The watch woke Emil with a buzz like a fly trapped in a jar. Cold metal against his wrist. A blue number pulsed inside the glass: A7577. Then words, small and clinical: INVITATION ACCEPT? 00:59. He read it twice because it felt polite. Because everything in Pomona Park pretended to be polite until it ate you. The hallway at Marigold Hills smelled like lemon disinfectant and old paper. Outside, wind stole the last of the maple leaves. Inside, the watch hummed insistently, a market-watch: whatever happened in the Pod would be watched. Someone always put money on the shape of you. He clicked accept. The world went cotton-soft. The corridor light smeared. Then a door clicked open and he stepped through. The room was wrong in a way meant to be wrong. Acid-pink walls, the kind of paint used on motel carpeting to make cheap rugs look cheerful. A mobile of plastic moons swung silently. Rows of dolls sat on a low shelf, their dresses a museum of bad taste—lace, satin, something that smelled faintly of burnt sugar. The nursery light was a single bulb behind frosted glass. Shadows pooled in the corners like promises. A mechanical voice, bright and unrepentant, read the rules. "Welcome, player A7577. You are in the Pink Room. The test: HATE. Duration: ninety seconds. Choose the one you hate. Speak it aloud. If you choose correctly, you advance. If you choose incorrectly, you will be consumed by your selection. Please select." Emil