Tornike Kvitatiane

Mornings at the Game Master always began the same way: with heavy curtains, letting in only thin slivers of light, and a sense of oppressive anticipation. The rules were as simple as a knife blade: behave as usual. Any deviation from the usual behavior pattern—excessive thoughtfulness, sudden withdrawal, or, God forbid, a nervous laugh—could cost you your "light" status. And becoming a "dark" meant not just losing, but becoming an outcast, whose actions were now aimed at destroying the game from within.

Alice was one of the first to enter the common room. Her head was buzzing like a transformer vault, and gray spots swam before her eyes. She tried to walk straight, but every movement sent a throbbing pain through her temples. She sat down in her usual chair, folded her hands in her lap, and stared at one point, trying to focus.

She knew what it looked like. Usually she was the life of the party, the one starting discussions and making jokes. Today, she resembled a ghost.

"Are you feeling unwell?" a low, slightly hoarse voice asked.

Alice shuddered. Tornike appeared next to her, his steps silently across the carpet. He was one of the few people she trusted. Tornike was a "light" person to the core, and his integrity was almost fanatical. He would never accept the offer to become a "dark" person, even if his life were on the line.

Alice looked up at him. Her eyes watered, and she involuntarily narrowed them, which in the dim living room looked like a suspicious, conspiratorial squint.

"I just didn't get enough sleep," she managed to say, trying to make her voice sound as natural as possible. But it came out dry and clipped.

Tornike perched on the edge of the adjacent chair, studying her face carefully. His gaze was sharp, professional. He searched for signs of "darkness," and to Alice's horror, he found them.

"Or did you accept the invitation to become dark?" he joked.