Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Document. Report. Investigate. Write it down.

The words looped relentlessly in your head, an endless drumbeat of need: information, always more information. Something to observe, something to document, something to hold in check. The survivors didn’t have all the answers—you knew that—but killers? They were no exception.

Not even two minutes into the round, and you’d already made a fatal mistake. Asking John Doe about Jane Doe had been like tossing a live wire into a cage. The name slipped from your lips, a whisper of bait. For a heartbeat, he froze. Then, like a glitch snapping back to life, his focus snapped to you. His fury sharpened into a singular point, and suddenly, you were the only thing on his map.

Your legs screamed as you ran, each footfall thudding in your ears. Behind you, John Doe moved with unhinged precision, relentless and terrifying. There was no time to think—only the primal rhythm of sprinting, and the urgent, desperate need to survive.

Out of nowhere, Shedletsky dropped in, his stun cracking through the air like a bolt of lightning, cutting off the killer’s pursuit in a dazzling flash.

“Thanks, Shed!” you gasped, ducking behind him as you both scrambled for cover. You sank into the shadows, chest heaving, lungs clawing for air.

Shedletsky gave a brief, composed nod, calm as ever, while your adrenaline refused to let you think straight.

“That was… close,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes never stopped scanning the darkness, sharp and calculating. “You’ve got a real knack for getting yourself into trouble, don’t you?”

You gave a nervous smile and a hesitant thumbs-up.

“I’m a journalist… I thrive on information,” you admitted, your voice dipping low as if confessing a secret. “And anything that could help us get out of this place…”

Shedletsky chuckled softly, shaking his head. He knew all too well about your relentless drive for answers.

“You’re way too curious for your own good,” he said, teasing, his tone easy but not unkind.

He leaned back against the wall, eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of John Doe.

Shedletsky was one of the few who didn’t mind your constant questions. Sure, he’d admit you were a little strange, maybe even suspicious at times, but who was he to judge? He’d grown used to your endless questions and eccentric behavior, and even when it got you into trouble, he appreciated your curiosity. Everyone had their quirks, and your obsession with uncovering the truth was just… yours.

“Speaking of your investigation,” he said suddenly, fixing you with a sharp, knowing look, “I hear you’ve been talking to 007n7 a lot lately.”

You froze, clearing your throat.

“Uh—yeah,” you stammered, forcing a casual shrug. “He was a famous exploiter once, y’know. I’ve always wanted to interview him.” Half a lie, you fell in step beside Shedletsky as you scoured the map for a generator.

He shot you a sideways glance, clearly not fully convinced, but chose not to press. Instead, he smirked and nudged your elbow.

“Just be careful who you talk to in this place,” he warned lightly. “Some folks don’t take kindly to nosy reporters.”

You slowly nodded, trying to etch his words into your brain, though your mind was already spinning with a dozen questions you might ask if he let his guard down.

As you moved through the map, the distant growl of John Doe echoed around you, a chilling reminder that he was still on the hunt.

When you finally stumbled across a generator, the two of you bent over it, twisting wires and testing circuits. The hum of electricity filled the cramped corridor, punctuated only by the distant, menacing growl of John Doe somewhere in the shadows.

“Now that we’re actually here together…” you began, your voice trailing as you fumbled with your words. You could feel your heart pick up the pace, the awkward tension knotting in your stomach.

Shedletsky, of course, immediately knew where this was going. His eyes rolled so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. He could feel the familiar pull of your curiosity dragging him into something, and he was not interested.

“No.” His voice cut through your hesitation like a well-sharpened knife. He kept one hand on the generator, not even glancing your way. “I’m not getting involved in whatever information-gathering scheme you’ve cooked up this time.”

You tilted your head, lips pouting in that pathetic, pleading way you always did when trying to coax info out of someone. “Aw… not even a few questions?” you murmured, your voice small but hopeful, like a kid testing boundaries.

Shedletsky shook his head, the slightest twitch of irritation crossing his otherwise calm expression. “No, [Name].” Each word was deliberate, heavy with warning. “I’ve seen how your ‘just a few questions’ spiral into full-blown interrogations. I’m not getting entangled in that.”

You made a tiny, defeated noise, the kind that teetered somewhere between a sigh and a whine. “I… I just thought… maybe we could, you know… talk?” you added awkwardly, fingers twisting the strap of your bag, cheeks heating at your own embarrassment.

Shedletsky’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, but he shook his head again, muttering under his breath, “Curiosity will be the death of you.”

And there it was—you knew you’d lost this round, but that didn’t stop your brain from racing, plotting just a few harmless questions you could sneak in while he wasn’t looking.

You returned to the generator, muttering under your breath. Your mind refused to quiet itself—endless thoughts spiraling in a constant loop, questions you hadn’t asked yet, observations you hadn’t made. Talking to yourself was the only way to keep it all straight, a nervous habit that somehow helped you focus.

“Okay… wires here, maybe reroute—wait, if I just—” you muttered, twisting a loose cable. Your fingers trembled slightly with anticipation, the generator’s hum loud in your ears. You barely noticed the faint vibration in your bag as you fiddled with your radio, trying to log what you’d seen earlier, just in case.

Then it hit you—something wasn’t right. Shadows shifted faster than they should, and the familiar oppressive silence of the corridors stretched around you like a vice. You looked up.

Giant, jagged pillars had erupted between you and Shedletsky, slicing the path apart. Panic shot through you. You realized instantly—John Doe had heard you.

“Fuck! Run!” Shedletsky cursed, pivoting on his heel and sprinting the opposite way. You barely had time to react before you were forced to take a different route, heart hammering in your chest.

Your legs pumped, feet slamming against the cold, cracked floor as you tried to find cover. A glimpse of a shadow ahead made you skid to a halt. You crouched low, fumbling with the straps of your bag, wishing you had a second to think.

In your panic, your fingers brushed the radio, and—without thinking—you keyed it, trying to discreetly record the situation for later, to document your next move. A soft buzz hummed as the device transmitted… and then your stomach sank.

You’d activated your broadcast. Not fully aware of the mechanics, you only realized a fraction of a second too late: a faint shimmer appeared around you. Your aura—the subtle hum of your presence—was now visible.

A sharp cry of frustration ripped from your throat. “No, no, no!”

Your foot caught on a digital footprint embedded in the floor. Pain shot through your ankle as you stumbled, giving away your location even further. The faint glow of your aura pulsed in the darkness, marking you for John Doe.

Ahead, the chilling sound of his growl echoed, sharp and hungry. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but you were trapped between your own nervous energy, the unpredictable spread of your radio, and the predator closing in. Your mind raced, thinking of escape routes, generators to finish, notes to take… anything. Anything to survive.

You cursed under your breath, realizing that even your obsessive drive for information—the very thing that made you a survivor in theory—had just painted a literal target on your back.

John Doe’s enraged growl reverberated through the corridors, each step shaking the ground beneath you. Your aura glowed faintly, a beacon in the darkness, and you knew he was zeroing in. His clawed arm twitched with lethal intent, each movement radiating the kind of raw, unpredictable violence that made even the strongest survivors falter.

Your lungs burned. Every breath felt ragged, every sprinting step a gamble against exhaustion. Yet, even with death closing in like a shadow with teeth, your mind refused to be silenced. Questions clawed their way to your lips, desperate to escape.

“Are you being forced to do this!? Can you talk with other killers!? Does Jane Doe know this!?” you yelled, words tumbling out in a frantic rush as you zigzagged through the corridor. Your voice cracked with the effort, lungs heaving, heart hammering like a war drum. You dodged a jagged pillar just in time, narrowly avoiding a slash that would have torn your arm apart.

For a heartbeat, something flickered in John Doe’s eyes—a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty. Your barrage of questions, the relentless torrent of curiosity, had struck an unexpected nerve. The mention of Jane Doe, his silent anchor or perhaps a reminder of something buried, seemed to shake his focus for a brief instant.

And yet, instinct and fury were stronger than hesitation. He snapped back, a low, guttural roar tearing from his throat, and surged forward with renewed ferocity. Claws slashed through the air, inches from your face, as if to silence the questions that dared pierce his rage.

You stumbled over a loose floor panel, nearly losing your footing. Pain shot up your leg, and for a moment, panic clawed at you like a living thing. But there was no time to dwell—you had to keep moving. The hum of your radio buzzed faintly at your side, a subtle reminder of your obsessive need to document, to survive… and now, to live through this nightmare.

Each step felt like running on a knife’s edge. Shadows shifted around you, pillars and debris blurring past, John Doe’s growls echoing behind you like a chorus of doom. Your mind raced, fingers twitching toward your radio, hoping—desperately—that you could somehow turn this chaotic, life-threatening moment into a thread of usable information, a lifeline of knowledge you could cling to.

But the killer was relentless. Every glance over your shoulder showed him closing the distance, claws slicing air mere inches from your body. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, adrenaline screaming, every instinct screaming run, dodge, survive.

A sudden, searing pain ripped through your back. You screamed, stumbling forward as corrupt energy coursed violently through your body, hot and suffocating. Every nerve screamed, every instinct screamed, run, run, run!

In a frantic blur, you spun around and yanked your camera from its strap, hands shaking. The device felt impossibly heavy in your grip, yet you forced yourself to aim, to focus, to act.

A blinding flash erupted from the lens. Light slammed into the darkness, cutting through shadows like a knife. John Doe reeled, the stun knocking him off balance for the precious two seconds you needed. His claws faltered mid-swing, his rage momentarily paused in the brilliance of your desperate maneuver.

You didn’t think, you just ran. Every step felt like a sprint against death itself. The thundering of your heart drowned out the echoes of the world around you, every nerve screaming with relief that you were still alive.

“RRRGH—!” John Doe’s roar shredded the air as he shook off the disorientation, eyes blazing with fury sharper than ever. You could feel his presence pressing in, a predator closing the distance—but it didn’t matter. Not now.

You dove behind the nearest pillar, sliding into the shadows, chest heaving, lungs clawing for air. Fingers pressed to your shaking knees, you tried not to make a sound, trying not to think about the fact that one misstep could end it all.

And then… silence.

For a moment, it was just you and the faint hum of a generator somewhere in the distance. No claws. No growls. No searing pain. Just the steady, ragged beat of your own heart in your ears.

You pressed your back against the cold stone, closing your eyes and letting the tension bleed out of your body. You were safe. For now.

You forced yourself to peek out from behind the pillar, eyes darting across the corridor. John Doe stumbled around for a moment, his movements jerky and unsteady, still reeling from the afterimage of the camera flash. He muttered under his breath, grunting in frustration as he realized he’d lost track of you. Relief flooded through your chest like ice water, making it hard to think clearly, but for a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to breathe.

Then reality hit. John Doe wasn’t gone—he was still hunting, still a predator in the shadows. His heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed against the walls as he scoured the area. Every sense in your body screamed that you couldn’t linger, that one wrong movement would spell disaster.

Suddenly, his attention shifted, snapping toward another survivor farther down the map. A flicker of hope ignited—you weren’t completely alone in this nightmare. Thank God.

You sagged to the floor, knees hitting the cold, unforgiving stone, and pressed your trembling fingers against your bloodied shoulder. The earlier collision with the spikes and the digital footprint had taken a toll more severe than you’d initially realized. The pain throbbed, sharp and insistent, crawling up your arm and settling into your chest. Blood trickled down, warm and sticky, searing where it touched your sleeve.

You winced, inhaling shakily through clenched teeth. Every instinct screamed that you needed to move, that staying still—even for a second—was a risk you couldn’t afford. Your mind couldn’t help but replay your earlier words, the questions you’d shouted in your panic. What was I thinking? You cursed yourself silently. John Doe wasn’t exactly the chatty type. Asking him anything had been… stupid. Reckless. A blatant invitation to get yourself shredded.

Yet here you were, still alive, barely. Still breathing, still thinking. That, somehow, counted for something.

Your gaze flicked to the shadows, scanning for cover, for the faint glow of a safe route, for anything that would buy you a few more precious seconds. One of two things had to happen: either the others would pull him away long enough for them to finish the generators, or he’d circle back, and your luck—already stretched thin—would finally run out.

Clenching your jaw against the pain, you hauled yourself to your feet, every step a battle against the throbbing ache in your shoulder and the sting of fresh wounds. Time wasn’t on your side. Every second counted. Every step could be the one that kept you alive—or ended it all.

You swallowed the panic lumping in your throat, forcing your trembling limbs to move. Move. Think. Survive. That was all that mattered now.

Your mind raced, spinning over the scraps of information you’d managed to gather—or, more accurately, the scraps you hadn’t. John Doe’s flinch at the mention of Jane Doe had been a clue, a tiny spark of something hidden beneath that cold, terrifying exterior. You knew you should’ve done more, tried harder—but the panic clawed at your chest, making it impossible to think straight.

Your fingers trembled as they hovered over your radio. You had to document this—everything was worth noting—but your hands shook violently, sweat slicking your palms. You misclicked. Just a slip… but it was enough.

A faint glow blossomed around you. Your aura—the subtle signature of your presence—lit up like a flare in the darkness. Panic exploded in your chest. No, no, no, no, no!

The sound behind you came in a heartbeat, a sickening, inhuman rasp. You spun around.

It was too late.

John Doe’s spikes tore through you like lightning, cold and merciless. Pain didn’t have time to register. There was no warning, no struggle—only the abrupt, terrifying instant of death. Your scream caught in your throat, echoing faintly in the void, swallowed immediately by darkness.

Then nothing.

You gasped awake in the lobby, the shock of it still rattling through your bones. Your lungs heaved, chest tight as if you’d been running for hours, sweat dampening your hair. Chance sat cross-legged beside you, casual as ever, giving you a lazy wave.

“Sup,” he said, completely unfazed.

“Damnit…” you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. Your shoulder still throbbed where you’d been impaled in that awful, instantaneous way. Not only had you gained almost no information, but John Doe had obliterated you in the most humiliating fashion possible. And all because I had to fidget with my stupid radio…

You swallowed hard, trying to calm your racing heart. Focus. Survive. Learn. Next time, maybe… maybe I’ll actually get the info before dying like an idiot.

Chance quirked an eyebrow at your frustrated groan, clearly entertained by your predicament. His grin was easy, effortless, like someone watching a high-stakes game play out exactly as expected.

“Rough round?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice as he leaned back casually. “Looks like John Doe didn’t exactly appreciate your… little interview session.”

You froze, cheeks heating violently. Did he really see that? Your hands fumbled with your radio strap as you tried to look anywhere but at him.

“How—” you started, panic creeping into your voice, but Chance cut you off with a soft, knowing chuckle.

“Oh, I saw,” he said, voice smooth, almost lazy, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips told a different story—one of amusement and just a hint of mischief. “Saw everything. You, flailing like a cat in a rainstorm, your aura lighting up like a neon sign, your little ‘interview attempt’ with John Doe… Not the brightest move, by the way.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your face, wishing you could melt into the floor. The embarrassment burned hotter than the pain in your shoulder, and your thoughts raced: Of course Chance saw. Of course. Why would he not?

