You’re The Man

Ethan Pattinson didn’t sleep that night. Not that he had much of a choice. The city was alive in ways it shouldn’t be—neon lights slicing through the thick, acrid smoke, drones humming overhead like a thousand watchful bees, and the distant rumble of LDC Corp’s patrols moving through the streets below. From the window of the abandoned loft he’d been hiding in, he could see the city like a wound, raw and glowing with fire and electricity, and he hated it with every fiber of his being.

It had started three weeks ago. The anonymous envelope, delivered without signature, containing nothing but a black card with a single line in silver print:

“You have been selected. Prepare.”

He had laughed. Then stared at the walls as the reality sunk in. LDC Corp didn’t make mistakes. They didn’t choose people randomly. He knew why he had been picked. He had seen the system too closely, touched its circuits, walked its corridors, and for one fleeting, fatal moment, he had questioned it.

Now, tonight, the final countdown was beginning. The thirty-day event, broadcast live worldwide, marking the twentieth anniversary of a tradition built on fear, death, and control. And he, Ethan Pattinson, was the centerpiece.

The sound of glass scraping against the floor jolted him. His heart raced. He had been alone in this loft for three nights, hidden from the city’s prying eyes, and he thought he had secured it. But in this world, nothing was ever secure.

A voice boomed through the building’s speakers—mechanical, smooth, familiar.

“Good evening, Mr. Pattinson. I hope you’re prepared.”

The voice made him stiffen. Calm, polite, almost human—but it carried the weight of a man who could destroy everything he loved with a single command. Mr. Hogan. The Chairman. The architect of terror. The man whose face the world had seen only in towering holograms, smiling down from corporate towers like a god with a cruel sense of humor.

Ethan swallowed hard. He could hear it now: the low hum of surveillance drones starting their circuits, sweeping the streets, searching. In thirty minutes, the gates would open. The city, which had already been alive with controlled chaos, would become his arena.

He grabbed the bag he had prepared weeks in advance, the bag he hadn’t touched since he realized it would matter. Inside: a crowbar, a pocket knife, a coil of thin wire, a map of the city streets—marked with every weak point, every blind corner, every potential escape route he had memorized over countless hours. His hands shook as he checked the contents one more time.

A drone’s spotlight swept across the building. Ethan flattened himself against the floor, listening to the mechanical whirring grow closer and then retreat. He had a thirty-minute head start, courtesy of LDC Corp’s rules—they liked the spectacle to feel “fair,” though fairness in a city designed for death was a joke.

Thirty minutes, thirty days, one man.

He whispered her name under his breath.

“Iris…”

His sister’s face flickered in his memory. Seventeen years old, eyes wide with defiance, lips trembling as she dared to question the system she was too young to understand. Ethan had promised himself he would protect her, even in death. That promise was now a weight in his chest heavier than the bag of tools he carried. She had disappeared five years ago after challenging LDC publicly, a cautionary tale broadcast to the masses. He had learned too late that protesting was a death sentence.

The elevator door opened with a metallic chime. Ethan had planned for this. He slid back into the shadows, letting a pair of drones sweep past, their sensors trained on every movement, every flicker of heat. The streets below were alive, filled with the silhouettes of soldiers, hunters, and automated patrol units. And above it all, the hologram of Hogan appeared in the sky, smiling, his voice cascading through every screen and speaker in the city.

“Run well, Mr. Pattinson. The world deserves a good show.”

Ethan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Every step he took from the loft was measured, calculated. One wrong move, and the network would trace him, tag him, and he would be dead before the first hour ended.

The city felt different now. Not just alive, but hungry. Streets twisted into impossible angles, alleys that seemed safe led to traps, and corners that seemed empty held waiting hunters. He moved through them like a ghost, sliding under fences, ducking through abandoned storefronts, keeping his breathing shallow.

And then he saw them. The first of LDC’s “special units,” soldiers in black tactical armor, their faces hidden behind reflective visors. They didn’t hesitate. They were everywhere, a wave of precision and lethal force. Behind them, a robotic tracker stepped forward, metal limbs moving with terrifying efficiency, sensors glowing red.

Ethan pressed himself against a wall, heart pounding, and remembered something Noor Halvorsen had told him years ago, before the selection notice arrived. “The system relies on fear more than force. Let them see you where they don’t expect it.”

He darted again, faster this time, twisting into a narrow passage between two collapsed buildings. Sparks flew as a drone’s searchlight grazed his shoulder. The heat of the city, the smell of smoke and metal, the distant screams from districts already cleared—it all pressed down on him, almost suffocating, but he forced himself forward.

By the time the first hour ended, Ethan had already crossed three districts, leaving behind a trail of false signals, false routes, and whatever small confusion he could manufacture. He didn’t stop to think about exhaustion, only about the next second, the next turn, the next decision.

And above all, Hogan watched. Always. His holographic face, the calm smile, the infinite control. The city was his stage. Ethan Pattinson was the performance.

Ethan ducked into an abandoned subway station, breathing hard, listening to the sound of automated hunters approaching. He pressed his back against the cold wall, checking the map. Only twenty-nine more days. Twenty-nine more days of being hunted, of running, of thinking, of surviving. And if he made it—just maybe—he could expose the truth behind LDC Corp, the Game, and the people who cheered for death as entertainment.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, imagining Iris. The memory sharpened his focus instead of breaking it. He was not a pawn. He was not entertainment. He was a man. And for the first time since he had received the black card, Ethan Pattinson felt like he had a chance.

The lights flickered. A faint warning tone sounded. The hunt had truly begun.

And somewhere in the towering holographic presence above, Mr. Hogan smiled.

“Run well, Mr. Pattinson. The world deserves a good show.”

Ethan took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the crowbar, and stepped into the unknown.