Five doors. Five answers.

A, B, C, D, E—which one?

Cold sweat beaded on the blond man’s forehead. He had expected the AI to answer the question as thoroughly and rigorously as possible—like a program executing a command, serious and rational, precise and by-the-book.

He hadn’t anticipated this.

“…It’s E, right?” he said, uncertain. “That tone feels a bit like Mike. If he suddenly lost his memory and found himself locked in a room, he’d definitely panic—and try to call for help through his answer. That’s completely reasonable…”

As he spoke, he glanced around hopefully at his companions, wishing for any kind of confirmation. Even a single certain nod would do.

But the others were just as confused.

The man called Morlin said, “But what if it’s not Mike—what if it’s Julian? If it’s Julian, then D would be the real answer, wouldn’t it?”

Someone else pushed back: “Most people don’t know the answer to that question. Julian might not even know it for certain. I think it should be A—everything else is a distraction!”

“No, it won’t be A.” This time it was Hans who spoke, deliberate and measured. “If you’re locked in a room and can’t get out, having lost part of your memory—and then you receive a question—any normal person would understand that the answer to this question is the key to leaving. If it’s that important, how could you just say ‘I don’t know’ and leave it at that? Even a wild guess is better than admitting you don’t know. I think it’s B—even if you don’t know the answer, you’d try to get as close as possible. That fits human psychology in a high-stakes situation.”

Hans’s reasoning won broad agreement.

Answer A: I don’t know.

It was like casually abandoning the only way out.

Answer B: Not sure—maybe dozens of trillions.

Compared to A, B seemed more human.

The blond man was still hesitating. He looked at Hans. “You’re really not picking E? Maybe whoever’s inside is trying to signal us that way—after all, an AI wouldn’t cry for help, right?…”

“What if it would?” Bai Youwei suddenly spoke up.

Everyone looked at her.

“If an AI can’t cry for help,” Bai Youwei said, “then the players inside could just answer nonsense every time, couldn’t they? You ask how many stars are in the sky; they reply ‘I’m Mike, help me get out.’ What would be the point of questions and answers at all?”

Hans narrowed his eyes. “You mean… E is definitely a false option?”

“Exactly. A, B, C, or D could all potentially be the real answer—but E cannot.” Bai Youwei said. “And I believe the people inside must have a set of rules constraining them to actually answer the question itself. Otherwise this game would be completely unplayable.”

She finished, then added to Hans, “Also—the reason you just gave for ruling out A isn’t strong enough.”

Hans was taken aback and looked her up and down again. “Answer A gives up the chance to escape the room entirely—isn’t that sufficient grounds to rule it out? It’s like a student in the middle of a major exam: even if you hit a question you don’t know, you still do your best to fill in the answer.”

“That reasoning holds—but it’s not conclusive.” Bai Youwei’s expression was flat. “Because your logic rests on the assumption that a wrong answer means elimination. We, standing outside, know how high the stakes are. But do the people inside? Do they know that answering wrong means elimination? What if the system simply asks them to answer honestly? What’s wrong with saying ‘I don’t know’?”

Just when they’d had the faintest thread of clarity, Bai Youwei’s argument sent everything spiraling again.

“So what do we do… Do we pick A or B?” The blond man looked helplessly at Hans. “Are we still going with B?”

—