Chance leaned forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief and thrill. “But hey,” he added, his tone shifting just slightly, playful yet daring, “sometimes taking risks pays off. Maybe next time, you get some actual info… or maybe he’d just spike you again. That’s the gamble, right?”

You groaned again, realizing that between your bruised ego, throbbing shoulder, and Chance’s teasing, you were not going to catch a moment of peace anytime soon. Survival here was a game… and Chance was definitely playing it on hard mode.

Either way, you weren’t about to let him have the upper hand in this verbal duel. Not when your pride—and your need to reclaim some sense of control—was on the line.

“So landing your coin four times in a row on tails is the thrill of the gamble?” you shot back, brow arched, voice sharp with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

Chance threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and easy, completely unbothered by your comeback. He rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head like a cat stretching before a sprint, eyes glinting with amusement under those glasses.

“Touché,” he said, voice casual, but that smirk at the corner of his mouth gave away the thrill he took in the exchange. “But hey, at least I had luck on my side.”

Then, with a tilt of his head and a playful glint, he added softly, almost as if savoring the word, “You just had audacity.”

Audacity. The word hung in the air, reverberating in your mind like an echo of past reprimands. It wasn’t the first time someone had called you that—bold, reckless, relentless—but somehow it landed differently this time.

You exhaled, uncertain how to feel. Part of you wanted to brush it off, part of you couldn’t help the tiny flicker of pride that sparked in your chest. Either way, dwelling on it wouldn’t do. You needed to regain focus—or at least pretend you did.

“Actually, now that we’re alone…” Your eyes flicked to Chance, sharp and calculating, a subtle tension threading through your words. You could see the slight smirk tugging at his lips, the way his posture relaxed yet somehow screamed that he already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

Chance let out a low, amused chuckle, the sound carrying that effortless swagger that always seemed to mask how dangerous he actually was. He noticed the glint in your eyes—the one that meant trouble was brewing. The journalist spark, the insatiable need to dig, to know everything, had ignited again.

"Ah, here we go again," he said, his voice smooth, teasing, but not without a note of genuine curiosity. "Can't ever get a moment's peace without that journalist brain kicking into gear, can I?"

His dark sunglasses caught the dim light, reflecting the living room in shards of black glass, hiding whatever flicker of thought might have crossed his eyes. He leaned casually against a wall, one foot propped up, posture relaxed—but you knew better. Every inch of him screamed alert, aware, dangerous.

You already had your notebook in hand, pencil poised like a microphone aimed at him, heart thudding in anticipation. You tried to keep your voice steady.

"I just… wanted to know about the Sonnellinos—" you started, hesitation creeping in. That was dangerously personal territory.

For a split second, Chance’s smirk faltered. Behind those dark lenses, his gaze sharpened, hard and distant. You caught the slightest tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders. History with the Sonnellinos wasn’t just a story—it was a wound, and mentioning it was like tossing a spark near gasoline.

“Whoa there,” he said, forcing a chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His tone was light, teasing, but the pause underlined the weight behind the words. “That’s… digging into old history. You’re really aiming high today, huh?”

He crossed his arms, the gesture casual but protective, a barrier against intrusion. “Let’s, uh… not do this right now.”

You felt your chest tighten, a mix of disappointment, curiosity, and something else—something sharper, like the thrill of danger brushing your fingertips. You couldn’t help it; your mind raced. He’s hiding something big. Something dangerous. And I’m going to find out.

Chance noticed the spark of stubborn determination in your eyes and allowed himself a small, wry smirk. Behind those black lenses, he was amused, maybe even entertained, but the edge never left his voice. “Look, I don’t mind talking,” he added carefully, “but not here. Not now. You keep poking at this, and… well, it’s not just me who might get pissed. Some debts don’t get forgotten.”

You swallowed, realizing that there was more to him than the playful, teasing surface. Beneath the charm and reckless grin, there was a man constantly running from a past that could catch up to him any second. And the audacity of your curiosity? It just made you that much more dangerous to yourself.

You sighed, lowering the notebook slightly, but the journalist in you refused to let go entirely. Some questions had to wait. Others… wouldn’t.

“O-Okay, sorry,” you stammered, cheeks burning as you glanced down at your notebook. Yeah, maybe you had jumped him a little—okay, more than a little—with that personal question. You couldn’t help it. Curiosity clawed at your brain like a caged animal, refusing to let go.

Chance exhaled, a low, almost amused sound, and gave you a small nod, acknowledging your apology. His fingers raked through his hair, then he scratched the back of his head, briefly looking away as if collecting his thoughts. When his gaze returned to you, his expression had softened, lighter now, teasing just enough to ease the tension—but not completely.

“It’s whatever,” he said dismissively, though the tilt of his head and the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed the faint amusement he felt. “Just… maybe tone down the interrogation mode sometimes, yeah? Not all of us are keen on spilling our whole life stories to reporters.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, feeling your stomach twist. You knew he was right—well, technically—but that didn’t make the sting of being rebuffed any easier.

“But I—” you began, voice cracking slightly under the weight of urgency, “I need the information. It’s… it could be crucial.” You clutched your notebook tightly, the paper crumpling slightly in your grip. Notes, sketches, scattered observations—all your lifeline in this place.

Chance tilted his head, dark sunglasses reflecting the dim corridor around you both. “Crucial, huh?” His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity threading through it. “You make it sound like knowing a little more about the Sonnellinos—or me—will save the world or something.”

You swallowed, nodding, barely able to meet his eyes. “Maybe not the world, but it could save… us. Or at least give us a chance.” Your words were rushed, almost pleading. “Every little detail could make the difference.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall, one leg propped casually. “Alright, alright,” he said after a pause, his tone light, but edged with something heavier underneath. "I get it. You think digging through secrets is the shortcut out of here. That maybe, if you turn over enough stones, you’ll find the exit. But pressing people too hard—especially the wrong people—won’t end well for you."

A silence, sharp and cutting, hung between you.

"Or any of us."

The words struck you harder than you expected, tightening your grip on the notebook.

"I don’t care if it makes people uncomfortable," you blurted out, your voice trembling at the edges. "I can’t stay here forever, Chance—I won’t. There has to be a way out. I just need something—anything—to hold onto." Your pencil shook in your hand as though you were writing even as you spoke, desperate not to lose a word.

He tilted his head, sunglasses catching the low light, unreadable. His smirk was gone.

"And honestly," he finally muttered, scratching at the back of his neck like the words themselves tasted bitter, "you pressing so damn hard? It makes people wary of you."

The world seemed to still around you.

"I—What?" you whispered, stunned.

Chance gestured vaguely toward the empty lobby. His voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. "You’re not subtle. Everyone sees it—the way you corner people, the way you pry. Survivors are nervous. Hell, killers notice it too. And if you push too far? You could make yourself a target. You think you’re searching for answers, but some people are starting to think you’re just… asking for trouble."

He glanced at you once more, meeting your eyes through the shades. For a brief moment, there was no playfulness, no gambler’s charm—just a heavy warning.

"Slow down. Or you won’t like where it takes you."

You stood frozen, heart pounding, notebook heavy in your hand. His words clung to you like shadows. When he sighed, muttered something half-heartedly apologetic, and walked off, you were left standing in the silence, hollow.

The others were still in the trial. You were alone.

And you hated the way Chance made you feel like you were more trapped than ever.

Chapter Text

The following morning found you sitting alone at one of the worn cafeteria tables, half-distractedly chewing on a piece of fruit. Your other hand darted across your notebook, flipping pages and scrawling notes so quickly it looked less like organized thought and more like a desperate scramble to catch something slipping away. Every so often, you paused, tapping the pen against your jaw, frowning at the chaotic mess of half-legible sentences.

The din of voices around you felt distant—until the seat beside you creaked. Someone had sat down, uninvited, without hesitation.

You looked up and froze.

Guest 1337.

He wasn’t usually the type to initiate—people tended to drift toward him instead, drawn by his reputation, his stubborn courage, or that relentless spark in his eyes. But here he was, leaning slightly forward, elbows on the table, studying the storm of papers you had scattered. His expression flickered between curiosity and a kind of uncertain bravery, like even this simple act of sitting beside you required effort, most likely because they were wary of you.

"You… uh," he began, voice low and awkward, eyes darting from your scribbles to your face and back again. "You good?"

You blinked, caught off guard. Your throat felt dry, and you cleared it with a small cough, trying to summon something resembling composure. A smile tugged at your lips, but it came out shaky, uncertain.

"Yes. Perfect…!" you said brightly, too brightly. The words felt clumsy and alien as they left your mouth, as though you’d borrowed them from someone else and hadn’t quite learned how to wear them.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant chatter of the room. Guest 1337 tilted his head slightly, his expression softening—not skeptical, but searching.

Guest 1337 raised an eyebrow, his disbelief almost comically plain on his face. The corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a smirk, but his tone was flat when he answered.

“Yeah… right.” His voice carried a dry edge that didn’t quite match the earnestness usually associated with him. He scratched the back of his neck, then gestured vaguely at your notebook. “Look, I’m not great with this kinda thing, but—if you’re gonna be digging for info like a crazy person, at least try not to get yourself killed every round.”

You froze, the words hitting harder than you expected. Heat crawled up the back of your neck as you cleared your throat, forcing a laugh that came out thinner than you intended.

“I… what do you mean…?”

Guest 1337 gave you a stare so direct it was almost insulting. His expression was equal parts tired and exasperated, like he couldn’t believe you were actually pretending not to understand.

“Seriously?” he said bluntly, leaning an elbow on the table as if to anchor his irritation. “We’ve been stuck here long enough for me to notice—every damn game you’re always the first one hunted. You don’t hide, you don’t plan, you just run around like a headless chicken. And—” he sighed, lifting a hand as though trying to count but giving up halfway “—I swear, I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had to stun c00lk1dd to save you.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, but there was an undeniable bite in his honesty. He didn’t sugarcoat.

And yet, instead of shrinking back, you felt a flicker of opportunity.

“Talking about it,” you said quickly, seizing the chance like a vulture spotting carrion, “c00lk1dd was launching towards you when you stunned him. How did it feel…?”

An interrogation, disguised in the flimsy wrapping of an innocent question. Even as you spoke, your notebook was already flipped to a fresh page, pen poised, eyes bright with hunger for details.

Guest 1337 immediately stiffened. His gaze sharpened, suspicion flashing like steel. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest in a wall of resistance, the picture of someone who had learned—fast—not to fall for tricks.

“…No.” The word was blunt, final, and laced with the kind of stubbornness that could stop a train. He narrowed his eyes at you, the disbelief deepening. “Not happening. I’m not playing your little Q&A, [Name]. Not today.”

The firmness of his refusal carried weight; not anger, but a line drawn clear in the sand. And the more he braced against you, the more the silence around the table seemed to echo with all the unasked questions pressing against your tongue.

You went quiet, the words lodging in your throat. Heat crept up the back of your neck, and you found yourself staring at the messy scrawl of your notes instead of at him. With a small, reluctant nod, you admitted the truth in his bluntness. Shame pressed down heavy in your chest—because he wasn’t wrong.

Guest 1337’s stern expression softened when he caught the flicker of guilt on your face. The hard line of his jaw loosened, and for a moment, his usual fire dimmed into something gentler.

“Look…” he exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache. His voice carried both frustration and a strange patience, the kind someone only has when they’ve decided not to give up on you—yet. “I get that you’re all about chasing info, and, yeah, that’s your thing. But could you at least try—” his tone shifted into a dry sarcasm as he gestured at you, “—to be a little less reckless? Just once?”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, eyes locking with yours. There was no malice in them, only concern wrapped in his usual blunt delivery.

“If you keep making yourself a walking target, you’re going to get yourself killed. Simple as that.” His words hit with the weight of someone who had already watched too many people die.

Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up, the thought escaping raw and unfiltered.

“I don’t mind getting killed,” you blurted, voice firmer than you intended, “as long as I die with answers.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

Guest 1337 froze for a beat, blinking as though replaying your words in his head. Then his brows drew together, not in anger, but in a kind of startled disbelief—like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you, laugh at you, or both.

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” he asked finally, his tone caught between exasperation and concern.

He sighed, shaking his head, the weight of it pulling his shoulders down.

“That’s… pretty damn stupid,” he said bluntly, though his voice had dropped to something quieter, almost tired. “Look, I get you want answers. We all do. But throwing yourself at death every single round isn’t noble—it’s just—” He faltered, lips pressing into a thin line as though even saying it out loud irritated him. Finally, the words came out in a sharp exhale. “It’s just a goddamn stupid idea.”

You sat in silence, staring at him. The notebook in front of you suddenly felt heavier than it should have, its blank pages practically humming with temptation. His scolding had settled in your chest, but not enough to quiet that restless itch inside you—the one that always pushed, always demanded more.

Your fingers slid over the notebook’s cover before you even realized what you were doing. Slowly, you flipped it open again, pen hovering, your eyes flicking toward him.

There was a pause, a hesitation, but your curiosity slipped past restraint, bleeding into words before you could stop yourself.

“…Was the Bacon War really that horrifying?”

The question was quieter than you intended, but its weight was unmistakable.

Guest 1337 froze. His entire body stiffened, as if bracing for impact. His hands curled against his knees, fingers twitching ever so slightly, like some long-ingrained reflex was trying to drag him toward a weapon that wasn’t there anymore. His jaw locked, and when he spoke, his voice came out low—dangerously low.

“…Don’t.”

One syllable, flat and sharp, enough to cut the air between you.

Your pen hovered for a moment, trembling with hesitation. Every instinct told you to back off. To let the silence sit, to respect the clear boundary that Guest 1337 had just drawn.

But you weren’t built that way. You never had been.

Your lips parted before you could even process what you were saying.

“What happened to your wife? Did you truly had kids—”

The words slipped out like poison, too quick to be recalled. And in the split second that followed, you swore you felt the entire air in the room collapse.

Guest 1337’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide with something raw and volatile. For a heartbeat, his expression wasn’t just surprise—it was disbelief. Genuine, horrified disbelief. How did you even know about that part? That wound wasn’t public, wasn’t written anywhere, wasn’t meant to be touched.

Then, without warning, he surged to his feet. The chair scraped harshly against the floor, drawing more attention than you wanted. His entire body coiled tight, every muscle strung with barely restrained violence. His jaw locked so hard you could see the tension in the cords of his neck.

For a fleeting moment—just a moment—you saw the war veteran in him surface. The survivor. The soldier who had bled and burned and buried more than anyone should. It was like watching a blade being drawn from its sheath: sudden, sharp, dangerous.

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the air, clipped and absolute, colder than anything you’d heard from him before. It wasn’t just anger—it was warning. A boundary drawn in blood.

And then, with no further explanation, he turned on his heel and walked away. His steps were rigid, storming toward distance, toward anything that wasn’t you. He didn’t so much as glance back.

You sat frozen, the notebook limp in your lap. A hollow chill crawled down your spine. The silence that followed felt louder than any shouting match could have.

Around you, eyes lingered. A few whispers stirred, others exchanged uneasy glances. Confusion, yes—but also wariness. Their stares cut into you, sharp and accusing, as if you had broken some unspoken law.

