Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Players,

Congratulations. Out of countless hopefuls, you eleven have been chosen.

Your challenge is simple: within the next 24 hours, you must uncover the identity of the killer hiding among you. Fail, and the killer shall claim victory along with your lives.

Please take note of the rules:

1. You may not leave the premises of this mansion. If caught, punishment will be implemented. 
2. Each player can call for a chance to vote. You will have ten minutes to discuss suspicions, share clues, and deliberate. At the end of this time, you may choose to cast your votes and end the life of the one you believe to be the killer. Reminder you only get one chance to call this vote, choose wisely when to use it.
3. Choose carefully. Your vote may condemn the innocent just as easily as it may unmask the guilty.
4. When the final hour strikes, any remaining players will be executed unless the killer has been exposed.
5. The winner or winners will claim the prize of 10 billion dollars, to keep or divide as you see fit.
6. Killing is permitted.

The game has begun. The clock is ticking.

May luck be on your side.

And remember.

You are not alone.

Chapter Text

Hour 0

The first thing Saparata saw was light – bright, glaring, pouring down from the chandelier above him.

For a moment he didn’t move, staring into the golden swirls of the ceiling as if they might explain where he was. The glow was harsh, making his head throb. He closes his eyes in an attempt to block out the harsh glare.

“Bright,” he mutters as he tries to get his other senses back in running.

The first thing he felt was the brittle cold of the room.

The second was the mattress beneath him. It was soft, soft enough to swallow his weight, but the sheets had chilled like untouched porcelain. A shiver traced its way up his spine.

He opens his eyes again. 

Blinked, once, twice, until the blur sharpened and the room came into focus. 

The ceiling was high and ornate, carved with winding patterns that seemed to shimmer in the light. 

It was beautiful.

Enough dallying around, Saps.

With a groan, he pushed himself upright. His head throbbed as though he had been underwater for too long.

Where am I?

The question formed in his mind like smoke, quickly followed by another.

Better yet, who am I?

Saparata.

That’s his name. It must be.

He breathed out, relieved to have at least one thread to cling to in the fog.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The room was elegant, dressed in gold trim and heavy velvet curtains that swallowed most of the morning light. A tall wardrobe stood against the far wall, its polished mirror reflecting a pale figure back at him.

He stepped closer to it.

And was greeted by a stranger staring back at him.

The man staring back was unkempt, his white hair mussed, his clothes wrinkled as if he had slept in them for days. His own face felt foreign to him.

That’s enough.

Slapping his face, he focuses towards the door. A way out.

No time to linger.

He crossed the room, hesitated at the brass handle of the door, then turned it.

The first he noticed was how the hallway outside was silent.

Very silent.

It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with oil paintings of faceless figures, each framed in gold. The cream-colored walls looked too clean, the floorboards too polished. The air smelled faintly of dust and something metallic, sharp enough to make him uneasy.

He stepped forward. The door clicked shut behind him with finality.

And then as he turned around, he collided with someone.

The impact made him stumble back, heart skipping a beat.

“Hey!” the other person exclaimed, catching himself before he fell.

The stranger was tall, lean, with an almost foxlike sharpness to his features. Black hair fell into his face in loose strands, and his eyes, deep, unnatural violet, caught the dim light like polished glass. There was a sly curve to his lips, the kind that suggested he was in on a joke no one else had heard.

“Careful,” the man said, voice smooth but casual. “You nearly knocked me over.”

Saparata straightened. “Sorry. I-” He stopped, the words strange in his mouth. “I don’t remember how I got here.”

The stranger tilted his head, studying him for a moment before giving a small nod. “Neither do I. Not much of anything, really.”

He tapped a finger against his temple. “Fluixon. I’m assuming that’s my own name.”

Fluixon.

He mouthed that name as something stirred in his mind. 

How familiar.

Saparata nodded back. 

“Saparata.”

The man’s smirk widened slightly. “Then we’re two blank slates with only names to go on.”

“Guess we should stick together,” Saparata suggested.

Fluixon gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Safety in numbers. Unless you’re the killer. Then I suppose I’ll regret this.”

The remark was light, but Saparata could feel the tension rise.

Hitting lightly Fluixon’s shoulders, Saparta rolled his eyes.

“I’m not, don’t worry.”

Suddenly, a sharp beep cut through the hallway.

They both froze.

It was coming from their wrists.

Saparata glanced down. A sleek, metallic band had been clasped around his arm. He was certain it hadn’t been there before. Its screen glowed a soft blue, displaying a detailed map.

Fluixon raised his own wrist. “Well,” he murmured, “someone planned this.”

The map was intricate, outlining what appeared to be a massive three-story mansion. The corridors branched like veins, twisting and curling into wings. Two blinking dots pulsed in the left wing of the second floor

It was their location.

“That’s us,” Saparata said.

Fluixon gave him a sidelong glance. “Brilliant deduction. And that,” he pointed to a larger icon at the heart of the mansion “must be the grand entrance. Big enough for everyone to meet. Assuming everyone would gather there.”

The screen dimmed again, leaving only the faint outline glowing against their skin.

“Let’s head there,” Saparata said. “If there are others, we should find them.”

Fluixon’s lips curved into a sharper smile. “Or find out who we should be worried about.”

They began to walk. Their footsteps echoed off the polished floor, each creak loud enough to make Saparata flinch sometimes. Every so often, they passed closed doors. Some looked locked, some slightly ajar, as if inviting them to look inside.

Neither of them stopped.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say.

The farther they went, the heavier the air seemed to grow. The house was immaculate, but unnervingly so. Every painting was perfectly centered, every vase aligned just so. It was less a home and more a stage.

And unlucky enough, Saparata was a performer.

He glanced at Fluixon, who strolled casually, hands tucked into his pockets, though his violet eyes scanned the hall with a predator’s focus.

Then Saparata froze.

The sensation hit him suddenly, prickling along the back of his neck.

Someone was watching them.

Fluixon stopped too, sensing the shift. “What is it?”

Saparata turned his head, scanning the hallway behind them.

Nothing.

No footsteps, no movement. Only the flicker of the wall sconces and the faint hum of electricity.

But he knew.

Something was there.

Fluixon’s expression changed. He didn’t ask again. He just nodded, slow and deliberate, as though confirming they were both thinking the same thing.

They kept walking, their pace quickening, their shoulders tense.

Because they are no longer alone.

Hour 0.5

The grand entrance was a cathedral of marble and gold.

Its floor gleamed like glass, reflecting the light from a chandelier so massive it looked as though it might drag itself free from the ceiling at any moment. Twin staircases curled upward to the upper floors, framing the space like an open stage. The air felt too still, too expectant, as if it were waiting for something to happen.

And there, near the center of the room, stood three figures.

One was a tall man with squared shoulders and a soldier’s posture. His dark hair was cropped close, his stance steady but coiled with caution.

A veteran, Saparata notes.

Beside him stood a young woman with bright blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders, a pair of sleek, black headphones resting around her neck. Her arms were crossed, her weight shifted onto one leg, the very picture of casual defiance. Her eyes flicked toward the newcomers.

Cautious, Saparata could respect that.

The third stood slightly apart from the others. A striking woman with pale blonde hair so light it seemed to catch and hold the glow of the chandelier above. She held herself with a still, quiet grace, her back straight, her hands folded in front of her as though she were standing for a royal portrait. Her eyes were calm but penetrating, the kind of gaze that made 

Saparata feel as if she could see straight through him.

The man spoke first. “Guess we’re not the only ones here.” His voice was deep, measured. “Name’s Sitzkrieg.”

