Control the Game

I am Azhe, a delivery boy. Today is my fifth year in prison. The prison guard threw an anonymous iron box, and when I opened it, I dropped fingernail fragments on the palm of my hand - it belonged to the woman whose body was dismembered. In the nail seams where the coordinates were sewn, the blood had long ago condensed into black residue, and was stained with the oil stains I always picked up when delivering food. "The game begins, errand boy, 30 days." Bloody words seeped into the rust of the iron box, but how did they know that the knife in the sandwich of the incubator had been sharpened to the point that it could cut through the iron bars of the prison door?