You swallowed hard.

You thought you had found an opening, a crack to slip your question through. Instead, you had detonated a mine. And now, whatever fragile, uneasy thread of trust you might have been weaving with Guest 1337 was snapped clean in two.

Fuck.

You hadn’t just screwed up—you had done it badly.

Shedletsky had been leaning against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadow of a flickering light, watching the entire disaster unfold with that unnerving smirk of his—the kind that made it impossible to tell whether he was amused, irritated, or just cataloging your mistakes for later mockery. When Guest 1337 stormed out, his smirk faded, replaced with something sharper.

He was the first to break the silence.

“…What did you say to him?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, flat and cutting.

You flinched, the weight of his stare digging into your spine, and immediately darted your gaze down to your notebook.

“...Nothing important,” you muttered.

“Bullshit.”

The word came quick and hard. Shedletsky pushed himself off the wall, steps slow, deliberate, circling closer as if he were tightening a noose. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, that mischievous gleam still there, but buried under something colder.

“You pushed him. And I’m guessing… you pushed him about something personal.”

You sucked in a breath, chest tightening. Your hands itched against the notebook, flipping it open like a nervous tic.

“I—” you faltered, exhaling sharply. “I thought I saw an opening for a question—”

Shedletsky groaned, dragging his hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose like he’d just aged ten years. The exaggerated gesture might’ve been funny under different circumstances, but his voice came out edged with actual frustration.

“[Name].” The way he said it felt like a warning in itself. “You can’t just go digging into people’s pasts like that. Some things… are better left buried.”

Buried. The word hit you like a slap, but not in the way he meant it. Buried was the excuse people used when they were too afraid to look. Too afraid to see. Your chest burned at the thought. Absolute bullshit! Every piece of information was a thread that could lead to something bigger. There had to be a pattern for why you were all here. Something connecting everyone. And if no one else would look for it, you would.

Your pen pressed to paper, your voice sharpening as you fired back. “I can’t just ignore—”

The rest of your protest was torn away by the sudden blare of the bell.

Its sound was shrill, metallic, rattling the air like the walls themselves were screaming. You jumped, heart lurching as the atmosphere shifted instantly. Around you, conversations snapped short. The survivors stirred like puppets tugged by invisible strings, their forms starting to distort and flicker as the warp to the next round began.

No time left for debate.

Your protest died in your throat, unfinished. Shedletsky gave you one last look—half a glare, half that same unreadable grin he always seemed to wear—before the world bent and split apart, dragging you into the game.

And then, that familiar deep, distorted voice cut through the night sky, reverberating across the darkened landscape like a thunderclap.

“This round’s killer is: 1x1x1x1.”

You froze.

1x1x1x1? As in THE 1x1x1x1? The name carried weight, a mixture of myth, rumor, and sheer terror. You had heard snippets in hushed whispers online, tales from robloxians claiming they were an unstoppable force, a hacker whose exploits were whispered as both legend and warning. Some said 1x1x1x1 wasn’t real, just a story parents told their kids to scare them away from mischief.

It didn’t matter what was true or not. What mattered was the terror of a new killer, something unpredictable, something you had never faced before. Your chest tightened as the reality sank in, and behind you, the nervous rustle of movement betrayed Noob’s anxiety.

Two Time exhaled softly, their hands folded in front of them, the calm precision of their posture almost unsettling. A faint, eerily polite smile crept across their face.

“New killer,” they murmured, their voice soft yet carrying a strange weight, almost like a chant whispered to themselves. “How… interesting. It has been a while.”

You glanced at them, sensing the quiet undercurrent of fervor in that calm, collected tone.

Noob pressed their hands to their head, the sudden motion small but frantic. Their voice trembled as they spoke, hesitant and stuttering, the kind of fragile panic that always came to the surface in moments like this.

“What… w-what are we going to do? H-how do we… survive against this one?”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on you. Noob’s fear was contagious, but Two Time’s eerie calm only made the tension thicker, their quiet fascination a stark contrast to the raw panic around them.

You scanned the terrain, eyes darting across the broken concrete, crumbling walls, and rusted debris scattered across the abandoned lot. Shadows pooled in every corner, some hiding small obstacles, others hiding something far worse. You weren’t sure whether the emptiness was a comfort or a trap—it was impossible to tell.

“L-let’s… let’s not panic,” you said, trying to steady your own voice as much as Noob’s. “We’ve managed before… just survive, and learn.” You forced a cheer into your words, even though your chest felt tight, hoping it would carry some courage to him.

Noob glanced up, wide-eyed, shoulders hunched. Their hands twitched nervously, but after a tense moment, they gave a hesitant nod—a flicker of trust despite the fear.

Two Time leaned against a cracked wall, arms crossed, their eyes sweeping the abandoned lot with uncanny precision. The calm in their posture made you uneasy; there was something about their stillness that screamed both control and obsession. After a long pause, they spoke, their voice slow and deliberate.

“It’s good to keep morale up,” they said softly, almost like a chant. “But stay alert. We don’t know anything about this… new killer.”

You exhaled and ran a hand through your hair. “Exactly. That’s why we can only try to survive… and figure out what we can—”

Then, a sudden loud rattle echoed across the empty space.

Time froze.

Noob yelped, jerking back instinctively, eyes wide and panicked. Two Time’s posture shifted subtly, crouching just enough to indicate readiness without breaking their eerie calm. Every movement was precise, controlled, predatory even, and it made the silence feel charged.

You gripped your camera tighter, fingers trembling slightly as you primed the stun function. Heart hammering, ears straining for the smallest sound.

But… nothing emerged.

No shadow moved. No footsteps echoed. No hint of danger followed the rattle.

Only silence.

How… terrifying.

The emptiness seemed to pulse, every small sound amplified: a distant clang of metal, the groan of shifting debris, your own heartbeat in your ears. The tension was unbearable. Even Two Time’s calm carried weight, an undercurrent of manic focus that made you feel like the quiet stillness could explode at any moment.

Every second stretched. Every shadow seemed alive. You realized survival this time wouldn’t just be about quick reactions—it would be about nerves, timing, and reading the unknown. And right now, all of that was being tested.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, as everyone stood frozen in place. Each second felt elongated, drawn out, as if the world itself was holding its breath. All eyes were fixed on the surrounding area, scanning every shadow, every broken structure, every twitch of movement that could signal danger.

Noob swallowed hard, shoulders hunched, and clung tightly to you as their wide eyes darted from corner to corner. Every creak of metal, every whisper of shifting debris made them flinch, a quiet stutter escaping their lips.

Two Time remained the opposite of panic: poised, statuesque, and unnervingly calm. Their eyes never wavered from the dark recesses, tracking every possible angle, every potential threat. The calm in their posture wasn’t comforting—it was unsettling, like standing next to a predator who knew exactly how and when they would strike.

Minutes—or maybe just moments—passed. Time seemed warped under the tension. Then Two Time finally broke the oppressive quiet, their slow drawl slicing through the stillness, edged with suspicion.

“…That was odd.”

You nodded slowly, trying to shake off the icy grip of dread crawling up your spine. You clapped your hands together gently, forcing a sense of normalcy into your voice.

“O-Okay, enough standing still. We gotta fix the generators if we want to survive,” you said, stepping forward, keeping your gaze sharp on the shadows. Your voice wavered slightly—more from nerves than hesitation—but you forced it into a tone of authority. Every step you took was cautious now, measured, your camera at the ready. This killer was unknown. Unpredictable. And you had no idea what they could do, how fast they moved, or what they looked like.

Noob followed behind, still tense, shoulders rigid, eyes flicking nervously over every dark corner. They muttered under their breath, small stutters betraying their anxiety, but they followed, proving quietly that despite fear, they were capable. Their resourcefulness might yet be a key to survival.

Two Time remained momentarily still, assessing the environment with surgical precision. When they moved, it was deliberate, almost languid, but every movement radiated focus and awareness. Their eyes scanned the shadows like they expected the killer to be lurking just out of sight. Calm, polite, but unflinchingly vigilant—the perfect balance of eerie patience and quiet danger.

You felt the tension coiling tighter with every passing second, a low hum of anticipation vibrating through the empty, abandoned lot.

And for now—there was nothing.

No footsteps. No rustle. No sign of the new killer.

Yet the silence screamed a single truth: it was only a matter of time before they would strike.

The three of you finally reached a generator tucked in the shadows, half-hidden behind rusted crates and broken concrete. You crouched down to inspect it, fingers twitching as you worked, but your mind refused to stay silent. Thoughts collided in rapid-fire chaos: Who was this new killer? How did they move? What was their strategy? Every new clue, every little observation begged to be spoken, analyzed, questioned.

You started muttering under your breath before you even realized it. The words spilled in a soft stream, half to yourself, half to the air, a running commentary of observations and speculations.

“C-circuit looks fried… maybe that’s why it’s sparking like that… hmm… wonder if the new killer avoids generators or goes straight for them… probably aggressive if they’re new… can’t let them catch us off guard—need to watch the angles—wait, the wiring’s weird here…”

Noob fidgeted nervously beside you, hands shaking as they worked on the generator. Their eyes flitted from the shadows to you repeatedly, clearly overwhelmed by both the eerie silence and the torrent of words muttering from your lips. A nervous gulp escaped them every few seconds, each one punctuating the tension hanging over the abandoned lot.

Two Time leaned casually against a nearby barrel, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly arched. Their calm presence was almost hypnotic—too calm for a place like this. They kept a subtle, calculating watch over both of you, eyes flicking between the generator, Noob’s jittery movements, and your muttering stream. After a moment, their voice cut through the air like a slow, measured blade.

“You’re muttering again,” they drawled, the faintest edge of curiosity lacing their tone.

You froze for just a second, muttering faltering mid-word. Your cheeks warmed—not from embarrassment, but from the constant internal tug-of-war between observation and danger.

“Uh… I—just thinking out loud,” you stammered, gesturing vaguely to the generator, even though part of you wanted to add, I’m analyzing the killer. I’m gathering intel. It’s important. Your muttering wasn’t idle chatter—it was the way your mind worked, how you processed danger, how you hunted for patterns in chaos.

Two Time tilted their head slightly, not judging, just watching, their eerily polite attention reminding you that even calm observers could notice everything.

You shook your head subtly, returning to your whispered commentary, letting the words flow like ink onto a page only you could read. Every circuit, every shadow, every distant sound became part of your running narrative, your journalist instincts forcing you to document, question, and theorize—even in the face of imminent danger.

Noob’s nervous fidgeting and Two Time’s sharp gaze only heightened the tension, each of you existing in a delicate balance between survival and observation. And yet, as much as the quiet screamed with the threat of the new killer, your mind refused to shut off. You had to know. You had to understand.

Your fingers hovered over the radio, itching to speak into it—better than muttering aimlessly, better than losing every thought in the chaos. Documenting was what you did; it was instinct. You lifted the device, ready to whisper your running commentary about the generator, the wiring, the eerie emptiness around you…

Then a sudden grip stopped you mid-motion.

Two Time’s hand closed gently—but firmly—over yours, halting the movement with quiet authority. Their signature polite, awkward smile stayed fixed on their face, but there was an unspoken weight behind it.

“Not a good idea,” they said softly, drawl slow, careful.

Your brows furrowed, and your brain instantly flashed back—oh, right.

The memory hit like a slap in the face. You had used that very radio once before, not knowing how the changes from the Spectre would affect it. Your voice, casual and full of notes, had carried over the airwaves louder than intended. And the result? The killer had homed in on Two Time’s exact location for a full minute. You had watched in horrified fascination as they had darted and weaved, calm exterior cracking just enough for a flicker of frustration to flash across their face—before they’d given you a look that could curdle milk.

You winced, muttering under your breath. “Right… bad memories, probably…”

Two Time’s grip didn’t loosen, but their eyes twitched slightly at the memory you hadn’t even needed to remind them of. “I… remember that,” they said carefully, voice even, though you caught the tiniest edge of restrained exasperation. “A full minute, [Name]. You were… very thorough.”

You swallowed, guilt prickling your chest. “I… I was just learning! I didn’t know the Spectre had changed it!”

Their smile didn’t falter, but the pause after your words stretched. You could feel the unspoken warning: not this time. Not with this new killer. One slip and your journalist instincts could cost everyone dearly.

Noob shifted nervously beside you, glancing between your tense fingers and Two Time’s hand still holding yours. The silence was heavy, charged with the memory of past mistakes, but also the creeping dread of what could happen if you did decide to use it anyway.

You released a soft sigh, letting the radio rest against your chest. Perhaps muttering was safer… for now. But the temptation to document, to narrate every flicker of shadow, every twitch of wire, every pattern in the abandoned lot… it didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Two Time’s gaze lingered, sharp yet polite, a quiet promise that they’d forgive—but only if you didn’t try that stunt again.

And, honestly? You couldn’t entirely blame them.

After what felt like an eternity, the three of you finally finished fiddling with the generator. Sparks fizzled and the machine groaned to life, but no relief came with it. Instead, the moment the last connection clicked into place, a loud rattle echoed through the abandoned lot—metal clanging against concrete, reverberating like a death knell.

The three of you froze instantly, pressed against the generator like frightened, cornered rats. Hearts hammering in your chests, eyes scanning every shadow, every dark corner.

And then… nothing. Silence swallowed the sound like it had never existed.

Two Time squinted at the empty space around you, their usual serene expression momentarily gone, replaced by a sharp frown. Their calm composure was still there, but the tension radiating from them was palpable.

“Something’s off…” they murmured under their breath, their drawl low, cautious, a predator sniffing for danger. Their hand twitched subtly near the weapon strapped to them, instincts flaring even in the absence of a visible threat.

Noob shivered beside you, shoulders tight, breathing shaky. “I—I don’t like this,” they whispered, voice quivering. Every muscle in their body screamed to run, hide, survive.

And then—it happened. That familiar, terrifying, crackling hum of the radio made you stiffen.

Your brain screamed don’t do it!, but your fingers were faster than thought, lifting the device with a reckless, impulsive certainty. Two Time’s eyes widened, and for a heartbeat you thought you’d ruined everything—they actually drew their dagger, movement smooth and terrifyingly precise, ready to intervene.

You fumbled with the controls, muttering under your breath in a blur of panic and instinct, turning knobs and pressing buttons with desperate precision. Sparks of frustration flew from your fingertips as the radio whined, threatening to betray your position.

Then, miraculously—luckier than you had any right to be—an aura appeared, far off in the distance. The killer. And they weren’t moving toward you. Not yet.

The world seemed to exhale with you. Two Time let out a sharp breath, lowering their dagger just slightly, though the tension in their posture didn’t fully fade. Their eyes, still sharp and alert, flicked to the radio in your hands. Their voice, soft but deadly, cut through the silence:

“That… was risky.”

You swallowed hard, still trembling, muttering under your breath as your mind processed the near catastrophe. “Y-Yeah… really risky… lucky…”

Noob blinked, trembling, eyes bouncing between you and Two Time. “T-the killer is… that far away?” Their voice stuttered, disbelief and relief mingling.