“Fluixon,” Fluixon said easily, his sly grin returning. He gestured toward his companion. “And this is Saparata. Found him upstairs.”

The blonde with the headphones tilted her head. “Cass,” she said simply with a small smile. 

The pale-haired woman inclined her head slightly. “Jophiel,” she said, her tone soft but perfectly poised, every syllable precise.

They all shared a look.

“No memories either?” Saparata asked.

Sitzkrieg shook his head. “Nothing that makes sense.”

“Just my name,” Cass said, her fingers holds up a letter that was sent to everyone. “And I'm also guessing everyone also received this.”

Fluixon chuckled under his breath, holding up his own letter. “Glad I’m not the only one who received this.”

“So, we all know there are other players than us.”

“Yeah. 11 of us.”

“And one of them is the killer.”

Silence settled over the group for a moment.

Then, without warning, a chime rang out.

All five of them glanced down at the bands on their wrists as their screens flickered to life, lines of text scrolling across the display in a sterile, almost mocking font:

SYSTEM NOTICE:
Clues regarding each player are hidden throughout the mansion. Discover them to uncover the killer’s identity before the 24-hour deadline.

Fail, and the killer wins.

The words vanished, leaving the room colder than before.

Cass broke the silence first. “Then we’d better start searching. If there are clues, they’ll tell us who to trust and who not to.”

“Or,” Fluixon said lightly, “they’ll tell the killer exactly how to pick us off.”

Jophiel’s gaze moved between each of them, calm and assessing. “Either way, we should move quickly. Splitting into groups will let us cover more ground.”

Cass nodded. “I’ll take the right wing.” She glanced at Sitzkrieg. “You’re coming with me.”

He gave a small, decisive nod. “Fine. Two should be enough.”

That left Jophiel, who turned toward Saparata and Fluixon. “Then we’ll take the left wing.”

Saparata nodded. “Left wing it is.”

“Perfect,” Fluixon said, flashing a grin. “Let’s see what secrets our gracious host has left for us.”

Cass and Sitzkrieg started toward the right hallway. “Don’t get yourselves killed,” Cass said over her shoulder, though there was no humor in her voice.

Jophiel fell into step beside Saparata and Fluixon, her pale hair catching the light one last time as the group split apart, the echo of their footsteps vanishing into opposite ends of the mansion.

The bell chimes thrice and the game begins.

Hour 1

The left wing felt colder than the rest of the mansion.

Saparata walked beside Jophiel, the soft glow of their wrist communicators casting pale light on the hallway ahead. Fluixon followed behind at first, hands in his pockets, until they reached the landing where the staircase split.

One flight leading deeper into the second floor, the other curling toward the third.

“I’m going up,” Fluixon announced casually, though his violet eyes were alert.

Saparata frowned. “You sure? Splitting up more seems risky.”

Fluixon shrugged. “Risky is staying in a group with a potential killer, too.” 

Saparata tensed at his words. 

Was Fluixon the killer?

“Relax. I’ll check floor three and meet you back here before the next gathering.”

Before Saparata could argue, Fluixon was already heading up the stairs, his figure swallowed by the shadows above.

That left Saparata and Jophiel.

The blonde woman gave him a calm, unreadable look. “Let’s check the second floor. If clues are scattered, we should start with the obvious places.”

They moved down the hall, opening doors one by one. Most rooms were bedrooms. All perfectly made, eerily untouched.

Saparata chose one and stepped inside. Jophiel nodded and opened another door adjacent to his room.

The room itself was dim. Dust motes floated in the air.

It had seemed no one had used this room in a long time.

With a sigh, he began searching – pulling open drawers, peering under the bed, running his fingers along the edges of the wardrobe for any secret doors.

Then the lights began to flicker.

Shit. That was not a good sign, especially in a creepy mansion with a killer on the loose.

But as if god was laughing in his face, the lights flickered a few times before they went out completely.

And the entire mansion was plunged into darkness.

“Jophiel?” Saparata yelled.

No answer.

That’s not good. At all.

A low creak echoed from somewhere down the hall.

Fuck. Someone was here.

Saparata quickly crouched in the corner of the room. The door itself creaked open for a bit before it closed.

He breathed a sigh of relief. But before he could relax, a scream tore through the entire mansion.

Jophiel! That was Jophiel!

Saparata’s heart slammed against his ribs. He quickly got up and bolted out of the room, sprinting toward Jophiel’s direction.

The door stood open. Someone opened them. And it wasn’t Jophiel.

He paused at the entrance, and gasped at the scene inside the room.

The faint glow of the communicator on her wrist illuminated the scene.

Jophiel sprawled on the floor, pale hair fanned around her head like a broken halo, her throat had been slashed.

Blood continued gushing from it, as she stared at Saparata with lifeless eyes.

Saparata froze, his breath caught in his throat.

Then, with a soft chime, a message flashed across his wrist screen.

PLAYER 4: JOPHIEL – ELIMINATED.

He stared in shock at the message and glanced back towards the woman he knew for the past 20 minutes.

10 minutes ago, she was still breathing. Still alive. Now, she was nothing more then a rotting corpse.

Jophiel was gone.

Saparata knelt beside her, his hands shaking, not sure what to do. Too late to help, too shocked to look away.

That was when he noticed the file clutched in her limp hand.

He pried it loose and flipped open the first page. The words blurred for a moment before snapping into focus. His stomach dropped.

The file was about one of them.

With a name that was all too familiar.

Before he could read further, a shout rang out from behind him.

“What the hell happened here?!”

Saparata spun, file still in his hand. Fluixon stood in the doorway, his usually coy expression shattered into something between shock and disbelief.

Before either of them could speak, more footsteps thundered down the hall. Sitzkrieg and Cass appeared, both skidding to a stop at the doorway.

Cass’s headphones slipped around her neck as she stared at the body. Sitzkrieg’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Three sets of eyes stared at the lifeless form of Jophiel on the floor, then at Saparata crouched beside her with the file, whose fingers were still covered in blood from getting the folder from Jophiel’s own bloody fingers, then back to the dimly glowing wrist communicators silently marking the death.

The silence was suffocating.

And then, as if on cue, the devices on their wrists beeped once, a hollow sound that cut through the tension.

22 hours until the end.

Saparata had only one thought.

Shit.

Hour 2

Saparata barely had time to stand before Sitzkrieg’s rough grip seized his arm.

“You’re coming with us,” Sitzkrieg growled, dragging him away from Jophiel’s body.

“Wait! I can explain. It wasn’t me.” Saparata protested, the folder still clutched to his chest.

“Shut up, and follow.”

They reached the grand entrance. The massive chandelier overhead glowed like a hanging sun, casting long shadows on the marble floor.

Sitzkrieg shoved Saparata forward until he stood in the center of the room.

“We’re voting,” Sitzkrieg said flatly. “Right here, right now.”

The communicator bands beeped as if in agreement. The glowing interface appeared, showing the timer for the voting ticking down – 5 minutes remaining.

Fluixon stepped forward. “Who else could have done it?” he said, his voice calm but cutting. 

“He was with her. He found the body. And when we got there, he was holding something he didn’t want to show us.”

Saparata glared at him. “Well, guess what?” He held up the folder. “This folder? This is about you!”

Fluixon narrowed his eyes, just slightly.

Saparata opened the first page and read aloud, his voice ringing through the grand entrance.

Subject: Fluixon. Known as ‘The Architect.’ Suspected of orchestrating multiple deaths through elaborate staged traps.

 

Confirmed kills: Eight.

The words echoed in the air.

Cass’s head swiftly turned towards Fluixon, now with even more caution. Sitzkrieg, himself, turned to look at Fluixon, questioningly.

