Their final opponent was silent: a player known only as HAWK-Ø, a veteran with a reputation for flawless timing. Hawk circled, scanning for Ash’s weakness. They exchanged measured strikes—sparks and shouts—until Hawk lunged for a decisive stab. Ash expected it and rolled, dragging Hawk’s momentum into the molten rim. Hawk’s tag blinked out.
— The End
By the end of the first hour the leaderboard was already thinning. Ash learned three things fast: conserve power cells, watch the dome’s pulse to predict shifts, and never trust a friendly shout. In a narrow maintenance corridor, Ash met KIRI-2, a wiry player with a grin and an antenna braided with colorful threads. Kiri offered a truce: share resources, swap intel on shifting tiles, and bait the sentry drones that patrolled the center. Ash hesitated—alliances in Survival Race were ephemeral—but accepted. Together they ambushed a squad hoarding EMP packs, then split the spoils without dispute.
They reached a rooftop garden where the dome’s light softened. For thirty minutes they traded stories—how the Race stole people at dawn, how some joined to pay debts, how others raced for thrills. Kiri’s laugh echoed off masonry. It felt human. It was also dangerously naive. Late in the second hour, as the dome narrowed and platforms zipped closer, a timed beacon blinked from beneath a supply crate. Kiri pressed it with a careless thumb. It wasn’t a beacon—it was a pressure detonator. Ash had the clearer head: they dove, shoved Kiri aside, and took the blast full on. Dust, sparks, and screaming sirens. Kiri’s tag disappeared.