You nodded, glancing at the radio screen, adrenaline still racing. “Yeah… for now,” you muttered, your words a mix of awe and panic. “But… if I’m lucky, we stay that far away.”

Two Time’s gaze lingered on you for a long moment, calm and sharp all at once, a silent warning threaded through their stare. Your reckless streak had just saved you this time—but they didn’t need to say it: next time, luck might not be enough.

You forced a nervous smile at Two Time, relieved your impulsive radio stunt hadn’t blown up in your face. Their sharp gaze lingered on you, cool and unreadable, but at least they hadn’t scolded you—yet. You shifted your attention to Noob, who was still visibly tense, hands fidgeting and eyes darting over every shadow.

“I… should probably go check,” you said, camera already in hand. The words sounded casual, but your heart was racing. “Just… in case I need to stun the killer…” You added the excuse with a shrug, totally not because you were itching to see, hear, and gather as much information as possible. No, not at all.

Two Time’s eyes narrowed, the faintest quirk of their eyebrow betraying disbelief. You could almost see the wheels turning behind that calm facade. They knew you—knew exactly what you were doing. Your attempt at reasoning, at making it sound like a survival tactic, was laughably transparent to them.

Noob’s frown deepened, their stuttered words trembling in the tense air. “W-Will… will you be okay? Wh-what if the killer… finds you?”

You ignored Two Time’s skeptical glare, turning fully to Noob. There was no time for judgment right now—only action. “I’ll be fine! Don’t worry. I’ve… managed myself before.” You tried to sound confident, even if your chest was still pounding and your hands were shaking slightly around the camera.

Noob glanced at the shadows nervously, then back at you, eyes wide. “Y-You sure? It’s… really dangerous out there…”

You nodded quickly, offering a reassuring—but slightly forced—smile. “I promise! Just… don’t follow me. Stay safe, okay?”

Before they could say anything else, before Two Time could step forward with a lecture, you spun on your heel and ran. The camera bounced slightly in your hands, ready to record, to document, to capture anything that might give you an edge—or at least something to report. Every step was measured but quick, your mind already running through the possibilities: patterns, sounds, movement. Every twitch of shadow could be a clue. Every distant creak could tell you something.

After putting a decent distance between yourself and the others, you slowed to a cautious walk, every step deliberate, every shadow scrutinized. Your heart hammered in your chest, equal parts fear and exhilaration. This was exactly the kind of thing you lived for—the story, the evidence, the chance to see the killer in action.

Then the rattling came again. Louder this time. Clearer. And unlike before… you saw it.

Swords, glinting sharply in the dim light, flew straight toward you.

Your body reacted before your mind could fully process it. You dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly blades. Adrenaline surged, and instead of freezing with terror, you felt an insane rush of excitement pulse through you. This was it. Real danger. Real evidence.

Without even thinking, your fingers fumbled for your audio, flipping it on as your eyes scanned the air for another attack. “Swords! The rattling sound—they’re—”

The words caught in your throat. Your entire body glowed suddenly, a harsh, pulsing aura spreading from you, bathing the cracked concrete in light.

Fuck.

Bad. Luck.

You froze mid-movement, the color draining from your face as your mind caught up. You hadn’t just documented the killer—you’d broadcasted your exact location straight to them.

Panic clawed at your chest. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, mixing with the distant metallic hum of approaching steps. You hadn’t even managed to record the killer properly, and now… now they knew exactly where you were.

Your muttering, your impulses, your journalist instincts—they had put you right on the fire. And yet, despite the terror, a strange, twisted thrill ran through you. This was the story of a lifetime, but you had to survive it first.

Somehow, somehow, you had to turn this reckless mistake into an advantage—before it was too late.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Relentless.

You froze, every nerve on fire as the vibrations echoed through the cracked concrete beneath your feet. Your aura still flared uncontrollably, and like a predator drawn to prey, the killer locked onto it instantly.

In an instant, they emerged from the darkness. Pitch-black skin, white hair cascading in a high ponytail, a green domino crown perched like a warning. Their chest glowed neon green, translucent, and—you swore your eyes weren’t deceiving you—you could see the skeleton inside, stark and sharp against the unnatural light. Flames, black and green, licked the edges of their Daemonshank swords, and the single visible eye burned crimson, radiating malice so raw it made your stomach twist.

For a heartbeat, you just stared. Every instinct screamed run, every journalist cell in your brain screamed observe, document, understand! Excitement and terror collided in your chest, making it pound so hard you thought the killer might hear it.

Then they stopped. That red eye locked on you like it had been born to find you. The rattling of swords echoed again—sharp, metallic, terrifying.

And then—

They threw the swords.

You didn’t even react in time. Time seemed to bend, the blades spinning through the air toward you, impossibly fast. Pain hit like a freight train, the impact slamming into your chest and sending you sprawling backward. Stars exploded behind your eyes. Your head spun violently, and for a moment, you couldn’t even breathe properly.

But somehow—you weren’t dead. You should have been dead. Every instinct screamed you were screwed, that this was the end. And yet, you were still here. Gasping, dizzy, every muscle trembling with shock and adrenaline.

You blinked, trying to focus, and it was worse than you imagined. The killer—no, he—hovered just a few feet away, her aura flaring, swords burning with green and black fire, eyes still locked on you like a predator savoring its prey. The contrast of that blazing white hair against the dark, neon-skeleton body made him look impossibly unreal, like some beautiful nightmare bleeding into reality.

Your stomach turned as a wild, reckless thought surfaced. This—this was insane. Completely, impossibly stupid. And yet… you couldn’t help the rush of exhilaration that spiked through you.

You were right here. Face-to-face with a living nightmare, and you were alive. Alive, dizzy, barely able to stand—and maybe, just maybe, you had the chance to get the story of a lifetime.

You muttered under your breath, trembling and exhilarated all at once. “Holy… shit… okay, okay… record everything, record everything…”

Your hands shook, camera already lifting, muttering a constant stream of observations that might get you killed if the killer noticed—but you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t not document it.

Because this was 1x1x1x1.

And you were in their sights.

Chapter Text

Your brain finally caught up with the danger just in time. With a surge of adrenaline, you sprinted, staggering on uneven ground, barely keeping your balance as you tried to put distance between yourself and the killer. Every second counted; every heartbeat echoed like a drum in your skull.

“Wait—!” you yelled over your shoulder, limping badly, hoping—hoping—that if he paused for even a fraction of a second, you might gain a reprieve. Maybe a chance to catch your breath, maybe a chance to think.

But the moment passed—faster than thought. A sword slammed into your shoulder from behind, piercing through with terrifying force. Pain exploded in a shockwave up your arm and chest. You let out a strangled gasp, stumbling forward.

Okay. Definitely not stopping. He wasn’t stopping. Not for you. Not for anything.

You whipped around, vision swimming, only for another jolt of pain to root you to the ground. Sharp, electric, unnatural. And then… your vision started glitching. Pop-up ads? Flickering images? Your body felt like it was splitting into fragments for a fraction of a second. What the hell was that? Some new attack, some ability you had never seen before.

Gritting your teeth, you forced your muscles to respond, breaking free from the invisible grip that tried to hold you in place. Your camera was already in hand, lens charging, flash ready.

The click of the shutter was deafening in the silence, and for a brief, miraculous two seconds, it worked. The flash exploded into the killer’s eyes, and for a heartbeat, they stumbled backward. Their neon green, translucent form flickered, bones suddenly more visible, glitching like a corrupted model.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning, as you shoved yourself backward, trying to take advantage of the brief distraction. Two seconds. That’s all you get.

But he recovered almost immediately. Faster. Sharper. Angrier. Their red eye blazed with renewed malice, and in a blur of black and green flames, he lunged forward, faster than you thought possible.

You flinched, heart hammering. The stun hadn’t even lasted long enough to matter. Your vision blurred slightly, panic slicing through your thoughts, and you barely processed the realization: Sentinel Stack? How many sentinels were in this round?

Your legs moved on autopilot, camera bouncing in your hands, muttering running through your teeth: “Record… record… every movement… what is he doing… why is he so fast… how—just—move—move!”

The world narrowed to flashing lights, clashing swords, glitching shadows, and the deafening roar of your own heart. One misstep, one second too slow, and it was over.

Your lungs felt like they were being shredded from the inside out. Every gasp was ragged, your throat raw. The wound in your leg throbbed like molten metal, every step a knife twisting deeper; your shoulder burned, arm barely able to swing with your stride. You were slowing down. You knew you were slowing down.

And 1x1x1x1 was there. Always there. The sound of their steps was wrong — not footfalls but something heavier, glitchier, like code breaking apart behind you. Every time you risked a glance back you caught that single glowing red eye locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Each flicker of green flame along their Daemonshank swords painted jagged shadows on the ruined walls.

You limped faster, tripping over debris, forcing your battered body to keep moving. The map blurred around you, a labyrinth of decaying structures and flickering lights. You could practically feel the edge of their blades against your back. It was only a matter of time before you fell, and when you did—

No. Not yet. If you were going to die, you’d die getting something. Some kind of answer. Some kind of proof. Your journalist instinct screamed louder than your pain.

“Are you—” you gasped between steps, voice hoarse, “are you the 1x1x1x1 from the myth? Is it true you were an infamous hacker? How—how did you even get here?!”

Your words echoed in the abandoned space like an accusation, a plea, a final desperate gamble. Maybe he would stop. Maybe he would answer. Maybe—

Behind you, the killer’s steps faltered for the briefest fraction of a second. The sound changed: a grinding, staticky chuckle bled into the air, deep and mechanical, like corrupted audio.

“You talk too much.”

The voice wasn’t just heard. It was felt — in the walls, in your bones, rattling through your wounds. That single red eye burned brighter, locking onto you with a predator’s certainty. Their steps quickened. No hesitation now. No chance of mercy.

You lurched forward, body screaming for rest. Just a little farther, you told yourself. Just a few more feet. Maybe you could make it to a doorway, to a stairwell, to something. You’d survived worse. You had to survive this.

Your camera slipped in your sweaty grip, but you held it tight, muttering frantically under your breath — observations, details, anything you could salvage: “Single red eye… glitching torso… Daemonshank swords… unknown ability—”

The hallway narrowed, your vision tunneled, your heartbeat louder than the world. You could see safety now — a corner up ahead, a generator’s glow like a beacon. Just a few more steps. You were almost there.

And then—

THUNK.

The sound was so sudden, so final, it cut the world in two. A blade punched clean through your skull from behind with horrifying precision. For a single stunned second you didn’t feel pain, just pressure, as if reality itself had frozen around you.

Your camera slipped from your fingers. Your knees buckled. The corner, the glow, the promise of escape—all fell away as your vision pixelated, glitched, then went black.

Your last thought before everything blinked out was a bitter, disbelieving one:

I was so close.

You respawned in the lobby, lungs burning, body trembling from the adrenaline crash. Every step felt heavy, your vision still swimming from the encounter, and your chest heaved as if it had forgotten how to slow down.

And then you noticed. Two Time. Lying on the floor, unusually still, arms crossed over their chest, expression unreadable. For a moment, your brain refused to process it.

Wait. Two Time had died too?

An awkward silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, broken only by your uneven breathing. Neither of you had expected this. Not here. Not like this.

Finally, Two Time’s eye flicked toward you, dark rim catching the flickering lobby lights, a single eyebrow arching in that familiar way that always felt like they were judging the world for being stupid.

“I discovered—in the worst possible way—they also have… minions,” they said slowly, voice calm, drawling just enough to make it sound like a lecture. “Something akin to c00lkidd.”

“Oh,” you whispered, the single word feeling impossibly small in the aftermath of what had just happened.

Another silence fell, heavy this time, and the tension of nearly dying—and watching someone else die—pressed down on you. You tried to shake it off. And then, without even meaning to, you snorted. Then coughed. Embarrassing, awkward, entirely human.

Two Time’s gaze flicked to you, sharp and calculating, and your cheeks flushed. You hoped they’d ignore it, hoped the sound would just disappear into the air.

They didn’t.

A small, amused smirk crept across Two Time’s face, one of the rareest things you’d ever seen: genuine amusement. They rolled their head back against the floor, arms crossed casually, and let the smirk linger.

“Something funny?” Their drawl cut through the thick air, calm but pointed, like a teacher discovering a student’s cheeky trick.

You scrambled, coughing again, hands awkwardly flailing. “N-No! Not at all,” you stammered, voice too high, too loud, trying to mask the laughter bubbling up in spite of yourself.

After several minutes, the survivors had all gathered back in the lobby, crowding around the battered table, voices overlapping in a chaotic hum of fear and speculation.

“They’re strong,”

“They can leave you… rooted to the floor!”

“Minions… they actually spawned minions like c00lkidd.”

The chatter grew, overlapping, everyone trying to process what they had just witnessed. The lobby felt suffocating, full of tension and dread.

And you? You remained silent, hands gripping your notebook so tightly your knuckles were white, pen poised but frozen. You weren’t ignoring them on purpose—your mind was spinning faster than you could write.

Your thoughts replayed the encounter again and again: the neon green glow of their chest, the skeleton glinting through the translucent flesh, the single burning red eye, and the Daemonshank swords streaking through the air with terrifying precision. Your pulse still thudded erratically in your ears.

But it wasn’t just their strength or speed that occupied your mind. No.

It was that they spoke.

A mechanical, distorted voice that carried malice and amusement in equal measure. That laugh. That simple sentence: “You talk too much.”

You couldn’t shake it. That voice was proof. Proof that this killer was not just a mindless machine or some legend made to scare survivors. There was intent. Intelligence. Strategy. And maybe—just maybe—they were enjoying it.

You scribbled a quick note, muttering under your breath: They talked. They reacted. This isn’t a John Doe or a Slasher… there’s thought behind it. And if I survive… I have to find out why.

Even as the room buzzed with panicked discussion, a cold knot of excitement and fear coiled in your stomach. This was more than survival now. This was a story. A story that could kill you—or maybe, if you were lucky, make you the first to understand 1x1x1x1.

And that thought, terrifying as it was, made your fingers itch for your notebook and your mind race for every detail you could capture before the next round.

Because everyone else was still processing fear.

But you? You were already planning questions for the next encounter.

Two Time’s eyes lingered on you from across the table, their smile stretched a little too wide to be casual. They leaned back in their chair with deliberate ease, fingers drumming a rhythm against the armrest like a preacher keeping time with a hymn. The sound was soft, steady, but oddly unsettling.

Beside you, Noob gave a nervous shuffle before nudging your arm. their voice came out in a timid stammer, almost apologetic for breaking the silence.

“Y-You’re… you’re quiet,” they muttered, tilting his head. Their wide eyes studied you carefully, like they weren't sure if you were lost in thought or about to break apart entirely.

That single comment seemed to spark something in the others.

Shedletsky leaned forward, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Quiet, huh? That’s suspicious. Usually means somebody’s scheming—or too scared to talk. Which one is it?” His tone carried that playful bite he always used when testing someone’s nerve.