Fluixon, however, only chuckled. As if he had not just been accused. 

“So that’s what they gave you?” His tone was almost amused. “You really think some file proves I killed her? Whoever’s running this game wants us to turn on each other.”

“This proves you’re dangerous! Who’s to say you won’t kill again after those eight.” Saparata snapped.

Fluixon took a step closer, his purple eyes glinting in the light. “But, let’s bring it back to the situation that happened right here, right now. You, Saparata, was standing over the corpse with blood on your hands.”

The communicator beeps grew more rapid.

Two minutes left.

“Enough,” Sitzkrieg said sharply. “We have to vote.”

The devices on their wrists projected a question in cold, sterile text.

WHO IS THE KILLER?

Fluixon didn’t hesitate. “I vote Saparata.”

A red mark appeared next to Saparata’s name on the display.

Saparata’s pulse hammered in his ears. “Then I vote Fluixon.”

Another red mark. This time next to Fluixon’s name.

One to one.

Sitzkrieg raised his hand, his expression grim. “Saparata.”

The vote counter updated again.

Two to one.

This was not good.

Saparata swore under his breath, panic clawing at his chest. All eyes turned to Cass, who stood frozen, biting her lip.

“You have to decide,” Sitzkrieg urged.

The timer ticked down to sixty seconds.

Cass didn’t move.

Fifty seconds.

Saparata’s breathing quickened.

Fluixon just watched him, smirking as if he has won.

Thirty seconds.

Cass clenched her fists.

Twenty seconds.

There was no time left. Saparata was going to die.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from the top of the grand staircase.

“The purple guy,” it said casually. “I vote that guy.”

Everyone’s heads snapped toward the source.

A man stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, silhouetted by the light behind him. He started down the stairs at an unhurried pace, his eyes locked on Fluixon.

Vote recorded.

The display on their wrists blinked rapidly, then went dark.

RESULT: TIED. EXECUTION VOID.

Saparata exhaled shakily, relief flooding him so hard he nearly staggered.

The newcomer reached the bottom of the stairs and grabbed Saparata by the wrist. “Come on,” he said, voice low but firm.

Saparata glanced back once, at Fluixon, still standing there, that sly, unreadable expression once again on his face.

Then he ran.

The newcomer pulled him through the left hallway, away from the others, away from the grand entrance.

Saparata didn’t ask where they were going.

Because anyway was better than staying with people who wanted him dead.

Hour 3

The man dragged Saparata down the hall with the urgency of someone who already knew too much. When they finally stopped, he unlocked a heavy oak door and pushed it open.

Inside, four others looked up.

Player Linguini.

Player Cynikka.

Player 5pyder.

Player Benji.

The man who had saved Saparata gave a brief nod to the group. “Schpood,” he introduced himself at last. Then, he glanced back at his group.

“I found him upstairs before Sitzkrieg and the others could corner him.”

He shut the door and locked it behind them, making sure no one could enter.

For a moment, no one spoke. 

Four pairs of eyes all fixated on Saparata.

Saparata, himself, cowered under the intense gaze. His palms collected sweat from the tension. The entire room felt hard to breathe.

Shit. he always hated being singled out.

Calm down.

Schpood broke the silence. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Then, he turns to Saparata to fill him in on the situation.

“We think Sitzkrieg’s the one to watch. 5pyder found his file.”

All attention shifted toward the hooded figure in the corner. 5pyder didn’t move at first, then finally reached into his pocket and tossed a battered folder onto the table.

Saparata opened it with trembling hands. The words blurred at first, then snapped into focus.

Subject: Sitzkrieg. Former military veteran. Exhibited signs of severe paranoia following service.

Incident report: Family slain in their own home.

Official ruling – delusional psychosis.

Sentenced to Commonwealth Asylum.

The file seemed to radiate dread. Saparata’s stomach churned.

“That’s why I don’t trust him,” Schpood said firmly.

But Cynikka scoffed. She pushed off the wall, eyes narrowing at the group. “Or maybe that’s exactly what they want us to believe. Anyone can plant a folder and make it look official. For all we know, this is just another trick.”

Her gaze cut straight to Saparata. “And speaking of tricks, why should we trust you? You were the last one seen with Jophiel. You were standing over her body when the others arrived.”

The air in the room thickened.

Saparata swallowed, his throat dry. 

And before he knew it, all the words spilled from his mouth.

He told them everything – the blackout, the scream, the open door, the sight of Jophiel sprawled on the floor, her blood pooling beneath her. He even showed them the file he had taken from her hand.

When he finished, silence lingered.

Benji fidgeted. “So… either Fluixon or Sitzkrieg, then.”

“Or,” Cynikka added coldly, “both files are lies, and the real killer’s laughing while we turn on each other.”

“They could be in this room at this very moment too.”

“Calm down. Let’s not turn on each other.”

Saparata lowered his head. 

A bitter thought gnawed at him as he processed Cynikka’s words. The file on Fluixon felt damning at first, but now? It could just as easily have been planted. Just like Sitzkrieg’s.

He looked around at the faces in the room. No one was smiling. No one was safe.

Finally, Schpood straightened. “Sitting here won’t get us answers. If the system says the mansion is filled with clues, then we’d better start looking again. Together as a group. But we move now.”

The others nodded, going towards the door.

Saparata tightened his grip on the file in his hands.

20 hours till the end.

Hour 4

The group spread out, each drifting into different halls and rooms, their communicator lights flickering like fireflies in the dark mansion. Saparata kept to the left wing again, cautious, ears tuned to every creak of the old floorboards.

Now he had to watch out for 3 people and a killer. Great.

What kind of aura did he have to attract these kinds of people anyways?

Focus.

Right.

He pushed open another door and froze.

Inside, the dim glow from a single wall sconce revealed Linguini. The mario man was hunched over something in his hands, eyes darting as though he were afraid to be caught.

It was another folder.

Saparata stepped closer. “What did you find?”

Linguini flinched so hard he nearly dropped it. His eyes went wide, and in an instant, the folder was tucked behind his back. “N-nothing. Just dust. Linguini found the room empty.”

Saparata frowned. “I saw it. That was a file.”

Linguini’s fingers twitched. He forced a laugh, too loud for the quiet room. “Seriously, Linguini thinks you’re seeing things. Maybe the light’s messing with you, just as it did with Linguini. You should check the next room, yeah? Probably more interesting than this one.”

The words tumbled out quick, shaky. Too defensive.

(But why the hell is it still in that Mario voice?)

Saparata stared at him for a long moment, unease tightening in his chest. He wanted to press further, to grab the folder and read it himself but the way Linguini’s shoulders stiffened, like a cornered animal, made him hesitate.

Finally, he sighed and stepped back. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Linguini didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, clutching the hidden folder, his breathing uneven. Then, as Saparata turned to leave, a grin slowly spread across his face.

It wasn’t friendly.

It was the kind of smile that stuck in the mind long after you looked away.

Saparata shut the door behind him, but the image seared in his mind.

Something about Linguini wasn’t right.

19 hours until the end.

The killer has not been caught.

Remaining players: 10

Chapter Text

Hour 5

They regrouped in one of the drawing rooms, the air heavy with dust and suspicion. For once, everyone was accounted for and to Saparata’s relief no one had been killed. 

It seemed the rest agreed with his sentiments as relief flickered briefly among them.

But it didn’t last.

They gathered around the long mahogany table. The chandelier above sputtered and hummed, casting uneasy shadows across their faces.

Saparata sat near the end, watching. Waiting.

