as Emi's phone had caught her attention, everyone's phone rang at this moment. They were about to get the rules of the final game, one entitled "Finders Keepers."