The Path of Assassin

Joon-ho found himself alone, separated from his teammates and venturing deeper into the unknown. Just moments ago, they'd all reached the cave's inner chamber together, only to face a new twist—a split in the path. Five narrow tunnels had opened before them, each marked with a team member's name as if urging them to face whatever lay ahead on their own.

The decision to split had been unsettling. Until now, every challenge had been about unity, working in sync to get past each obstacle, relying on one another's strengths. And yet, here he was, walking a path meant for him alone. As he glanced back, the distant shadows of his teammates faded away, each moving down their designated passage, leaving him to navigate the tunnel solo.

A faint, steady hum of LED strip lights lined the walls, casting a cold, sterile glow in an otherwise darkened, narrow corridor. The path was cramped, barely allowing him to stretch out his arms as if funnelling him forward, step by cautious step. He could still feel the weight of the note he'd slipped into his pocket, its message of patience and precision lingering in his mind. The words had stirred something in him, a reminder of the strategist he could be—quick, focused, and adaptive.

The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional drip of water somewhere far off. The usual clamour and urgency of racing had dissipated, replaced by an eerie quiet that forced him into his thoughts. He wondered what was waiting at the end of this path. More importantly, he wondered why he'd been separated from his team.

For the first time since the race began, Joon-ho felt the full impact of the instructors' designs. Every obstacle, every twist had pushed them toward something more than physical endurance. Maybe this was the final test, a challenge to confront himself as much as his competitors.

Joon-ho's steps came to a halt as he caught sight of a new signboard. Its bold, printed letters pierced the dim corridor, and as he read the words, an uneasy feeling settled in his gut.

"If you're reading this, you're probably too slow."

He frowned, rereading it to make sure he hadn't misread. Too slow? He shook his head, scepticism creeping in. How could he be "too slow"? There hadn't been any sort of countdown or a signal telling him to hurry. All he'd had was that strange note about patience and precision. So why did this feel like a jab, as if it knew something he didn't?

The sign was hauntingly direct, almost personal like it had been placed there just for him. The words echoed in his mind, gnawing at him with an irrational sense of urgency. He couldn't help but feel… watched. He took a few more hesitant steps forward, but a subtle shift came over him. Even without consciously deciding to, he'd begun moving faster. His breathing quickened, and his pace grew sharper.

"What am I doing?" he muttered, his gaze darting to the dimly lit tunnel ahead. There was no reason to rush, yet the words on the sign wouldn't let him shake the feeling that he was somehow being tested, that a misstep here could cost him more than he realized.

It was maddening. A part of him wanted to turn back, to prove that he wasn't rattled by a mere sign, but every inch of his being seemed to reject the thought. The instructors had to have placed it there, but why? The unsettling thing was the way it got under his skin so effortlessly, leaving him with a nagging doubt, the idea that perhaps he was moving too slowly. Each second that ticked by felt heavier than the last, like the longer he hesitated, the further he was falling behind.

The tunnel seemed to stretch endlessly before him, and he was struck with an irrational urge to break into a sprint. But what would he even be running toward? Or away from? The silence, the dim glow of the lights, the constant reminder of that word "strike" from his note—it all mixed, sending his mind racing.

"Alright, focus," he muttered under his breath, gripping his fists to steady himself. "Patience. Precision."

He repeated the words, trying to ground himself, to push back against whatever game the instructors were playing.

But as he resumed his path, the seed of doubt had already taken root, quickening his pace as he delved further into the shadows, unsure whether he was racing against a clock he couldn't see—or himself.

The deeper Joon-ho ventured, the more oppressive the tunnel seemed to become. The narrow path seemed to close in on him, and the dim LED strips flickered with just enough inconsistency to keep him on edge. Shadows twisted along the walls, stretching and retracting with every step, like something was lurking just beyond his line of sight.

His footsteps echoed louder now, ricocheting off the stone walls in a rhythm that matched his increasingly rapid heartbeat. The air felt thick, pressing against his chest as if it weighed its own. Every sound seemed amplified—his breathing, the scuff of his shoes, the barely-there hum of the lights overhead. Even his heartbeat drummed louder, merging with the silence around him until it was all he could hear.

The last words on the signboard flashed in his mind:

"Too slow."

What did it mean? Why had it unsettled him so deeply? His logical mind insisted it was just a tactic, something designed to mess with his head. But here, in this narrow, dimly lit corridor, reason felt fragile. Doubt gnawed at him, and his thoughts spiralled, tangled with memories of all the relentless drills and lectures on speed, vigilance, and awareness. This felt like another test, but it was far more psychological, burrowing into his instincts and unravelling them.

Without realizing it, his pace had increased again, his body instinctively pushing forward as if something—or someone—were right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing but the same dark corridor stretched out behind him. Still, an inexplicable chill crawled up his spine, making him shiver.

The lights flickered again, and for a split second, he swore he saw a shape at the edge of his vision, something darker than the shadows that clung to the walls. A figure? He turned fully, heart hammering, but the corridor was empty. Silence met him as if mocking his anxiety.

He took a shaky breath, his hands clenched tight, trying to dismiss it. Patience. Precision. The words from the note echoed in his head, like a lifeline. But even those words seemed to warp in his mind now, transforming into an unnerving whisper: You're too slow.

"No," he muttered as if to refute it.

But the tunnel seemed to press down harder, the silence thickening, his unease multiplying. His footsteps began to sound hurried, frantic. Every few strides, he'd catch himself about to break into a run, forcing himself to slow down. But with every step, his tension built, until it felt like a coiled spring in his chest, ready to snap.

He pushed on, his breathing shallow, fighting the urge to bolt but feeling as though he was somehow still behind. The walls felt like they were tightening, closing him in. His palms began to sweat, and his grip on the scrap of the note tightened as if it might somehow ground him.

Calm down, he told himself, though the words fell flat. It felt as though the tunnel was testing him, breaking down his confidence. The unending silence, the flickering lights, and that damn sign's warning all melded together, bearing down on him with an unshakable weight.

But then, just as he was about to falter, to stop and catch his breath, he caught sight of another sign up ahead, dimly lit and looming through the darkness. Instinctively, he quickened his pace, both drawn to it and dreading what it might say. The hallway grew quieter with every step, and the air grew colder as if he were descending into something he might not come back from.

He reached the sign, his pulse thrumming in his ears, a desperate whisper on his lips.

"What now?"

Joon-ho's heart thundered as he grabbed the new signboard, the word plastered across it in bold, unforgiving letters:

STRIKE!

No sooner had he read it than a shadowy figure darted across his line of sight, swift and silent, slipping past him with an eerie grace. Without a thought, Joon-ho took off after it, the command on the sign pulsing through him, overriding every other instinct. He barely registered the dimness, the shadows, the flickering lights around him—there was only the figure and his unyielding urge to close the distance.

His legs moved on their own, driven by a single purpose: to strike. The figure dashed left, and right, weaving, but Joon-ho stayed close on its tail, heart hammering, muscles coiled. When he finally closed the gap, he lunged forward, throwing his weight into the tackle, hands outstretched.

They collided, Joon-ho's body crashing into the figure with the force of his full momentum. Without thinking, he swung a fist, delivering a solid punch to his opponent's side. But the impact was strange, the figure unnaturally stiff beneath his fist. The reality hit him just as his knuckles met hard plastic—a mannequin, faceless and unmoving.

Stunned, Joon-ho blinked, panting as he took in the unfeeling figure.