Most of them spoke in low tones, comparing scraps of clues and theories. But one person was unusually quiet.

Linguini.

He sat hunched, eyes darting across the group like a predator biding its time. Finally, he leaned forward, voice still in the same Mario voice.

If he keeps at it, Saparata might just believe it all together.

“Cynikka.”

Interesting.

The woman looked up, brows furrowed. “What?”

“Are you the killer?”

The room went still. Even the flickering light seemed to freeze.

Cynikka blinked, startled. “What kind of question is that? Of course not.”

But Linguini only smiled. It was the same unsettling grin Saparata had seen earlier. Slowly, deliberately, he reached under the table and placed a folder in front of her.

“Read it.”

Cynikka’s face paled. Her hand hovered above the folder, reluctant, then finally snatched it open.

The words glared back at her.

Subject: Cynikka. Former leader of the cult Infernus. Confirmed ritual killings – twelve victims, burned alive.

Still at large at the time of capture.

Benji’s eyes flickered from the folder to Cynikka. Saparata could tell he was ready to bolt if things turned south since he was the one sitting closest to Cynikka.

And Cynikka just became a ticking time bomb.

Cynikka slammed the folder shut, her voice rising with fury. “Lies. All of it. You expect us to believe this? It’s planted, just like the rest of these damn files!”

Schpood leaned over and snatched the folder. As he read, his eyebrows furrowed even deeper. 

5pyder who was by his side, too looked at Cynikka with a strange expression.

Distrust.

But Linguini’s grin only widened. He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable. 

“You sound nervous. Maybe that’s because the truth stings.”

Cynikka’s eyes blazed. “And maybe you’re the real killer, twisting the game to your advantage.”

Linguini shrugged, casual as though they were debating the weather. “Doesn’t matter. We’re supposed to vote, right? Then let’s vote. Better you than me.”

“How dare you.”

“I call a Vote.”

The devices once again on their wrists projected a question in cold, sterile text.

WHO IS THE KILLER?

“I vote-”

“Don’t you fucking dare. What do you even get out of this Linguini? Killing me brings what? Because I’m damn sure I’m not the killer.”

“Well it's because,” Linguini said, almost laughing now, “I don’t want to die from the possibility that you would kill me. And if it’s you or me, I’ll choose me every time.”

The tension at the table was suffocating. Saparata could hear their voices rise higher, accusations and denials crashing against each other.

Benji tried to step in, only to get shut down immediately.

Schpood could only sigh and shake his head. 

And ironic enough, they were so loud, so consuming, that no one noticed the timer on their wristbands.

Until it hit zero.

A hollow beep echoed through the room.

VOTING CLOSED.

No one had cast a vote, EXECUTION VOID.

The text faded, leaving only silence.

Linguini’s grin slipped, just for a heartbeat. Then he stood abruptly, grabbed the folder, and bolted for the door.

Fear.

“Coward,” Cynikka hissed after him. She stayed seated, fingers drumming against the table, her expression hardening into something colder. 

Calculating.

Perhaps the folder was right. 

Saparata rose slowly, excusing himself. He could feel the storm brewing between them, and he wanted no part of it. 

As he slipped into the hallway, one thought gnawed at him.

The killer didn’t need to lift a knife.

Not when suspicion was already doing the job for them.

Hour 6

The mansion was quieter now, though not in any way that comforted Saparata. The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint echo of his footsteps as he wandered deeper into the eastern halls.

He rounded a corner.

Then he froze. His eyes widened, his feet planted firmly on the ground. His mind reeling.

Fluixon was there.

The violet-eyed man leaned casually against the wall, but when his gaze lifted, it caught Saparata like a snare.

Instinct screamed at him to leave. Saparata turned on his heel, but before he could take more than a step, Fluixon’s voice slid through the air.

“Saparata. Wait.”

The name was soft, almost pleading.

He was being manipulated.

Against his better judgment, Saparata stopped.

Fluixon closed the distance quickly, his hand snapping around Saparata’s wrist. His grip was firm but not threatening, at least not yet. His smile was gone, replaced by something strange. 

Something almost human.

He isn’t. He’s a killer.

“I… might’ve been wrong about you,” Fluixon said, his voice low. His fingers rubbed against Saparata’s palms. “Earlier. With Jophiel. With the vote. I had to play along. But maybe I made a mistake.”

Saparata’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say, or whether he even wanted to listen.

Once more manipulated like the pawn you are.

Just as the words began to form on his tongue-

The lights died.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

A beat later, their wristbands flared to life, casting a cold glow across their faces. Lines of text scrolled across the display in sterile indifference.

PLAYER 8: LINGUINI – ELIMINATED

Saparata’s breath caught. His stomach lurched.

Linguini. Shit. 

Gone.

“No,” Saparata whispered. “Fuck.”

Panic surged. He yanked his hand free from Fluixon’s grasp and bolted, his footsteps slamming against the floorboards as though the dark itself were chasing him.

“Saparata!” Fluixon’s voice rang out behind him. Desperate, echoing in the void.

The lights blazed back on.

The hall was empty.

Fluixon stood alone, violet eyes sweeping the shadows. His hand still half-reached for the man who had vanished.

Saparata was gone.

“How annoying.”

Hour 7

Saparata’s breath was still ragged when he nearly collided with someone at the corner of the hall.

“Whoa.”

It was 5pyder, his hood low, eyes glinting faintly in the light of his communicator.

Saparata grabbed his arm. “What’s happening? Did you see?”

5pyder’s voice was low, but steady. “Linguini’s gone. Dead. The system already confirmed it.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning Saparata’s face. “You should be careful. Whoever did it won’t stop at one.”

Before Saparata could reply, footsteps echoed down the corridor. He stiffened, quickly grabbing 5pyder’s hand in case he had to bolt from danger with 5pyder.

He did not want Schpood coming after him too if he left 5pyder.

He braced for the worst, until Schpood appeared from the shadows, flanked by Cynikka and Benji.

Schpood raised a hand in calm acknowledgment. “Easy. We’re all still breathing.”

Benji quickly stepped forward, pointing at Cynikka. “She was with me when it happened. Couldn’t have been her.”

Cynikka gave a sharp nod, eyes flashing. “Believe what you want, but I don’t kill for sport.”

Schpood’s gaze slid to 5pyder. “And I was with him.”

5pyder nodded in agreement. “He’s telling the truth.”

All eyes turned to Saparata.

He hesitated. The words felt suck in his throat. He did not want to admit it but that means he had to clear himself. 

“I… I was with Fluixon.”

That brought a ripple of unease. Schpood’s eyes narrowed. Cynikka’s lips curved in something between amusement and suspicion.

“So that leaves three,” Schpood muttered. “Cass. Sitzkrieg. And whoever player eleven is.”

The group fell into uneasy silence.

Saparata’s gaze drifted to Cynikka. 

The most suspicious one among them all.

He knew the files could be lies. He knew she had an alibi. 

And yet.

Players can kill players.

The killer wasn’t the only danger in this house.

Cynikka caught his stare, and her lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. Not friendly. Not reassuring.

But a smile all the same.

With teeth that could bite Saparata and eat him alive.

16 hours until the end.

Hour 8

They had relocated to a smaller lounge, the fire in the hearth long dead, the room smelling faintly of ash and dust. The group sat in a strained circle, each lost in their own unease, when hurried footsteps broke the silence.

Cass stumbled in, breathless, sweat streaking her forehead.

“Finally,” she gasped, leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes darted over the faces gathered, then settled on them with sharp urgency. “It’s Sitzkrieg. I think he’s the killer.”

The words snapped the group to attention.

