I look, and as I turn my head, I see the red woman and the green man have done the same. As soon as we’re all looking, the blond man crumples. Blood pours from his nose, his ears, his eyes. He’s dead.

“He failed,” the voice whispers in our minds.

Fuck, I think. I should think more. Feel more. I can’t—all I can concentrate on is making sure that it’s not me next.

“Look forward.”

We stare at the screens again. More images flash, even quicker this time, so that I couldn’t explain them even if I wanted to. I hear retching beside me. Why do they affect them more than me? My stomach hurts, my head hurts, and I feel pressure behind my eyes, but I’m still looking.

Don’t look away.

The voice starts asking me questions. I’m to blink once for yes and twice for no. The man doesn’t ask me about what I—Tila—have done for the Ratel. Instead they’re hypothetical questions. Some are difficult: Would you kill your childhood pet for X sum of money? Would you risk your life to save a drowning child? What about a drowning person who wronged you? Some are beyond asinine: If there were ice cream and sprinkles on that white coffee table right now, would you add the sprinkles?

I answer them all without thinking too hard. There are hidden layers and messages in this, impacting us all in ways we can’t anticipate. Feints and jabs before hooks and crosses. I don’t even try to outsmart them. There’s no way to.

The scarlet-haired girl goes next. Falls right out of her chair. Her red hair perfectly matches the blood.

This is insane, I think distantly. This is absolutely insane. I wonder if I’ll be the next person to die.

Maybe this is all a trap. These are people hopeful of moving up in the Ratel, and maybe the King already knows that we’re not worthy. He’s here to catch us in lies, pick us off one by one. Perhaps it’s his idea of sport.

Maybe he wants to discover whether we’ve betrayed him before he kills us.

The green man is nervous, sweat dripping down his temples. I’m surprisingly calm. I must look unafraid to him, and that makes me feel braver. I stand, staring at him. His pupils behind the darkened glasses dilate as he listens to his own instruction. Then he rushes me.

He grabs my arm, hard enough to stop the blood flow. I try to jerk out of his grip but he only holds on tighter. The man’s face is red, twisted with rage.

He means to kill me.

“Kill him,” the voice whispers in my mind. “Or be killed.”