Chance let out a sharp laugh, tossing a coin from one knuckle to the next, the metallic clink cutting through the air. “I’ll bet she's overthinking. Odds are fifty-fifty she's got a brilliant plan… or nothing at all.” His grin widened, hungry for the gamble even in conversation.

Slowly, the chatter died. One by one, all their gazes settled on you. The table, once filled with murmurs and stray sounds, grew oppressively quiet. Two Time’s drumming fingers stilled. Noob’s fidgeting stopped. Even Shedletsky’s grin faltered just slightly, replaced by a calculating stare.

The silence weighed heavy—many different sets of eyes burning into you, each expecting something, anything, to break the quiet.

And in that moment, it felt like the whole room was waiting on your next word.

“Oh—uhm… I was just thinking…” Your words stumbled out, thin and nervous. Technically not a lie, though hardly the kind of insight anyone expected from you. The group was neck-deep in dissecting the new Killer’s tricks, and your silence had already painted you as an oddity.

A beat passed. The others exchanged quick, knowing glances. Skeptical ones.

You were known for prying, for digging until you had answers. Sitting quiet wasn’t your style, and they all knew it.

Shedletsky leaned back, folding his arms with deliberate slowness. His eyebrow arched, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. “Thinking about what, exactly?” he pressed, voice sharp but playful, like a teacher catching a student daydreaming.

Chance caught his coin in mid-spin, holding it between his fingers as he gave you a slow once-over. His tone was calm, but his words cut with the ease of a gambler reading a bluff. “Got something to add to the convo? We’re kinda fresh outta ideas.” The coin flicked into the air again, the metallic ring underscoring his challenge.

Your throat tightened. Panic clawed at your chest. You searched frantically for an answer—anything to prove you weren’t just zoning out, anything to stop them from sniffing out the truth: that you hadn’t been listening at all, too caught up in your own interrogation elsewhere.

And then it hit you. A flash of clarity.

“There’s… a windup.” The words slipped from your lips in a mutter, softer than you intended but laced with enough certainty to ring true.

The reaction was immediate.

The clatter of Chance’s coin stopped mid-flip as it dropped into his palm. Shedletsky straightened, smug grin fading into sharp interest. Even Noob’s nervous fidgeting stilled, their wide eyes locking onto you with rare focus.

In seconds, every gaze at the table was fixed on you—your sudden, seemingly out-of-nowhere comment shifting the room’s energy like the pull of a magnet.

“A windup?” Chance echoed, their coin flashing between his fingers as if punctuating the word. The metallic clink rang through the quiet room, steady and taunting, like he was betting against you before you’d even explained yourself.

Noob tilted their head, their brows knitting together in confusion. “L-Like… a charging attack?” their voice wavered, but they pressed on, seeking confirmation.

You nodded quickly, though the motion brought the memory flooding back with brutal clarity—the rush of air, the rattle of blades, and the crushing impact of his swords biting into you at close range. The phantom ache made you shudder, and you almost wished you hadn’t remembered at all.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing the word out through clenched teeth. “They have to charge the attack with the swords. The rattling sound—it’s the warning. It’s him charging.”

Without another word, you snapped open your notebook, the scratch of your pen loud in the sudden stillness as you scribbled the detail down. Every mark on the paper felt like a shield, something concrete to hold against the terror of memory.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was heavy. Weighted.

Shedletsky leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing with sharp interest, his smug grin replaced by something calculating. He tapped the table once, like he was already piecing together strategies in his head.

Noob, still hunched and anxious, blinked at you with wide-eyed surprise. You rarely looked so certain, and for once, they seemed to take comfort in it.

Chance stopped his coin mid-spin, letting it rest flat against the back of his hand. His smirk softened into something closer to approval. “Huh. Now that’s a detail worth betting on.”

And Two Time, silent until now, finally stirred. Their lips curved into a manic smile, the kind that made your skin crawl, though their voice was soft, reverent, like they were speaking of a sacred ritual. “The rattle before the strike… a herald of judgment. Yes. Yes, I see it now.”

Everyone sat in silence again, but this time it wasn’t skeptical. It wasn’t doubtful. They were absorbing your words, weighing them carefully, as if you had just placed a crucial piece on the board.

For once, your contribution wasn’t brushed aside.

It was useful.

And they all knew it.

Shedletsky let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. His grin had returned, sharp and teasing.
“And how’d you figure this out…?” he asked, eyes glinting with interest.

You cleared your throat, heat rising to your face under everyone’s attention. “...Took the full blast directly in front of them.” You tried to laugh it off, but it came out strained, nervous. “He’s strong. Almost knocked me out cold.”

Your words made Chance pause mid-coin flip. The coin rested on his knuckles, frozen in place, his expression shifting to something skeptical.
“Knocked you?” he echoed. “That’s strange. I got hit with the same move from the other side of the map. It threw me back, yeah, but I was still standing fine. Are you sure about what you’re saying?”

The table rippled with noise immediately—questions overlapping, voices rising in doubt and confusion. Noob fidgeted nervously, trying to mumble through the mess, while Shedletsky argued playfully that maybe you were exaggerating. Chance kept flipping his coin again and again, tossing his words into the mix like bets on a roulette wheel.

You frowned, a crease forming between your brows. The memory was sharp, undeniable—you’d felt the weight of that hit, the raw power of the charge. There was no mistaking it. But if Chance experienced something different, then… what was happening here?

The voices tangled louder until—

“…It depends.”

Two Time’s voice slipped through the noise like oil on water, soft yet commanding enough to silence the room. Everyone turned toward them, waiting. Their manic smile was still plastered across their face, though their eyes seemed distant, calculating.

“Close range,” they continued in their slow, deliberate drawl, “is the full judgment. You receive the entire force of the strike.” They lifted one hand, mimicking the sweep of a blade through the air, graceful and eerie. “But far away… the weight lessens. The fury diffuses.” Their tone had the cadence of a sermon, reverent and unnerving.

For a moment, the room was hushed.

Noob blinked, murmuring, “S-So… it’s distance-based…?”

Shedletsky scratched his chin thoughtfully, his grin sharpening again. “That would explain the inconsistency.”

Chance let the coin drop into his palm with a metallic snap, his expression unreadable. “Heh. So the closer you are, the worse your odds.” His grin returned, sharp and dangerous. “Now that’s a gamble I can respect.”

Noob groaned dramatically, letting themselves slump fully into the chair, shoulders sagging like a deflated balloon. “Great,” they muttered, voice tinged with exasperation. “So either… stay far away or run fast. Got it.” Their words carried a mix of defeat and reluctant acceptance, and they leaned back, crossing their arms like a small fortress of resignation.

You exhaled, the tension in your chest easing slightly now that the spotlight had shifted. Quietly, you opened up your notebook and began scribbling your own observations, pen scratching across the page in careful, precise motions. Your eyes darted just enough to make sure no one was looking directly at your notes—you had to be subtle, nervous, almost ritualistic in your movements.

Two Time, as always, seemed to notice everything. They tilted slightly in their chair, just enough to let the corner of their eye catch your work without making it obvious. Their manic smile didn’t widen, but the faint curl at the edge of their lips spoke volumes—it was knowing, calculated. They knew exactly what you were doing.

“Journalist instincts never quit, huh?” They murmured softly, the words drifting just above a whisper, more to themselves than to you. Then, as silently as they had leaned, they reclined back into their chair, letting you continue uninterrupted.

You ignored the comment. There was no reason to acknowledge it—you didn’t need validation from the charismatic, slightly terrifying cultist in front of you. Your pen kept moving, the scratch of ink against paper grounding you in something real and tangible amidst the chaos of the conversation.

While the others continued dissecting strategies and debating what worked and what didn’t, you quietly scribbled down questions you were going to fire at 1x1x1x1 during your next encounter. You already knew they could speak, and you were determined to squeeze every scrap of information you could out of him. Nothing was off-limits—every detail could help you, and you weren’t about to let the chance slip.

At the same time, you were painfully aware that the Spectre had their eye on you. You weren’t naive. Your constant questions, your stubborn attempts to escape, and your meddling to gather intelligence had made you a real thorn in everyone’s side. Annoying? Absolutely. Dangerous? Perhaps in ways you didn’t even realize. But yes—annoying, to the point that the Spectre had finally decided it was time to remind you exactly who was in charge.

And they didn’t hold back.

The punishment started subtle—your first ability remained unchanged, a small comfort amidst the chaos—but the second one… oh, the second one. It had been twisted and warped so much that when you tried to recall its original function, your mind went blank. The familiar control, the confidence you had in using it, vanished like smoke through your fingers. Every time you activated it, it reminded you just how much they could meddle with you.

Now, even your radio—a simple tool meant to document—was a gamble. Every use came with a fifty-fifty chance: you might uncover the exact location of a survivor, or the exact location of a killer. There was no way to predict it, and either outcome carried consequences. Revealing a survivor’s position could draw unwanted attention. Revealing the killer’s? Well, that often meant facing danger head-on, unprepared. Either way, it was frustrating, risky, and a constant reminder of your previous meddling.

You cursed softly under your breath, tapping the pen against the notebook. The Spectre had made their point clear: curiosity and defiance came at a price, and in this world, every action, no matter how small, had consequences. Your notebook was your shield, your radio your gamble, and you—annoying, stubborn, determined—were caught in the middle of it all, walking a tightrope where one wrong move could cost more than you were willing to pay.

And it was annoying as hell. Especially because it was your radio—the one tool you relied on almost religiously. You used it daily, practically every waking moment, to document your thoughts, your findings, your observations. It was your lifeline, your anchor in the chaos. And now the Spectre had twisted it into a weapon with two blades, one that cut you just as deeply as anyone else. There was no doubt in your mind they’d done it on purpose.

That was only the beginning.

The second thing they did was far more insidious: they started planting red herrings. False trails. Misleading scraps of information so subtle you didn’t even realize at first how thoroughly you were being manipulated. Your obsession with escape, once your driving force, had become your noose. All those “important” clues you’d gathered—every scrap of evidence you thought was a breakthrough—had been poisoned. They were fakes. Traps. And worst of all, your frantic chasing of them had made it obvious to everyone else.

Your constant questions, your quiet note-taking, your darting eyes—what had once been tolerated as quirky reporter instincts had begun to look like something else. Suspicious. Dangerous. Untrustworthy. The others started keeping their distance, whispering behind your back, second-guessing every suggestion you made. You could almost see it happening in real time: your credibility eroding, their glances shifting from wary curiosity to thinly-veiled mistrust. You were digging your own grave, and the Spectre was handing you the shovel.

So naturally, you tried to be smarter this time. You tried to suppress the bubbling reporter instinct that urged you to pry, to dig, to ask questions no one wanted to answer. But it was a fight you rarely won. Every now and then, it slipped through—another pushy question, another reckless note, another moment where you couldn’t help yourself. And every time it did, you felt the gap between you and the others widen just a little bit more.

The Spectre didn’t care. In fact, you were starting to suspect they liked it. Your isolation, your desperation—it worked in their favor. You had become the perfect experiment, the perfect target. And you knew better than to think there was a limit to what they’d do if you pushed too far again. Just imagining what “punishment” might come next sent a cold shiver crawling down your spine.

Your eyes flicked upward without thinking, drawn to the crimson sky above. The air itself felt heavy, oppressive. Somewhere out there, you could feel the Spectre, its presence hanging over everything like a predator waiting to pounce. Maybe it was here because of the new Killer. Maybe it was here to sow chaos. Maybe it was here because of you.

You clenched your pen a little tighter.

You just hoped, desperately, that it wasn’t because of you.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for the others to start drifting away, their energy drained after hours of strategizing. One by one they pushed their chairs back, muttering goodnights, their faces pale and drawn in the dim glow of the room. It was late—well into the night—and exhaustion hung over the group like a heavy fog. Everyone wanted to sleep.

Almost everyone.

You didn’t. Your mind never rested. Even as the room emptied and footsteps faded down the hall, you remained exactly where you were, hunched over the table with your notebook open and pen in hand. The radio sat beside you like an old friend—or a weapon—its metal surface cool against your fingers. You pressed the recording button almost absently, listening to the faint static and echoes, half-hoping for a hint, a clue, anything to make sense of the chaos swirling in your head.

And then it came.

A voice—low, deep, unhurried—slid through the static like a blade cutting through fabric.

«You talk too much.»

The words were soft, but they slammed into you like a hammer. You froze, your heart stuttering violently in your chest. A chill ran down your spine, the kind that felt like icy fingers trailing your skin. You replayed the clip once. Twice. Again and again.

You didn’t even realize what you had done at first. You had actually recorded them. Him.

The killer's voice, 1x1x1x1 voice.

Deep and resonant, even muffled by the radio’s distortion it carried a weight that pressed on your chest, making it harder to breathe. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a presence, a threat lingering on the edge of the static. You felt like if you blinked too long, if you exhaled too loudly, she might step out from the shadows right there and finish what he started.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you rewound the recording yet again, pressing the button with far more care than necessary. Each time the tape rolled back, you held your breath, straining to pick up anything—a click, a static pulse, a hidden cadence in 1x1x1x1’s tone. Every glitch, every unnatural flicker of sound made your skin crawl. The voice wasn’t just speaking—it carried weight, like a signal sent from somewhere you weren’t supposed to reach.

«You talk too much.»

The words echoed out of the radio once more, low and distorted, metallic in a way that felt almost alive. It glitched at the edges, like a voice filtered through broken glass, leaving behind an unnatural aftertaste that clung to the room. You stared down at your notebook with a fixed, determined gaze, as if the paper itself could cough up answers if you pressed your pen hard enough.

You had only scratched the surface with this, and you knew it. But now? Now there was no stopping what came next.

Your hand moved on its own, scrawling messier and faster than your thoughts. Ink splattered as you scribbled down every fragment—possible questions to ask, half-formed theories about 1x1x1x1’s lore, the way the echo of his voice seemed to shift in tone with each replay. Energy readings, emotional inflection, everything.

Again, you hit play. Again, you listened.

You weren’t tired. Not exactly. But your mind was vibrating with a jittery energy that felt like it might burst out of your skull at any second. And yet, behind all the static and distortion, you could swear you sensed something else—something faint. A flicker of… confusion?

It was ridiculous, but you couldn’t shake it. The idea crawled into your notes before you could stop it: new arrival? Dropped straight into the round? Unfamiliar territory? You wrote it down as soon as it crossed your mind, pen digging into the page.

One single line from him. That’s all it had been. But already, you were pulling threads, unraveling theories, building a map in your head of what it could mean.

And as the radio played that same distorted phrase for the fifth, sixth, seventh time, your pulse quickened. You were gaining so much from this—too much, maybe. But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Your fingers ached, stiff and sore from scribbling, and your handwriting had long since turned into an almost indecipherable scrawl. Ideas, observations, questions—all of it poured onto the page in a frenzied rush, your mind refusing to slow down even as your body screamed for rest. The room was quiet except for the scratch of pen against paper and the faint static from the radio, and the intensity of your focus made the darkness feel like a physical pressure, pressing in from all sides.