“What makes you so sure?” Schpood asked, narrowing his eyes.

Cass swallowed hard. “I saw him. Upstairs. He had a weapon! A sword! Just carrying it around like it belonged to him.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

“A sword?” Benji echoed, uneasy. “No one else has weapons. Not that we’ve seen. And most weapons in this mansion had been confiscated.”

Saparata exchanged glances with 5pyder and Schpood. 

If Sitzkrieg was armed, that made him dangerous.

Killer or not.

But Cynikka shook her head slowly. “ None of it means anything unless we’ve got proof.”

“She’s right,” Schpood added, though his voice was tense. “One accusation isn’t enough. If we move too fast, we’re just doing the killer’s job for them.”

Cass clenched her fists, frustration flashing in her eyes. “You don’t understand. If we wait, he’ll use that weapon on one of us.”

Her words hung in the stale air.

The group shifted uneasily, but no one stood. 

No one dared.

Finally, Schpood gestured to the empty chair near the circle. “Stay here. For now. If Sitzkrieg really is the killer, the mansion will make it known soon enough.”

Cass hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, moving closer into the circle of survivors.

Saparata watched her carefully, his gut twisting.

He had a feeling Sitzkrieg held a grudge from earlier.

And he might just be the first victim. 

He turned to look at Cass.

But could he trust Cass?

Turning to look at others.

Could he even trust them too?

Because in this place, anyone could be wearing just another mask to feign innocence.

And the mansion had plenty of those.

Hour 9

Exhaustion finally took its toll. One by one, the group slumped into uneasy rest, the flicker of candlelight painting tired faces in the lounge. They agreed on shifts.

Pairs to keep watch while the others stole a few hours of sleep.

Saparata found himself partnered with Schpood.

Surprisingly.

The two sat by the door, silence stretching between them, broken only by the creaks of the mansion and the faint breathing of their companions.

After a long while, Schpood spoke, his voice low, almost bored.

“Y’know white boy? I’ve actually remembered things,” he said. His eyes stayed fixed on the darkness beyond the door, but his words were meant only for Saparata.

Saparata glanced at him, cautious. “You do?”

Schpood gave a short nod. “5pyder and I… we weren’t strangers who was put in this game.”

“We were going to get married.” 

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. 

“But neither of our families approved. They tried to tear us apart. Tried to make us choose.”

Saparata stayed silent, listening.

“In the end,” Schpood continued, his tone sharpening, “I made the choice for them. Do you know what I did Saps?"

Saparata shakes his head slowly.

Pretend you don't see that expression. 

"I killed them. Both families. Every last one. Because they made us choose. So I chose for them.”

Saparata’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to nod calmly. Schpood’s face was unreadable, his eyes carrying neither shame nor triumph. 

Just a bored expression.

“If we ever get out of this place alive,” Schpood said, glancing at Saparata, “I’ll propose properly. With the prize money, we won’t ever have to worry again. No one will stop us.”

Saparata leaned back, forcing a faint smile despite the unease crawling beneath his skin. “If that happens, you’d better invite me. I’ll be your witness.”

For a moment, Schpood actually smirked, a quiet huff escaping his lips. “Hmph. Fine.” 

“Our only Witness it is.”

Chapter Text

Hour 11

Saparata awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder. His eyes snapped open to see Cass crouched over him, her face pale and drawn.

“They’re gone,” she whispered urgently. “Benji and Cynikka. I can’t find either of them.”

Before he could respond, a cold chime echoed through the room. Every wristband lit up with sterile light.

PLAYER 3: BENJI – ELIMINATED.

The announcement hit like a thunderclap. Around the lounge, the others jerked awake, voices rising in frantic confusion.

“What happened?”

“Where did they go?”

“Was it Sitzkrieg?”

“Shit.”

Panic spread like wildfire.

Saparata pushed to his feet, his pulse hammering. That’s another one gone.

That’s when he noticed it.

An envelope on the floor, tucked beneath the leg of an overturned chair. His name wasn’t written on it, but something about it pulled him closer.

He tore it open.

The handwriting inside was rushed, uneven. 

Benji’s.

To whoever finds this,

 

Cynikka and I, we killed Linguini. 

 

He was tearing the group apart, turning us against each other. We thought stupidly that if we silenced him, we could buy peace. Protect the rest of you. But I can’t live with it. The guilt’s too heavy. Too loud. 

 

I’ll end it myself, as repentance.

 

Forgive me, if you can.

The letter slipped from Saparata’s fingers, landing in the dust.

The room fell silent as he read it aloud.

All eyes darted around, searching for a certain someone. 

Cynikka was nowhere to be seen.

“She ran,” 5pyder muttered, his voice grim. “She knew this would come out. She’s gone.”

Saparata stared into the shadows stretching beyond the lounge doors, his chest tight.

So it was true. His suspicion was right.

When was I ever wrong, dear Saparata?

And now Cynikka was still out there

Still alive, hunted, and cornered.

And if there was something Saparata learned here.

A cornered player could be even deadlier than the killer.

Hour 12

The lounge was stifling, its air thick with smoke from burnt-out candles. The other two – Schpood and 5pyder were arguing again on what they should do from now on, voices sharp and overlapping, but Saparata heard none of it.

Cass touched his shoulder, making him flinch.

“Walk with me,” she murmured.

He followed her out into the hallway, grateful to escape the rising storm of voices.

They stopped near the landing where the moonlight from the tall windows bled silver across the floor. Cass’s face was pale in the glow, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m calling it,” she said quietly. “Cynikka. She’s the killer.”

Saparata let the silence stretch a moment, considering her words. 

“You think she killed Benji too?”

Cass nodded sharply. “Of course she did. The letter said they killed Linguini. Maybe Benji regretted it. Maybe he was going to turn her in, and she silenced him before he could.”

Are you sure about that?

Saparata’s chest tightened. “Then we can’t wait. If we do, she’ll pick the rest of us off one by one.”

Cass’s fingers were already dancing across her wristband, summoning the glowing interface. 

She pressed the option to call a vote.

Nothing happened.

Her face paled further. “What-”

“C’mon work!”

Then, as if to mock them, sterile text appeared across their devices.

VOTING UNAVAILABLE. ALL INVOLVED PLAYERS MUST BE PRESENT.

“Shit.”

“Shit indeed.”

Cass cursed under her breath, her frustration sharp. “Of course. The system won’t even let us condemn her unless she’s here to watch.”

Saparata ground his teeth. “Then we have to find her. Tonight. Before she decides to take another extreme measure towards us.”

Cass’s jaw tightened, but she nodded.

The two of them returned to the lounge.

Cass’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“We’re hunting Cynikka.”

The room went still.

Even Schpood, who rarely showed more than detached boredom, straightened in his seat.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked slowly.

“She killed Benji,” Cass said, her voice firm. “If she isn’t the killer, she’s still dangerous. We don’t have a choice anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

Both Schpood and 5pyder exchanged glances. 

But none of them objected.

FInally, 5pyder spoke, his voice calm but cold. “Then we split up. Sweep the mansion. Whoever finds her first calls it in.”

Cass nodded. “Good. We don’t let her get away.”

Saparata’s heart pounded. 

The hunt of the killer was on.

Time was running out.

But is he truly the hunter or the hunted?

Hour 13

The left wing was silent except for the sound of Saparata’s breathing as he crept through the corridor. His communicator’s faint blue glow painted the walls in ghostly light.

Then a sound.

A faint scrape of metal on wood.

He turned just in time to see Sitzkrieg step out from a side room.

And this time, Sitzkrieg wasn’t unarmed.

