Page 164 of The Most Dangerous Games

It gets worse.

Smoke. Heat.

The man who acts like he’s afraid of nothing is afraid to open his eyes back up.

The volume in the room is pumped up even more.

He tells himself to keep his eyes closed.

He does want to tell them to make it stop now.

But he won’t.

Or can’t.

Tipton tries to convince himself one more time that none of this is real.

Only nothing has ever felt more real to him.

Not since he was twelve and it was really happening to him.

Now Ant Tipton is screaming, because he opens his eyes, looks down, and sees he’s on fire.

Patrick Arrasmith

113.

Lin Zhi is petrified of needles.

Not pain. Not heights. Not the moment in midair when the world spins and you have to find the floor again.

Needles.

The fear has humiliated him his whole life, because he can’t reason his way out of it. He can be brave in a thousand ways and still go cold at the sight of a syringe.

He had nearly blacked out at the little hospital in Tuscany where he’d been taken after being shot by Wyatt. But it wasn’t because of the pain from the gunshot wound.

It was because of the needles. First the injection he’d been given for the pain, and then being conscious when the Italian doctor had gone in to remove the bullet from his upper arm.

When Zhi had been competing in gymnastics for his country, he’d never been afraid when he’d become disoriented in midair, a condition known as the “twisties” in his sport. No, the loss of control, the chance that he could land on his back, had never panicked him the way needles did. Trypanophobia. The fear of needles.

The one time he’d had knee surgery, early in his gymnastics career, he’d had a panic attack as he was being wheeled into the operating room, before finally being sedated.

As he had walked into this room on the 146th floor, the guard had quickly reached over and pressed a cloth over his mouth before Zhi could resist.

It carried a sweet, chemical smell.

“Just let it happen,” the guard murmured.

Now Zhi wakes strapped to an operating table.

A doctor and nurse, both wearing surgical masks, are standing over him. Bright lights glare down. The room is so white it feels unreal.

The doctor speaks calmly, like this is a routine appointment.

“Tissue damage,” he says. “Infection risk. We need to do a repair.”

The nurse steps closer. In her gloved hand is a syringe.