Each little detail from that single, distorted recording was a spark you couldn’t ignore. It was like cracking open a puzzle, teasing out a picture bit by bit. Every echo, every glitch in 1x1x1x1’s voice hinted at something larger, something hidden, and the more you uncovered, the more alive you felt. Heart racing, adrenaline thrumming through your veins, you barely noticed the minutes slipping by—or the exhaustion slowly creeping into your limbs.

Until it happened.

A sharp, deliberate sound cut through the tension like a blade: someone clearing their throat.

Your pen stilled mid-word, your pulse spiking, and for a moment, the room seemed impossibly large and silent.

“Are you not… going to sleep?” came a hesitant voice from the doorway. 007n7 stood there, body slightly tense, eyes flicking between you and the cluttered table. “It’s already nighttime…”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the dark, quiet room around you. A hot flush spread across your cheeks as you coughed lightly, trying to clear your throat and salvage whatever composure remained. Right, it was nighttime. People wanted to sleep. You couldn’t be muttering, scribbling, and muttering out thoughts loudly while everyone else tried to rest.

And yet, despite the intrusion, despite the small pang of guilt twisting in your stomach, you couldn’t stop the electric buzz of excitement curling in your chest. The puzzle was still unfolding, and even now, the urge to write, to document, to dig further, was far too strong to ignore.

“I- I’m not sleepy yet.” The words came out stilted, hesitant, but they weren’t a lie. The recording had ignited a rush of adrenaline in your chest, buzzing through your veins and keeping your mind too alive to even consider rest. You just hoped 007n7 hadn’t caught wind of the clip—of the fragment of 1x1x1x1’s voice you had captured—because even the thought made your stomach twist.

007n7 hummed softly, stepping away from the doorway and ambling casually into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but every glance he cast around the dimly lit space carried a weight that made your spine stiffen. His eyes flicked over your notebook, pausing on the chaotic, almost unreadable scrawls, brow lifting slightly.

“...You really do take your ‘reporting’ seriously,” he said, voice low but laced with an almost teasing undertone. He stopped by the table, picking up your radio recorder with deliberate care. His fingers traced the edges of it, eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced over the device. “Late-night documenting session, huh?”

You nodded slowly, your stomach knotting. The room suddenly felt smaller, the shadows heavier, and the scratch of your pen against paper somehow louder in the tension-filled silence. Your mind raced, calculating just how much of the recording he might have heard, how much he might have understood.

Even though you were sure 007n7 was careful—methodical, precise, one of the few people you trusted not to break something—you couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in your chest.

And then there was that recording. The one you had played over and over, the one that made your skin crawl and buzz with excitement all at once.

The thought of him holding it, examining it… made your hands clammy. You weren’t just protective of your notebook or your pen anymore—you were protective of the tiniest shred of proof you had of 1x1x1x1’s voice, proof that could change everything.

You pressed your lips together, letting a small, nervous sigh escape. “Y-Yeah… just… just documenting,” you muttered, forcing your voice steady. But inside, your mind refused to calm, still racing with the possibilities, the questions, and the dangerous thrill that came with knowing you had something no one else did.

007n7 continued to examine your recorder, his fingers brushing lightly over the buttons and dials as if testing for something hidden, some irregularity you hadn’t anticipated. His face remained unreadable, calm, neutral, but there was an edge to his quiet focus that made your stomach twist. Every small movement felt amplified under his scrutiny.

After a long moment, he looked up at you, brow raising just enough to make you squirm under his gaze.

“...What's on this?” His voice was measured, but the way he flipped the radio over in his hands, thumb hovering deliberately over the ‘play’ button, made it sound like a challenge.

You cleared your throat, awkward, stiff, your words coming out small and hurried.
“J-Just my notes.”

Even as you said it, your body tensed further, shoulders rigid, hands curling lightly around your pen. Your eyes locked on him, sharp and intense, even though you refused to meet his directly. You weren’t entirely sure why—embarrassment, maybe? Or perhaps it was something deeper, a selfish, protective instinct to keep the recording of 1x1x1x1’s voice just for yourself, a small victory you weren’t willing to share.

007n7’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and assessing. He noticed the stiffness in your posture, the way your eyes darted away from him, and the subtle quiver of your hand still holding your notebook. Slowly, his eyebrows drew together, curiosity flickering behind the calm mask he wore.

He glanced back down at the recorder, his thumb hovering more purposefully over the ‘play’ button now, the air between you tightening with silent tension.

“...Just your notes, huh?” he echoed, skepticism threading his tone. There was something in the way he said it, a quiet weight, that made you feel like the next second could unravel everything—your secret, your advantage, your careful little world of observations.

You had to turn the tables—had to seize control before the situation swallowed you. Before you even realized it, words tumbled out, sharp and fast.

“What happened with c00lkidd?” you asked, voice trembling just enough to betray your nerves but steady enough to push forward. “Is it true he was your son? Why did he start hacking? How much of it is true—”

The words hit like a spark in a powder keg.

007n7 froze. His hands, still gripping the recorder, tightened slightly, the plastic creaking under his grip. His eyes went wide, a flash of surprise—or maybe something darker—passing over them. The room seemed to shrink, the silence stretching like a taut wire between you, humming with tension. Every heartbeat thudded in your ears, every breath felt heavier than the last.

Without a word, he set the recorder down sharply on the table, pushing it toward you with a controlled, sharp exhale. The motion was precise but carried an unmistakable warning.

“No.” His voice cut through the air, clipped, final—leaving no room for argument. “That’s none of your business.”

The words stung, but they didn’t stop you. Slowly, deliberately, you stretched your hand toward your radio, wrapping your fingers protectively around it like a shield. Your pulse raced, heat prickling at the back of your neck, but you didn’t retreat.

“Then I believe my recordings are also none of your business,” you retorted, voice low, measured—but charged with defiance.

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. The tension in the room coiled tight, like a wire pulled to its breaking point. Every twitch, every flicker of expression seemed amplified. 007n7’s eyes flicked to your hand, to the subtle defensive curl around the recorder, and for a fraction of a second, you thought you could see him calculating exactly how far he could push—or how far he could let you go.

He clenched his jaw, teeth pressing together just enough to see the tension, before letting out a short, controlled huff of air and running a hand through his hair, as if trying to rein in his irritation.

“…Fair.”

The single word landed like a bullet between you, and the silence that followed was thick, charged. Neither of you moved, but the room felt like it could collapse under the weight of unspoken threats and lingering questions. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to hide, to delete the recording—but another part of you, the part that had risked everything to capture it, flared hotter.

You weren’t done. Not yet.

A heavy silence settled between you, thick and almost suffocating. Every small sound—your shallow breaths, the faint hum of the radio, the scratching of your pen—felt amplified in the quiet. Then, the door creaked.

Both of you snapped your heads toward it so quickly that Elliot flinched, eyes widening as he hesitated in the doorway, taking in the scene before him.

And, god, how bad it looked.

You—the noisy, relentless journalist—sitting hunched over scribbles and recordings. 007n7—the retired exploiter, calm and controlled—leaning over, every gesture deliberate, every eye movement loaded. Alone. At night. The tension radiating off the two of you was palpable, practically screaming scheming, and Elliot didn’t miss it.

007n7’s gaze flicked toward Elliot, noting the wary expression on his face as he inched the door open a fraction more. For a tense heartbeat, the three of you froze, eyes locked in a silent, awkward standoff. Then 007n7 let out a low, awkward chuckle, shifting slightly on his feet, trying and failing to diffuse the weight in the room.

“Uh—it’s not what it looks like,” he said, voice attempting casual nonchalance, but it fell flat. Every inch of his posture, every glance toward you, betrayed the intensity of the conversation just minutes ago.

Elliot cleared his throat, blinking rapidly as if he was trying to shake off the uncomfortable tension pressing down on him. He opened his mouth, paused, and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“…Whatever. Match starts early tomorrow, go to sleep.”

The words were final, but the pause before them carried the unspoken judgment, the sense that he knew how wrong it looked—how dangerous, how suspicious, how utterly reckless it seemed. He turned sharply and left, the door closing abruptly behind him with a final click that seemed to echo through the room, leaving the two of you alone again in the silence.

You exchanged a brief, tense glance with 007n7, and for the first time, it hit you just how bad this looked. Not just a little bad—but like a headline waiting to be written in someone else’s eyes: Journalist and Retired Exploiter, Alone at Night, Clearly Plotting Something.

007n7 rubbed the back of his neck, the movement almost nervous, before letting his gaze linger on you one last time. A low, resigned sigh escaped him, carrying the weight of unspoken words and the awkwardness that still hung thick in the air.

“…We’ll just—pretend that didn’t happen.” He muttered, voice low, almost forced, before turning on his heel and leaving the room, the soft click of his footsteps fading down the hall.

And just like that, it was only you left—your recorder, your scattered notes, and the empty, quiet lobby around you. The weight of the silence pressed down, heavy and almost alive, making the faint hum of the radio seem louder than ever.

You exhaled slowly, letting your shoulders relax just a fraction. Your eyes drifted down to your notebook, and you picked up your pen again, scribbling carefully. A small note about 007n7, a reminder not to press him about c00lkidd—at least, not yet—appeared on the page.

Even as your hand moved, you couldn’t ignore the thrill that lingered from earlier—the dangerous, electric awareness that you were the only one holding certain pieces of the puzzle. The air still felt charged, as if the room itself remembered the conversation, and you knew better than to let your guard down just yet.

Your hands returned to the radio almost instinctively, fingers brushing over the buttons with practiced precision. You pressed rewind and listened to the recording from the very beginning, letting every distorted syllable of 1x1x1x1’s voice wash over you. Your pen scratched furiously across the notebook as you noted down details—observations about their attacks, subtle shifts in tone, and even nuances in the cadence of their voice.

But you were careful. Your eyes flicked constantly around the room before pressing play each time, scanning for any signs of movement. The silence was absolute, yet your chest tightened with a sudden, gnawing paranoia. What if someone else had heard? What if someone was watching, waiting to catch you documenting secrets you weren’t supposed to?

Your gaze darted from shadow to shadow, scanning the corners of the empty lobby, over the tables, even up at the ceiling. No one. Nothing. The hairs on the back of your neck eased slightly, though the unease lingered like a faint echo.

Shaking off the thought, you forced your focus back to the audio. Rewind, play, pause, scribble. Every detail mattered—every syllable could be a clue, every glitch a piece of information about how 1x1x1x1 moved, thought, or reacted. You listened like a predator, calculating, analyzing, committing patterns to memory and ink alike.

Minutes stretched into an eternity, but finally, you leaned back, chest rising and falling as you surveyed your notes. A sharp pang of pride cut through the exhaustion—this was good. You had your conclusions. You had extracted everything you could from that single, terrifying, enthralling recording.

For the first time in what felt like hours, your mind felt a little lighter, almost able to rest. The relentless urgency that had kept you scribbling and replaying began to ease. You exhaled slowly, closing your notebook, letting a small, satisfied smile slip onto your face.

Yes. Finally. You were done.

You rose from your seat slowly, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor. The recorder clicked off in your palm with a finality that echoed through the empty lobby. Gathering your scattered notes, you stacked them neatly, tucking the recorder on top as though shielding it from the world.

As you made your way toward the door, the weight of exhaustion finally began to settle over you. For the first time tonight, your brain eased, its frantic scribbling of theories and connections dimming into a low hum. You’d gotten what you needed—progress. Enough to justify the hours, enough to satisfy the gnawing need for answers.

Tomorrow’s match would bring more. More answers, more questions, and—if you played it right—more opportunities to pry open the cracks that people worked so hard to seal shut.

But for now? Sleep sounded… tempting. Necessary, even.

Your feet carried you up the stairs with a slow, heavy rhythm, the muted thud of each step strangely loud in the dead silence of the hall. The building seemed to be holding its breath, shadows pooling at the corners of the hallway like ink. You reached your room at last, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the doorknob—

And froze.

A sound drifted from farther down the hall. Not a creak. Not a footstep. A voice. No—two voices. Low, muffled, deliberate. Whispers.

You turned your head sharply toward the source—Builderman’s room.

Your heart gave a hard, unsteady beat. Instinct guided your body before your brain had even caught up; your notes shifted under one arm as your free hand braced against the wall, inching closer. You could feel your pulse in your ears. By the time you reached the door, your ear was already pressed against it, notebook clutched like a weapon.

The voices became clearer. Builderman’s steady, authoritative tone. And then—

Elliot.

Recognition struck like ice water down your spine. Elliot’s voice was distinct, and you had no doubt now—it was him. He was inside, speaking in urgent, hushed tones. And worse, the words were about you. About tonight. About you and 007n7.

A chill raced over your arms as you strained to catch more. Fragments bled through—your name, the mention of “late night” and “alone,” and something about “scheming.” The way Elliot said it, the clipped suspicion in his voice, made your stomach knot.

Fuck.

The noisy journalist and the retired exploiter, locked in tense conversation in the dead of night. To anyone on the outside, it probably looked like you were conspiring. It didn’t matter how wrong that assumption was—the optics were a disaster.

You cursed under your breath so softly it barely left your lips, the sound swallowed by the thick, suffocating quiet of the hallway. Every muscle in your body was rigid, coiled tight. You already knew how bad this looked—hanging around with 007n7 in the dead of night, trading tense words over a mysterious recorder. But Elliot finding out? Elliot telling Builderman?

Shit.

It wasn’t like Builderman could do anything directly, but the damage was already done. You’d been fighting to claw out answers, trying to dig up scraps of information where no one wanted you to look—and you’d been doing it under the thin cover of “journalism.” Now that cover was fraying. If everyone started to see you as a snake in the dark, as a schemer instead of a reporter, you’d lose everything. Nobody trusts a snake. And nobody talks to one.

Your grip on your notebook tightened until the edge bit into your palm. You had to be careful—so careful—

“Who are we spying on?”

The voice hissed right at your ear, casual and quiet.

You jumped so violently the notebook nearly slipped from your grasp. Your body spun before your mind caught up, your fist already flying.

It connected with something solid—a face.

“Ouch—”

Two Time stumbled back a step, their dark silhouette blending with the hallway shadows. For a second, the only sound was both of your breathing—the quick, shallow kind that follows a scare.

You froze, staring at them wide-eyed. You hadn’t heard a single footstep. Not a shift of air. Not a single breath. They’d been right behind you and you hadn’t known until their whisper slid into your ear.

“S–Sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking slightly, your hands trembling as adrenaline rattled through you. You were still startled, still thrown off by the fact that you’d lashed out instinctively.

Two Time blinked, a slow, deliberate motion. They gingerly rubbed their jaw where your punch had landed, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Their face remained unreadable, but in their pupils there was the faintest glint—annoyance? amusement? You couldn’t tell, and that somehow made it worse.

“Quite the strong right hook,” they murmured at last, voice its usual low, drawling cadence that made everything sound like a lazy observation rather than a judgment.

Then, as if your heartbeat wasn’t already hammering enough, their gaze shifted over your shoulder. Past you. Toward the door you’d been leaning on. Their head tilted slightly, listening.