A long, curved blade gleamed in his hands, catching the light from a nearby sconce. His eyes locked onto Saparata’s with an intensity that made Saparata’s blood run cold.

“Sitzkrieg,” Saparata said slowly, raising his hands. “We don’t have to-”

But Sitzkrieg was already charging.

“Die!”

Saparata dove aside as the sword hissed through the air, slamming into the wall where he had been standing a heartbeat earlier. 

Splinters flew.

His heartbeat increased as adrenaline rushed into his nerves. 

He scrambled to his feet and bolted down the hall, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Sitzkrieg followed, heavy boots thundering against the floorboards.

“Come out Saps~”

Saparata turned a corner – and froze.

Dead end.

Fuck.

He spun just as Sitzkrieg lunged. The blade arced toward his chest.

Saparata grabbed the nearest thing he could find.

A chair against the wall.

Not the best but it’ll do.

And he swung it up just in time. The metal edge bit deep into the wood, splintering it in half, but the impact was enough to knock Sitzkrieg off balance.

Saparata kicked out, catching Sitzkrieg in the knee.

The larger man grunted and stumbled back, just for a moment – just enough time for Saparata to run past him and tear back down the hallway.

His lungs burned, his legs screaming with every step.

Another slash whistled past his shoulder, close enough to nick his sleeve.

He ducked into a side passage, heart hammering, forcing himself not to trip over his own feet.

Behind him, Sitzkrieg’s footsteps slowed.

Then stopped.

Saparata pressed himself against the wall, chest heaving, waiting for the sound of pursuit to resume.

It didn’t.

When he finally dared peek around the corner, Sitzkrieg was gone.

Vanished into the maze of the mansion.

Saparata backed away slowly, his fingers digging into his palms.

The killer wasn’t the only one hunting him.

Hour 14

The fear from the encounter refused to leave his bones. Even after putting distance between himself and the left wing, Saparata’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Every creak of the floor, every distant sound made him flinch.

He was running out of time.

If only he had more time.

If Sitzkrieg was attacking now, that meant this mansion was descending into chaos faster than anyone realised.

His communicator buzzed suddenly, making him jolt.

Cass.

Cass: Found her. Hurry.

Shit.

He took off at a sprint, his breath loud in his ears. The halls blurred as he ran, heart slamming.

Time to catch their killer.

Hour 15

The west wing was sweltering. Heat shimmered faintly in the air as Saparata and Cass crept toward the sound of distant humming.

They found her.

Cynikka stood with her back to them, facing a massive iron door, her communicator glowing faintly at her wrist.

“Don’t move.”

Cass’s voice rang sharp.

Cynikka froze, then turned, slowly, her eyes catching the dim light. 

There was no fear there. 

Only a wry smile, as though she had been expecting them all along.

“So,” she said softly. “You came to kill me after all.”

Saparata swallowed hard, motioning to Cass.

Together, they forced Cynikka inside the nearest room in case she decided to run.

The heat slammed into him immediately.

A suffocating, choking wave.

And then he saw it.

The floor was bisected by a massive pit, glowing molten red. Lava bubbled and hissed far below, casting a hellish light across the chamber walls.

It wasn’t a room.

It was an execution chamber.

Just his luck.

Cynikka’s grin faltered as she realised what it was.

Cass stepped forward, communicator raised. “It ends here, Cynikka. No more running.”

Something feral flashed in Cynikka’s eyes.

She lunged.

Cass barely dodged as Cynikka’s hands slammed into the wall where she had been standing. 

Sparks of heat singed Cass’s sleeve as she stumbled back.

Before Cynikka could strike again, Cass shouted.

“I CALL FOR A VOTE!”

Her wristband flared, projecting the sterile question into the air between them.

WHO IS THE KILLER?

Cass didn’t hesitate. “I vote Cynikka.”

The text glowed red, awaiting confirmation.

Cynikka’s expression twisted with rage.

“I vote Cass then!” 

She turned on Saparata, snarling. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Then she lunged.

Saparata dodged back, the heat burning his skin as Cynikka chased him around the pit. The two collided against the iron railings, the metal scalding hot to the touch.

He tried to steady his communicator, fingers slick with sweat, as Cynikka advanced.

The timer flashed in the air.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

She lunged again, nearly knocking him over the edge.

Seven.

He kicked free, scrambling toward the safe corner of the room.

Six.

Five.

“I vote Cynikka!”

Four.

Cynikka’s foot slipped on the slick stone.

Three.

She stumbled, eyes wide.

Two.

She reached for the railing.

Missed.

One.

And then she was gone.

A horrible scream echoed through the chamber as her body plunged into the molten pit.

The vote was confirmed at the same instant.

PLAYER 5: CYNIKKA – ELIMINATED.

The text glowed cold and final as the bubbling below fell silent.

Cass stood frozen, her chest heaving. Saparata lowered his communicator slowly, his stomach knotted.

Cynikka was not the killer.

The killer was still among them.

Hour 16

“We… we might have just killed the wrong person,” Cass whispered.

Saparata didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

The mansion seemed to sense their fear. The lights overhead flickered once, twice. 

Then died completely.

Once more, the mansion was plunged into darkness.

“Cass?”

No answer.

“Cass!”

Saparata spun in place, the faint glow from his wristband barely cutting through the dark. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Then he ran.

Through hallway after hallway, his footsteps echoing like gunshots, panic clawing at his chest.

That’s when it happened.

Watch out!

A hand shot out from the darkness and yanked him sideways.

He stumbled into a room, slamming into the wall, his breath caught in his throat—

And then he saw who it was.

5pyder.

But not the same 5pyder he’d seen hours ago.

His hoodie was torn, blood smeared down his side. His breathing came shallow, ragged, and sweat beaded across his pale face.

“5pyder-”

“Shh. He’ll hear.”

The whisper was urgent.

He grabbed Saparata by the shirt and dragged him further into the room, crouching low in the shadows.

“He’s hunting us,” 5pyder hissed, voice strained. “Sitzkrieg. He’s been… hunting everyone, one by one. He got me and Schpood real bad Saps. Real bad.”

Saparata’s heart froze.

A floorboard creaked outside the room.

Heavy footsteps. 

Slow. 

Deliberate.

And getting closer.

5pyder’s hand tightened around Saparata’s wrist.

“I’ll lure him away,” he whispered.

“No – are you insane?” Saparata grabbed his arm, panic rising. “You can barely stand. You won’t make it!”

5pyder gave him a faint, broken smile.

“I’m not gonna make it either way. I’ve lost too much blood. If I stay here, I just slow you down. At least this way, you get a chance to live.”

"What about Schpood."

"I'll see him soon."

Saparata shook his head, words failing him.

5pyder placed a bloodied hand on his shoulder. His grip was weak, but his gaze was steady.

“One more thing, White boy.”

“What is it-”

“Tell Schpood I love him.”

Before Saparata could stop him, 5pyder slipped to the door, pressing his weight against it.

Then he yanked it open.

The hallway was pitch-black, but the faint glow of a communicator caught Sitzkrieg’s silhouette just a few steps away.

“HEY!” 5pyder’s voice rang out, defiant, almost a scream. “COME GET ME, YOU BASTARD!”

The footsteps stopped.

Then came the sound of a sword being drawn.

5pyder didn’t wait. He bolted down the corridor, blood smearing the walls as he ran.

Sitzkrieg followed.

The sound of pursuit faded into the distance, until there was only silence.

Saparata stayed crouched in the room, heart hammering in his chest, every muscle locked in place.

He wanted to run after him.

He wanted to save him.

But all he could do was sit there, listening to the echoes of a chase that might already be over.

