The Game Nobody Wins

Did you know that in the eerie spring of 2020, just outside the city limits of Detroit, a strange phenomenon began to unfold? It started quietly—no news headlines, no viral videos. Just mysterious flyers, printed on cheap paper, scattered across the most unexpected corners of the city. Bus stops, alleyways, telephone poles, and abandoned subway stations.

Each flyer had only a few chilling words printed in bold red letters:

JOIN A SECRET GAME. PRIZE: $10 MILLION.

No logos. No sponsors. No website. Just that strange message. And on the back of each flyer? A hand-scribbled address: an old, abandoned auto factory in the outskirts—long shut down, rumored to be haunted, and definitely not open to the public.

Most people ignored the flyers. Thought it was a prank. Some even assumed it was guerilla marketing for a new Netflix show. But for one man, this strange invitation would become the start of a nightmare.

Ethan Collins was 28 years old. Once an aspiring game developer, life had not been kind to him. In the wake of the pandemic, he'd lost his job, blown through his savings, and fallen months behind on rent. With eviction looming and not a single job interview in sight, he felt like life had completely forgotten him.

It was on a rainy night in April that Ethan first saw the flyer. He was sitting on the platform of a nearly deserted subway station, hood up, earbuds in, watching a rat drag an old sandwich wrapper when something caught his eye—one of those strange red-lettered flyers pinned to the side of a vending machine.

JOIN A SECRET GAME. PRIZE: $10 MILLION.

He laughed at first. It had to be a joke. But then he flipped the paper over.

The address: 449 W. Burrows Street, a place he recognized instantly. An abandoned Chrysler plant, shut down since 2008, rumored to have housed everything from squatters to cults. But what if…?

The next day, curiosity got the better of him. With nothing to lose, Ethan grabbed the flyer, threw on a jacket, and took a bus toward the industrial zone. Rain still drizzled as he approached the rusted gates of the old factory. To his surprise, they weren’t chained shut. In fact, they were slightly open.

His heartbeat quickened. He stepped inside.

The interior smelled like mildew, rust, and something faintly metallic. The long corridors were lit only by dim red bulbs fixed to the ceiling. Security cameras blinked at every corner, following his every move. The air buzzed with electricity. Somewhere deep inside, a loudspeaker crackled to life.

“PLAYER 045… ENTER THE ROOM.”

Ethan’s breath caught. How did they know he was here?

Before he could second-guess, a door ahead of him opened automatically. He stepped into a vast concrete chamber, its walls painted black, the floor marked with strange lines and numbers. Inside, a group of people stood silently—each dressed in a matching gray tracksuit. Nobody spoke. Nobody made eye contact. The tension was unbearable.

The door slammed shut behind him.

A large screen flickered to life, revealing a giant mechanical doll—cartoonishly large, painted in faded colors, with eyes that moved side to side. The speakers rang out with a sing-song melody:

“Red light… green light.”

Ethan stood frozen. Was this a joke? A sick performance?

But when the doll called “Green light,” the room lit up in green and a few players moved forward.

Then came:

“Red light.”

Everyone froze. Except for one woman, who stumbled slightly—just a reflex. There was a sound like a compressed air cannon, followed by a loud BANG. Blood splattered across the floor. She dropped instantly.

Screams erupted. Ethan turned to run—another bang. Then another.

Everything went dark.

Ethan Collins was never seen again.

After his disappearance, his family filed a missing persons report. Police traced his last known location to the factory. They raided the site—but found nothing. No bodies. No machines. No cameras.

Just one red, plastic mask lying in a puddle of blood-stained rainwater.

The case was shelved. The city moved on. But the story didn’t end there.

Just one week later, the same flyers began appearing again. Same color. Same promise. Except now, they had a new line printed at the bottom:

“PLAYER 045 DIDN’T WIN. WILL YOU BE NEXT?”

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