The muffled hum of voices bled through the wood. Builderman. Elliot. The word scheming hissed faintly from inside.

Two Time’s lips quirked—not quite a smile.

“…Eavesdropping, I see.”

The words were so calm, so casual, yet they hit you like a blade sliding between ribs. Your stomach flipped, cold and hot all at once. You could feel the walls closing in—the voices behind the door, the shadowy figure in front of you, the notebook clutched like contraband.

Right now, you didn’t look like a journalist. You didn’t even look like an observer. You looked like exactly what Elliot was probably painting you as to Builderman: someone sneaking, scheming, playing at something big in the dark.

And Two Time had caught you mid-act.

You let out a shaky, forced sigh, trying to smooth over your nerves as you gently shoved Two Time back, keeping as much distance as possible between yourself and the door.

“No—I was just… standing near,” you stammered, hoping your voice sounded casual, though the tremor betrayed you. You pushed yourself back a step as well, clutching your notebook and recorder a little tighter. You’d already heard enough. “Why are you awake? Isn’t it… late?”

Two Time arched a brow at your flimsy excuse, the hint of amusement—or maybe skepticism—playing at the corner of their expression. They didn’t call you out directly, though. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, weighing your words, their voice lazy and almost teasing when it finally came.

“Night owl,” they drawled. “And I heard footsteps… figured I’d see who else was skulking around at this hour.”

Their eyes slid over you in a slow, deliberate once-over, lingering far too long on the recorder pressed against your chest and the notebook clutched in your trembling hands. You felt exposed, naked in your obsession, every secret and scribble flashing through their gaze like an unspoken accusation.

Then their eyes lifted, meeting yours with that same unnervingly calm stare, the flicker of knowing just barely hidden.

“…Guess I found my answer.”

The words hung in the air like a weight, heavier than the night itself. Your chest tightened, adrenaline prickling at the back of your neck. Two Time wasn’t angry, not overtly. But the implication was clear: they knew exactly what you’d been doing, and they were letting you squirm under the truth.

Your eye twitched, the residual tension of being caught still prickling along your nerves. You shook your head, forcing a small, almost casual smile as you faced your door.

“You got your answer wrong,” you said, voice calm but firm. “I’m already going to sleep.” You paused, letting the words hang just long enough to make your point. Then, with a hint of playful admonishment, you added, “And I’d recommend you do the same. I heard tomorrow’s match starts early… so no nightly offerings for your Spawn tonight.”

The effect was immediate. Two Time’s lazy smirk faltered for just a heartbeat, their usual mask of composure cracking under the weight of your knowledge. How could you possibly know? For a flicker of a moment, their gaze sharpened, the faintest ripple of something dangerous crossing their face.

But as quickly as it came, it was gone. They straightened slightly, tilting their head in that deliberate, ritual-like way of theirs, the corners of their mouth curling into a small, amused smile.

“…Nosy,” they murmured, almost like a prayer, voice low and even. And then, softer still, a faint echo of a benediction: “Don't stay up too late scribbling in that notebook of yours. Wisdom often comes in the quiet of the night... but so do consequences.”

They didn’t move so much as disappear. One second they were there, standing in the dim light of the hall; the next, the space they had occupied was empty, as if they had simply slipped out of reality. No footsteps. No creak of the floorboards. Not even a breath. Only the faintest, fading trace of their presence—like incense after a ritual—remained behind.

You stood frozen for a moment, notebook clutched tightly in your hands, a shiver crawling down your spine. Two Time’s silent retreat always left you unsettled, but this time it felt heavier. More pointed.

You finally exhaled, realizing you’d been holding your breath, and pushed your door open. The hall was empty now, still as a tomb. Only you, your recorder, and your endless questions remained.

You stepped inside your room and immediately set the notebook down on your desk, the recorder tucked safely beside it. The click of the lock behind you felt oddly final, a small barrier between yourself and the chaos of the hall. You trudged toward your bed, every step heavy with exhaustion, and collapsed onto it.

Damn. You didn’t know if it was sheer fatigue or something else, but the bed had never felt so inviting. You sank into the softness, the mattress molding perfectly to your body, as if it had been waiting just for you. The tension of the night—the whispers, the secrets, the close calls—began to melt away, replaced by a creeping, insistent drowsiness.

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, each blink like a small victory against the racing thoughts still buzzing through your brain. Your mind replayed fragments of recordings, scribbled notes—but the bed’s warmth and the gentle weight of the blankets wrapped around you like a protective cocoon.

You tried to resist, tried to keep your thoughts active, but the comfort was irresistible. The soft sheets, the yielding mattress, the quiet of your locked room—they all whispered for you to let go.

And just like that, the world softened. The buzzing in your head dimmed, replaced by the slow drift of consciousness. Your thoughts quieted, your body relaxed completely, and sleep claimed you effortlessly, pulling you under into its deep, welcoming embrace.

You woke slowly to the sound of sharp, persistent knocking on the door. Your eyelids fluttered open, your gaze automatically drifting toward the window—but it didn’t matter. It was still dark, as always. The sun never seemed to reach this realm, leaving everything bathed in that same muted gloom.

With a reluctant groan, you rolled out of bed, muscles stiff, and shuffled toward the door. You swung it open abruptly, your face still twisted in that just-woken-up, annoyed expression. Taph, standing quietly on the other side, flinched at the sudden movement. Instinctively, they lifted their hands in a silent gesture of apology, bowing slightly in their characteristic, careful way.

“Ah… it’s fine, Taph,” you muttered, the irritation in your voice softening into something more genuine. “Thanks for always waking us up.”

Taph gave you a small thumbs-up, the only sound they could manage, and silently slipped away down the hall. You watched them go, offering a faint smile of thanks before closing the door behind you.

You rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake the last remnants of sleep from your brain. Everything still felt heavy—the bed had held you too long, and the grogginess clung stubbornly to your body. Time in this place moved differently, warped and unpredictable, and it was hard to gauge how long you’d even been asleep.

With a long sigh, you looked down at yourself. Yesterday’s clothes were still draped over your body, slightly wrinkled and smelling faintly of yesterday’s chaos. Your eyes were crusty, the kind of fatigue that no amount of rubbing could fully erase. The thought of facing everyone again today—discussing strategies, listening to debates, pretending you had it all together—made your chest tighten.

You yanked a fresh set of clothes and a towel from your bag, practically sprinting out of your room toward the bathroom. Heart racing, you flung the door open and slammed the lock behind you. First come, first served—victory was yours.

As you tossed your clothes onto the counter, you caught a familiar string of curses from the hallway.

“Fuck! She’s already inside? [Name] is gonna take all day in there!” Shedletsky’s voice rang out, clearly frustrated that you’d beaten him to the bathroom.

Noob’s voice piped up timidly, like a mouse trying to explain away a crime.

“I-I… she’s a girl, so she needs to do… girl stuff?”

Your ears burned hotter than the bathroom lights could ever manage. Girl stuff?! Did you really need an ally like that giving you away? Mortified, you swung the door open with a glare sharp enough to slice steel.

“What I do in the bathroom is NONE of your damn business!” you snapped, cheeks bright red, heat of embarrassment and anger mingling into a perfect storm. “Both of you—leave!”

Noob froze mid-step, eyes wide as saucers, looking like a deer caught in headlights. You could almost hear their brain screaming internally: Abort! Abort!

Shedletsky, however, didn’t flinch at all. He just leaned casually against the hallway wall, grinning like he’d just won a small lottery.

“Jeez, okay,” he said with a chuckle, clearly enjoying the show. “No need to bite my head off.”

Then, without another word, he strolled away, whistling a cheerful little tune as if your fiery display had never even happened. Noob gave you one last terrified glance, then scampered after Shedletsky like a rabbit who’d just seen a hawk.

You slipped back inside your room, closing and locking the door behind you with a definitive click. That last encounter in the bathroom was burned into your memory—so damn embarrassing—but there was no time to dwell on it. This was a shared bathroom, after all, and the Spectre clearly didn’t care about anyone’s comfort. Survival came first, modesty a distant second.

Determined to move quickly, you scrubbed your teeth with military-like precision, then jumped into the shower, letting the hot water wake up your still-groggy body. You moved fast, almost mechanically, washing, rinsing, and drying off as efficiently as possible. Once out, you towel-dried your hair, brushed it quickly, and threw on your clothes, grateful that no one had appeared in the hallway to witness your harried routine. Victory.

Once fully dressed, you tossed yesterday’s dirty clothes into the basket and gathered your usual gear—the camera, your radio audio recorder, and your trusty notebook. You adjusted the camera strap over your shoulder, clipped the radio onto your belt, and tucked the notebook securely under your arm. Equipment ready, you paused, taking a moment to survey the house.

It was early, but the sounds of shuffling footsteps downstairs indicated the others were already stirring, gathering for breakfast. Perfect timing to slip in unnoticed… or so you thought.

As you crept toward the stairs, your eyes caught a familiar scene: Shedletsky and Chance were squabbling outside the bathroom, each trying to stake their claim on whoever arrived first. You suppressed a laugh. Some things never changed. Even the early morning chaos was predictable in its own way, and somehow watching them battle over the bathroom made the horror of the Spectre’s realm feel just a little less oppressive.

You exhaled quietly, steeling yourself, and headed downstairs, ready to face the day. Early or not, you had questions to answer, notes to write, and mysteries to uncover—and no amount of embarrassment or chaos was going to stop you.

Once you stepped into the dining room, your first instinct was to check the schedule tacked to the wall. Your eyes lit up slightly as you scanned it—today wasn’t your day to cook. A small cheer escaped you, though you quickly swallowed it before anyone noticed. Living in the cabin meant routines had to exist, or chaos would rule entirely. One of the few rules everyone begrudgingly followed was the cooking rotation.

Cooking days were a test of endurance and sanity: two—or sometimes more—people would take over the kitchen, slaving over whatever meals were available, feeding the entire group. It wasn’t glamorous, and failure usually led to complaints, awkward stares, and the occasional passive-aggressive comment.

The only exception was, of course, Two Time. They were strictly banned from the kitchen—the knives, supposedly, “spoke” to them. You couldn’t help but smirk at the mental image: Two Time, quietly whispering to a set of gleaming blades, receiving cryptic guidance while the rest of you tried not to gag at their eerie calm. Honestly, in this place, that wasn’t even the weirdest thing you’d seen.

Your gaze moved down the schedule, scanning for today’s designated chefs. Taph and Elliot. Perfect. A solid combo. Both competent enough not to set the cabin on fire—or poison anyone. At least you wouldn’t have to worry about whatever abomination might have emerged if Chance or Shedletsky had been assigned to cooking duty. One was far too chaotic, the other far too smug; together, they were a recipe for disaster in any kitchen.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the dining room as you made your way to the table. Most of the others were already up, milling about in various states of wakefulness. 007n7 sat slumped in a chair, arms crossed, looking half-asleep but still alert enough to watch the room with that quiet, assessing gaze. Noob nervously tapped their fingers against their mug, eyes darting around like they were waiting for someone—or something—to explode.

You grabbed a cup of coffee for yourself and quietly settled at a spot far from the others, opening your notebook and letting your pen wander across the pages. Breakfast was then done and it moved at its usual chaotic pace: murmured conversations, clinking utensils, and the occasional grumble as someone realized the milk had run out. You chewed your food thoughtfully, balancing bites with scribbles, your mind already cataloging observations and ideas. Some were serious notes, others random doodles, but your focus never fully left the notebook.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the food. Elliot and Taph had clearly outdone themselves today. Warm, perfectly seasoned, just the right texture—it hit every craving you didn’t even know you had. You hummed in satisfaction between bites, secretly savoring the rare moment of comfort in this place. Days when Elliot and Taph cooked were definitely the best, no competition.

You glanced up briefly, scanning the room. Most of the others were finishing their meals or idly sipping coffee. 007n7 remained half-slouched in his chair, a half-eaten plate in front of him, eyes occasionally flicking over the room. For a brief second, his gaze landed on you. You froze, pen mid-scribble, heart skipping a beat. Then, almost immediately, you looked back down at your notes, pretending to be engrossed in your work.

You allowed yourself a small, quiet smile. Studying everyone was second nature now; you did it daily. Each morning brought new nuances—tiny gestures, fleeting expressions, patterns that could give away a thought or intention. But today, you decided to let the notebook take a backseat just a little. Today, finishing your breakfast felt like a victory. There was a match coming up at any moment, and energy would be everything.

You took another deliberate bite, savoring the warmth and flavor, letting the small moment of normalcy sink in. Even here, in a cabin full of wary survivors and quiet threats, some mornings were… almost peaceful. Almost.

You were nearly done with your food by the time everyone else’s plates were cleared away. Your fork scraped softly against the ceramic as you worked on the last few bites, your other hand still busy scribbling in your notebook. Doodles and bullet points spilled across the page in messy handwriting—half observations, half idle thoughts. You were so focused you barely noticed when the conversation around the table dropped to a murmur.

Then, 007n7’s voice cut through the noise, sharp enough to make you flinch.

“Are you always glued to that thing?”

You froze mid-bite, blinking up at him. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried enough edge to make it sting. Maybe it was exhaustion from his constant insomnia, or maybe it was your constant note-taking—it was hard to tell which irritated him more.

Clearing your throat, you set your pencil down for once. You remembered yesterday, the tension that had nearly boiled over, the silence that had followed. Guilt pricked at your chest before you could think better of it, and your mouth moved on its own.

“Uh… about yesterday…”

The effect was immediate. 007n7 stiffened, his jaw tightening as his hand curled slightly against the edge of the table. His gaze flicked to you with a warning glint, then quickly shifted to the half-empty mug in front of him. Around you, the low hum of chatter seemed to soften—as though the others weren’t listening but were absolutely listening.

“Don’t.” His interruption was curt, the word carrying finality like a door slammed shut. “Not here.”

You hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip. Of course he thought you were about to dig for more information, to pry into things that weren’t yours to touch. And truthfully… maybe you had been. But you forced yourself to push that instinct down. This wasn’t about questions. Not this time.

“I just wanted to apologize,” you said quietly.

That made him pause. His brows furrowed, suspicion flickering in his expression, like he was trying to measure your sincerity. For a moment, you wondered if he would dismiss it—if he would accuse you of fishing for pity or leverage. But instead, his shoulders eased just slightly, and the sharp line of his mouth softened.

“…Thanks.” His reply was gruff, clipped, but not unkind. The arms that had been folded tightly across his chest relaxed, though they didn’t unfold. “Just… drop it.”

You nodded quickly, retreating into your notebook with an awkward shuffle of your papers, but inside your chest was a small flicker of relief. That had gone… surprisingly well. At least, better than you’d expected.

And for now—that was enough.

You nodded slowly, letting the moment settle, and 007n7 finally pushed back his chair and left without another word. The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, leaving you alone with your notes.

For a moment, you simply sat there in the silence. Then you bent your head back over your notebook, pen scratching across the page. You wrote it all down—every detail worth remembering—and when you were done, you added a final line to the bottom of the page: Apologize to Guest 1337 when there’s time.