Hour 17

PLAYER 10: 5PYDER – ELIMINATED 

6 hours till the end.

The killer has not been caught.

Remaining players: 6

Chapter Text

Hour 18

Saparata had no idea how long he’d stayed hidden.

Minutes?

Hours?

5pyder was gone, and it was his fault.

The darkness had swallowed time along with everything else.

Saparata’s fingers trembled as he slowly pushed the door open. The hallway outside was empty.

No sword.

No 5pyder.

No Sitzkrieg.

The coast was clear.

5pyder died because of you.

He stepped into the hall and began to run, his footfalls loud against the wooden floor. His chest burned, but he couldn’t stop

Not until he was far, far away from this wing of the house.

Then he rounded a corner.

And froze.

Someone was already there.

Again.

Fluixon.

He was leaning casually against the wall, one hand in his pocket, violet eyes glinting like a predator catching sight of prey.

Saparata skidded to a halt, every instinct screaming at him to turn and run the other way.

“Don’t,” Fluixon said smoothly, stepping forward. “No more running.”

Saparata’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because,” Fluixon said with a faint smile, “I think I’ve figured it out. There isn’t even a killer.”

That brought Saparata up short. “What?”

Fluixon spread his hands lazily, as though explaining something obvious. “Think about it. All these files, all these accusations, all this paranoia. What if the killer isn’t a person? What if it’s the game itself? It’s been forcing us to turn on each other, making us do its job for it.”

He took another step closer, lowering his voice.

“So I say we stop playing fair. You and me. We kill everyone else. And when it’s over, we split the prize. Fifty-fifty. Ten billion dollars.”

Saparata stared at him, disbelief cutting through the fear. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Fluixon said softly. “I’m pragmatic. Survival’s the only thing that matters here. And I like you, Saparata. I’d rather not kill you. So this is me giving you an out.”

Saparata’s jaw clenched. “I’m not doing this with you.”

Fluixon tilted his head, his sly grin spreading. 

He started laughing.

It was low at first, almost amused, then grew sharper, manic, until it echoed through the hall like a warning bell.

“You will. Whether you want to or not.”

Saparata took a step back, his communicator buzzing faintly on his wrist. His hand hovered near the vote prompt.

Fluixon narrows his eyes at Saparata’s fingers

“Don’t. Our votes cancels each other out.”

“Try me.”

And that’s when a new sound cut through the air.

Heavy, slow, deliberate footsteps.

Both men froze.

A shadow stretched along the hallway wall, long and monstrous.

Then Sitzkrieg stepped into view, sword glinting faintly in the dim light.

His eyes burned with a wild, feral focus.

And in that moment, Saparata knew that this man was no longer simply surviving.

He was hunting.

Saparata’s breath caught.

Fluixon’s grin didn’t fade.

“Well,” he murmured, almost amused. “Looks like we have company.”

Hour 19

Fluixon was gone.

Like the rat he is.

Just like that, one moment his violet eyes were glinting with twisted amusement, the next, he’d melted into the shadows, leaving Saparata alone.

Alone with Sitzkrieg.

This asshole.

The man grinned and took a step forward, sword glinting faintly in the low light.

Saparata did not think twice.

Saparata ran.

His footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one louder than his panicked heartbeat. Behind him, the sound of pursuit followed, steady and unrelenting.

But Sitzkrieg did not run like a man.

He stalked like a predator, tireless, patient, savoring the chase.

Saparata rounded a corner, nearly slipping on the polished floor. His lungs burned, every muscle in his body screaming, but he kept going.

Until a shape burst out of the side hallway, slamming into Sitzkrieg with enough force to knock him off balance.

The sword clattered against the ground, ringing like a death knell.

Saparata stumbled to a halt, spinning just in time to see who it was.

“Schpood?”

Schpood didn’t look at him. His face was a storm of fury, grief and something else entirely - something primal.

“You…” he spat at Sitzkrieg, shoving him back against the wall. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Sitzkrieg’s snarl was wordless, feral, as he shoved back. The two collided again, crashing into the wall so hard the paintings rattled.

It was a brutal, desperate fight.

Punch.

Kick.

Yanking.

Both men grunting and cursing.

Saparata backed away, heart in his throat, as the fight spiraled into chaos.

Then Sitzkrieg made a mistake.

He swung too wide, too fast, and his footing slipped on the slick wood floor.

Schpood was faster.

He lunged, grabbing the fallen sword from the ground, spinning with a strength born of pure rage.

For a moment, time stopped.

Then the blade flashed.

Sitzkrieg froze. His mouth opened like he meant to say something but no sound came.

He collapsed.

The hallway went deathly still.

Saparata’s wristband vibrated, cold and final.

PLAYER 6: SITZKRIEG – ELIMINATED.

Schpood stood over the body, chest heaving, knuckles white around the hilt of the sword.

Slowly, he turned to look at Saparata.

“It’s done.”

His voice sounded broken.

“This is for 5pyder.”

For a long moment, Saparata said nothing. 

Because even he did not know how to comfort a broken man.

Hour 20

The sword slipped from Schpood’s hand and clattered to the ground.

Only then did Saparata notice the blood.

Dark, heavy streaks soaked through Schpood’s shirt, blooming across his ribs where Sitzkrieg’s blade had found him before the fight.

“Sit down,” Saparata said quickly, rushing forward. “I’ll stop the bleeding-”

“There’s nothing to stop,” Schpood interrupted, sinking against the wall with a grimace. His breaths were shallow, ragged, but there was no fear in his eyes. “You think I can walk away from this? Don’t waste your strength.”

Saparata gritted his teeth. “If we find something-”

“There’s nothing here,” Schpood said, his voice rough but steady. “You know that.”

Silence settled over them, heavy and suffocating. The mansion’s halls seemed to stretch endlessly around them, as if the house itself was listening to his last words.

Finally, Schpood chuckled. It was a rough sound, but it was almost… light.

“What did he say?” he asked suddenly.

Saparata blinked. “What?”

“5pyder,” Schpood clarified, looking up at him. “Before he went to face Sitzkrieg. What did he tell you?”

“How do you know.”

“He messaged me before…”

Saparata’s chest tightened. 

Ah.

“He told me to tell you… that he loves you.”

For a moment, Schpood just stared. Then he grinned

Not the bored, detached smirk Saparata had seen before, but something warmer. 

Real.

“Tch.” He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, still smiling. “That idiot. Could’ve told me himself.”

Saparata knelt beside him, unsure what to say.

“You scared?” he asked quietly.

Schpood shook his head faintly. “Not anymore. Guess I just needed to know he said it first.”

“And I’ll probably see him later.”

“Schpood…”

“And white boy, you better be my witness. Cough! Yeah.”

“Save your breath.”

“Heh… This isn’t too bad…”

“Schpood…”

“When I go… there… I’m gonna… tell… him… that… I… I…”

The silence was deafening.

Saparata closes his eyes.

“That you love him too, Schpood.”

And just like that, his communicator gave a single, hollow chime.

PLAYER 7: SCHPOOD – ELIMINATED.

The glow of his wristband dimmed. His chest rose once more, then stilled.

Saparata sat there for a long time, staring at the body.

I’m sorry.

Saparata closed Schpood’s eyes and stood.

Glancing back at the bloody sword, Saparata pauses.

And in one hand, he grips the sword.

Hour 21

The hall was quiet except for Saparata’s breathing.

His wristband glowed.

PLAYER 9: CASS – ELIMINATED.

The words burned across the screen before fading back into blackness.

For a moment, Saparata just stood there.

Cass.

Gone.

Just like that.

Saparata’s hand tightened around the sword until his knuckles turned white.

Fluixon.

It had to be him.

There was no hesitation this time, no second-guessing. The sly smile, the offer to kill everyone and split the prize.

This was his work.

Saparata turned and began walking.

Not running.

Not this time.

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing down the mansion’s endless halls. Each one louder than the last.

He would find Fluixon.

And when he did, this game would end.

With one more death.

The killer has not been caught.

Remaining players: 3

Chapter Text

Hour 22

Every hallway felt shorter, every corner inevitable, until Saparata found himself standing in the grand entrance.

Where it all begun.

And there he was.

Fluixon.

He stood at the center of the hall as though he had been waiting for hours, the light of the chandelier catching on the blade he held loosely at his side. His black hair fell in messy strands across his forehead, and his violet eyes burned like distant stars.

When he saw Saparata, he smiled.

Careful.

“Wow, you actually showed up.”

“Couldn’t say no to a friend, can I?”

Saparata gritted his teeth.

“Shut up.”

Fluixon only grinned further.

“You know Saps, just a few minutes ago Cass told me something very funny. Right before I killed her.”

Saparata froze, his breath catching.

Fluixon tilted his head, grin widening. “She said you’d come for her. That you’d save her. But you didn’t. You let her die.”

The words hit like a punch, but Saparata refused to flinch.

“You bastard.”

Fluixon chuckled, taking a step forward. “Call me what you like. It doesn’t change the truth – I’m the last one left who matters.”

He lifted his wrist, the communicator glowing faintly in the darkness.

“So let’s end this. One vote, right here, right now. No more running. No more waiting.”

“No.”

The word was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the air.

Fluixon blinked, then threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh? No?”

He lowered his wrist and let the communicator fade, his grin curling into something darker.

“Then what do you want, Saparata?”

Saparata stepped forward, raising the sword he’d taken from Sitzkrieg.

“A duel.”

Fluixon’s grin widened into something wild and delighted.

“Now that,” he said, raising his own blade and twirling it lazily in one hand, “is more like it.”

Hour 23

Their blades met again and again, each strike ringing through the cavernous space like thunder. Sparks flew when steel kissed steel. The chandeliers above swayed wildly from the shockwaves of their battle, scattering fractured light across the polished marble floor.

Fluixon was fast – faster than Saparata expected. Every movement was fluid, graceful, almost playful, like a dancer toying with his partner. But there was an edge of desperation now, a manic energy in his violet eyes as he pressed forward again and again.

Saparata blocked, dodged, parried – every clash of their weapons sent shivers through his arms, every dodge was a breath stolen from his lungs. Sweat mixed with blood on his brow as they tore through the hall, overturning chairs, slicing through tablecloths, knocking over priceless vases that shattered against the floor.

“You’re good,” Fluixon panted, grin feral. “Better than I thought. I almost-”

Saparata drove forward, cutting off his words with a vicious strike that nearly knocked the sword from his hand.

Fluixon staggered back, smirking even through the pain. “Almost makes me wish I’d killed you earlier.”

Saparata’s eyes narrowed. “You should’ve.”

He charged.

Mistake. 

Steel screeched as Saparata twisted, knocking Fluixon’s blade from his grip and sending it spinning across the floor. Fluixon stumbled, falling to one knee, clutching his chest.

Saparata stood over him, sword raised, breathing hard.

For a long, tense moment, neither of them moved. The hall was silent except for their ragged breaths.

Then Fluixon laughed – a soft, almost genuine sound this time.

“You got me,” he said simply.

His violet eyes softened as he looked up at Saparata. 

“I love you.”

The words landed like a blade to Saparata’s chest. His grip on the sword faltered for a heartbeat.

“Shut up.”

“I love you.”

“No! You don’t.”

Fluixon looks at Saps. And with difficulty, he stands. 

He takes Saparata’s face into his hands. 

Smearing blood on his face.

Fluixon’s smile widened – bittersweet this time. “I love you.”

“Stop.”

Before Saparata could speak more, Fluixon leaned forward, pushing the blade into him even more.

Just enough for the blade to pierce his heart.

Blood pools at Fluixon mouth as he stares at Saparata for one last time.

I don't understand.

The communicator on Saparata’s wrist chimed softly, almost gently.

PLAYER 2: FLUIXON ELIMINATED.

The hall fell silent again.

Fluixon’s body slumped to the floor, his violet eyes still open, staring at nothing.

Saparata stood there for a long moment, chest heaving.

It was over.

But, why?

Why did he felt as if he lost something?

1 hour till the end.

The killer has not been caught.

Remaining players: 2

Chapter Text

Hour 24

Saparata’s knees wobbled as he stood in the empty grand hall, the golden light of dawn spilling across the floor.

Fluixon was supposed to be the killer.

He had to be.

And yet… everyone was gone.

Except for him.

His mind spun. 

Who was the real killer?

Aren’t you curious?

Saparata froze. His eyes darted around.

“Who… who are you?” he demanded.

I’ve always been here.

Before he could respond, a folder dropped in front of him.

He picked it up with trembling hands.

It was his own folder.

His stomach sank as he opened it.

Do you get it now?

“No. No. No. Impossible! No! You’re lying.”

You know for such a character like yourself, you sure are deep in denial.

“Who are you?!”

Someone.

“No. No. No.”

Hmmm. He sure is in denial alright. Who knew such a character would have a split personality?

“The one who had orchestrated the deaths, the one who had killed everyone in the mansion… It was me…”

Is that your conclusion?

“And… Flux.”

What about him?

“I loved him, didn’t I?”

Ah! You saw the photos? Isn’t it so cute? Both of you always together.”

“It was… me…”

Aye, Saps what are doing?

Saparata reached for his communicator.

There was only one thing left to do.

A vote.

Hey now, let’s all calm down.

The devices on his wrist projected a same question in cold, sterile text.

WHO IS THE KILLER?

“Myself,” he whispered, voice trembling.

“It was me.”

Woah, woah woah. Chill, let's not do this.

“Shut up! It was my fault! It always was!”

Sigh, they never listen. Do they?

The countdown ticked mercilessly.

Well then, it is what it is, isn’t it?

PLAYER 1: SAPARATA – ELIMINATED.

Goodbye my favourite performer.

Saparata widened his eyes. 

“I’m a player? Not the killer?”

They really never listen do they?

A screen flickered to life in front of Saparata one last time.

The sterile glow painted his face in cold light.

His eyes skimmed the words.

A hollow, broken sound escaped him.

“I see,” he murmured.

Then he looked up.

Straight at YOU.

A faint, almost unreadable smile tugged at his lips.

“It truly was a good game.”

It was.

“Wasn’t it?”

Thank you for your time, Saparata.

“Readers?”

The killer has not been caught.

Remaining players: 1

Congratulations, PLAYER 11 - READERS (killer) for winning.

Chapter Text

Let me help you for the truth to sit in.

All this time, all the chaos, the deaths, the betrayals… it wasn’t just the mansion.

It wasn’t just the game.

It was you.

You – the one reading.

Every choice you made to continue reading, every moment you lingered on this story, every glance you gave was part of the game.

You were the killer all along.

The players could have been saved. They could have lived.

The characters you loved, every bond, every relationship. It could have been saved.

Only if you left this story.

But did you stop reading?

You read, you played, and now the game is over.

You won.

And from the bottom of my heart as this story’s host. 

Thank you for playing this game.

Player 11,

Congratulations. Out of the 11 we have chosen, you had come out as the final victor.

You claimed victory, as expected of such a player.

Now, here's the question for you:

Will you play again?