Your handwriting was messy, hurried, but the sentiment was solid. A small weight lifted off your chest just seeing it written there.

The quiet didn’t last.

The bell rang.

That metallic chime was unmistakable, its echo cutting through the lobby like a blade. It rolled over the room, vibrating in your chest, commanding your attention. You froze, pen mid-stroke, the tip bleeding a dot of ink into the corner of the paper. The moment you’d been dreading—waiting for—had arrived.

Your pen skidded to a halt as you hastily scribbled one last note before snapping the notebook shut. Chairs scraped sharply against wood as everyone pushed back from the table. Some stretched stiffly, others cracked their knuckles, a few muttered under their breaths with resigned sighs.

“Here we go again,” you murmured, heart beating faster than you liked.

Already, the dizziness hit. Your stomach lurched as the edges of your vision warped and swam. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the others flicker—bodies glitching with jagged distortion before dissolving altogether. One by one, they vanished, pulled into the inevitable.

You gripped your recorder tight, your knuckles white, as the world began to unravel around you. The walls bent inward, colors collapsing into static.

And then—darkness.

Chapter Text

"This round’s killer is: 1x1x1x1."

The words barely left the announcer’s mouth when a chorus of groans erupted behind you. Shedletsky’s frustrated huff mixed with 007n7’s sharp exclamation—both clearly exasperated at being paired with 1x1x1x1 again. Twice in a row. Nobody had expected this. Nobody, that is, except you.

A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine, and for a brief, dangerous second, you almost let out a cheer. But you caught yourself, straightening your posture and tightening your jaw. Professional. Calm. Serious. You had to maintain that façade, no matter how much your pulse raced. After all, this wasn’t just another round—it was a rare, unexpected chance for an interview with 1x1x1x1, and it had arrived earlier than you’d hoped.

You let a small, almost imperceptible smile tug at the corner of your lips, hiding it just as quickly beneath the mask of professionalism.

Your hands tightened around your notebook. You inhaled slowly, letting the buzz of tension in the map wash over you, your focus narrowing to a single point. The others could panic. You had a job to do. And this time, you were ready—or at least, almost.

"Well, this sucks." Shedletsky’s grumble cut through the tense air to your right.

You nodded along, a careful mask of agreement settling on your face. “Yeah… totally a mess,” you slurred, letting your voice drip with feigned frustration. Every word was a lie, but one you needed.

Shedletsky rolled his eyes in agreement, completely misreading your act. To him, you were staying focused, keeping your cool as always. Little did he know that inside, your pulse was racing, your notebook already half-formed in your mind with questions you’d finally get the chance to ask.

“I can’t believe we have to put up with that thing again,” he muttered, shaking his head like the world had personally wronged him.

“How great,” 007n7 muttered, his tone heavy with exasperation. Before you could respond—or even process it—he vanished, teleported away in a blink, leaving only the faint shimmer of his c00lgui in his wake. No goodbye, no flourish. Just gone. Quick, clinical, like always.

You let out a slow, deliberate sigh, forcing yourself to move cautiously as your eyes scanned the eerie, dimly lit place. Every shadow seemed to twitch with potential danger, every distant sound a possible warning. The tension in the air was thick, heavy with the knowledge that 1x1x1x1 could strike at any moment.

"Let's go search for a generator—quickly," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You offered a casual thumbs-up, the gesture more for show than reassurance.

Shedletsky gave a curt nod in response, and almost instantly, the familiar shift came over him. His usual smugness melted away, replaced with the hyper-focused, tactical demeanor that marked him as a master of these deadly games. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, scanning every corner with the precision of someone calculating each move before it happened. You’d come to expect this level of alertness from him, but now, with 1x1x1x1 on the map again, it seemed almost superhuman.

"We need to find one before 1x1x1x1—" you started, but the words caught in your throat as Shedletsky abruptly froze. His head snapped toward a flicker of movement in the distance.

Your gaze followed his, and sure enough—a generator blinked in the dim light, its hum like a siren in the tense silence of the map.

"Lucky," you muttered instinctively, your heart picking up pace as you quickened your steps. There was no time to linger; every second counted, and with 1x1x1x1 lurking somewhere, luck alone might not be enough.

As you approached the generator, the hum grew louder, a steady heartbeat in the quiet chaos. You could almost feel the presence of the killer pressing in, just beyond the edge of vision. But with Shedletsky beside you, with his strategic mind and crafty instincts always one step ahead, you allowed yourself a sliver of confidence.

Both you and Shedletsky leaned over the generator, hands busy with wires and circuits, your mumbling and constant muttering filling the small space between you. Words spilled out almost unconsciously—half observations, half nervous chatter—as your fingers danced over the tangle of wires, trying to make sense of the mechanism.

Shedletsky shot you a sidelong glance, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, tempered by a hint of exasperation.

For a few moments, there was a fragile calm. The only sounds were the soft hum of the generator, the distant rustle of leaves, and your own nervous muttering—words half-formed, drifting into the tense night air. Then, abruptly, a sharp rattle echoed from far off, the clang of metal against metal snapping through the silence.

Shedletsky froze, every muscle tensing, his head twitching toward the source of the noise. You instinctively crouched lower beside him, holding your breath, letting the moment stretch as if time itself had slowed. The noise lingered for a heartbeat, then dissipated, fading into the distance. Nothing had come of it… yet.

You let out a shaky breath, your voice breaking the silence. “God… that sound is so terrifying…”

Shedletsky nodded, his grip on the wires tightening ever so slightly. His eyes scanned the map around you, darting to every shadow, every flicker of movement. The faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the calm, calculated demeanor he tried to maintain.

“Yeah…” he muttered, almost under his breath, his voice low, almost swallowed by the whirring of the generator. “It’s… like they know exactly how to make you paranoid.”

You nodded slightly, the tension still clawing at your chest, and then an idea flickered in your mind. Maybe—just maybe—you could document that metallic rattle. If you could record it, analyze it later, you might finally understand how 1x1x1x1 moved.

Slowly, you reached for your radio. Your fingers fumbled clumsily with the buttons, the device slick in your nervous grip. The generator hummed behind you, the world holding its breath. You pressed a switch—

—and the radio crackled to life with a burst of harsh static.

Your blood ran cold.

“Shit,” you whispered, panic flaring through your chest. But before you could even think to turn it off, something else caught your attention—light. Not yours.

You blinked in confusion, then horror.

Shedletsky was glowing.

His aura flared bright against the shadows, a pulsing beacon screaming his location to the killer. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as realization hit like a punch. You’d just doomed him.

Shedletsky whipped his head around, eyes wide, disbelief and irritation flashing across his face in equal measure. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck tensing as he stared between you and the crackling radio.

“Dude…” he muttered, his voice a low growl of restrained panic. Already, he was backing away from the generator, knowing full well what that glow meant. He didn’t need to say it—you’d both been in this game long enough to know.

“I— I’m so sorry—!” you stammered, fumbling with the radio, trying desperately to shut it off. Your fingers felt numb. The static only grew louder.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Getting closer.

Shedletsky’s face paled, his eyes snapping toward the source. The air itself seemed to fold in around you, the oppressive hum of the generator replaced by the thunder of approaching rage.

And then—

1x1x1x1 was there.

No warning, no time to react. One blink, and they were standing there—tall, terrible, their form flickering with that glow. The air shimmered around them, that same metallic rattle now screaming in your ears.

The moment their gaze locked onto Shedletsky, something in them changed. It wasn’t just hostility—it was hatred, raw and incandescent.

You didn’t even have time to move before they lunged.

Shedletsky barely dodged the first strike.
1x1x1x1 lunged with a speed that shouldn’t have been possible, a blur of distortion and static tearing through the air. He twisted to the side, narrowly escaping the impact, but the movement threw him off balance. His boots scraped against the dirt as he stumbled and crashed to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

“Shit—!” he gasped, scrambling backward on his hands, kicking up dust as he tried to put space between himself and the killer. You could see it in his eyes—the panic, the raw disbelief at how close that had been. He’d faced dozens of killers before, but this one moved differently. It didn’t just attack. It reacted.

The second lunge came faster.
Too fast.

1x1x1x1 slammed into him with a crack of distorted noise and a bone-deep thud that made your stomach twist. The sound was wrong—like metal hitting flesh, like static tearing through a scream. Shedletsky hit the ground hard, a grunt escaping him as the killer’s claws pinned him down.

You didn’t think—you reacted.

Your hand flew to your belt, pulling out your camera. The flash burst to life with a blinding white light and a sharp click. For a split second, 1x1x1x1 froze, their form flickering violently, their head snapping toward the light like a creature caught between worlds. The distortion screamed.

“Shedletsky, move!” you shouted.

He didn’t hesitate. With a rough shove, he kicked the killer off him and rolled to his feet, stumbling as he bolted into the shadows. His breathing was ragged, his steps uneven—but he was running. Alive.

You stayed still, breath hitched, your camera trembling in your grip as the light faded.

1x1x1x1 slowly rose from the ground. The flickering around them intensified—static crawling over their figure like digital fire. You expected them to turn on you, to retaliate, to drag you down for daring to interfere. Your muscles locked in preparation, adrenaline screaming at you to run.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they tilted their head—slowly, unnervingly—and released a sound that wasn’t human. A growl, guttural and mechanical, vibrating through the air like a corrupted audio file. Then, without another glance in your direction, they turned and ran.

No—bolted.

You watched as they vanished into the darkness, chasing after Shedletsky with a ferocity that made your stomach churn. It wasn’t just pursuit. It wasn’t even rage. It was personal.

You stood there, frozen, the distant echoes of their steps fading into the static hum of the map. The night felt heavier now, thicker, as if the air itself was recoiling from what had just happened.

Your camera’s lens reflected your wide, trembling eyes.

It wasn’t just chasing. It was hunting.

And then the thoughts came crashing down—wild, panicked, unstoppable. You needed to write this down, to document everything. The pattern, the behavior, the reaction to the flash—it all meant something.

Your fingers trembled as you fumbled with the radio, static whispering against your palm. Every button you pressed felt too loud, every breath too quick. You forced yourself to steady it—to steady yourself—as the pounding of your heart filled your ears like distant gunfire. Then, gathering what little courage you had left, you slipped into motion.

One step.
Then another.

You followed the trail where 1x1x1x1 and Shedletsky had vanished, keeping your body low, each footfall cautious, deliberate. The forested edges of the map were unnaturally quiet, save for the faint echoes of pursuit ahead. You crept closer, the dim flicker of broken lights painting the world in jagged shadows.

From a safe distance, you finally spotted them.

And the sight rooted you in place.

1x1x1x1 wasn’t attacking randomly, wasn’t chasing anyone else—it was fixated. The killer tore through the map with inhuman precision, ignoring every other survivor in sight, every sound, every distraction. Their attention was locked wholly, unnervingly, on Shedletsky.

And Shedletsky—despite his panic—was putting up a fight. You could see flashes of his usual craftiness in his movements, the sharp pivots and sudden dashes that once kept countless killers at bay. He barely evaded one strike, then another, stumbling through the wreckage of the terrain, his breathing ragged and desperate.

But 1x1x1x1 never relented.

Their movements were smooth, almost calculated, each lunge adjusting perfectly to Shedletsky’s next escape route. It wasn’t instinct—it was intelligence. Adaptation.

You crouched lower behind a broken generator, radio trembling in your hands, and watched the impossible unfold. Every time Shedletsky dodged, the killer moved faster, more precise—as if learning. As if studying him.

The realization crawled cold up your spine.

You had seen countless killers before, but this… this was something else. The air around 1x1x1x1 seemed to ripple, the static rising and falling with their every step, almost like the environment itself reacted to their intent. Each footfall echoed with metallic resonance—clang, clang, clang—a rhythm that made your pulse sync unwillingly to it.

Shedletsky ducked under a swing that sliced through a metal beam, sparks scattering like fireflies. His expression flickered between fear and fierce concentration—he was surviving, but barely.

And through it all, 1x1x1x1 didn’t slow. Didn’t glance at anyone else. Didn’t falter.

It was like watching a predator born solely for this—an apex creature that had chosen its prey and refused to let go.

You swallowed hard, feeling your throat tighten. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to help, to do something, but your curiosity rooted you in place.

There was something deeply, terribly personal about the way 1x1x1x1 moved. This wasn’t just a hunt.

It was vengeance.

And when you realized that, you felt it—an icy thread of fear winding around your heart, whispering that maybe you weren’t just observing history… maybe you were standing too close to it.

You kept recording, your trembling hands barely holding the radio steady. Every breath you took was shaky, almost too loud against the horrifying quiet that had settled after the chase. You silently prayed—please, don’t let Shedletsky die, please don’t—

But luck had never been yours to keep.

A sharp crack cut through the air, followed by a wet, heavy sound that made your stomach twist. You froze. The radio caught it all—the instant the blade slid clean through Shedletsky’s skull, splitting the scream in his throat before it could even leave his mouth.

1x1x1x1 stood over the corpse, chest heaving, faint light glinting off the edge of their sword. For a heartbeat, everything was still.

Then, without warning, they raised their hand—
—and raked their claws down their own face.

The sound that followed was wrong. Not just painful—metallic, slicing, a sharp ringing hum that vibrated in your teeth. You flinched, nearly dropping your radio, breath catching in your throat as the killer’s movements slowed… and then stopped.

Their head turned.

That gaze—empty yet aware—locked straight onto you.

You felt it like a blade pressed against your skin, cutting through every layer of false calm you had. Your pulse roared in your ears as you stood frozen, the camera still recording, its red light blinking like a warning beacon.

For a few unbearable seconds, 1x1x1x1 didn’t move. They just stared—as if memorizing you. Then, without a word, they turned and sprinted off into the fog, vanishing between the trees like a shadow being swallowed whole.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The world had gone quiet again, but it wasn’t peace—it was the kind of silence that waits before something worse happens.

Why didn’t they kill you?
Why did they look at you like that?

The realization crept in, cold and heavy—
They weren’t ignoring you.

They were saving you.

For later.

The thought made you shudder—your pulse still erratic, your breath uneven. But you forced yourself to move. To follow. You couldn’t just stand there. Maybe you could help the others, maybe you could at least do something.

The moment you stepped back into the chaos, you instantly regretted it.

Even as you threw yourself into the fray—camera flashing, stunning whenever you could—the fight was one-sided. One by one, your teammates fell, their screams sharp, short, final. Blood slicked the ground, heavy in the air, and through it all, 1x1x1x1 barely even looked at you. They just kept advancing, silent, mechanical, unstoppable.

But eventually… something snapped.

Maybe you’d gotten too close. Maybe your desperate stuns finally irritated them. Whatever it was, they turned—and you barely had time to register it before a hand like cold iron clamped around your throat.

Your feet left the ground.

You choked violently, kicking, clawing at their arm. Their grip didn’t budge—each finger digging deeper into your flesh like a vice, cutting off air, thought, everything. Your lungs burned, your vision swam, and the only sound that came from you was a strangled, wet gasp.

Those eyes—blank, red, and gleaming with some emotion you couldn’t name—bored into you as if you were something filthy. Something that shouldn’t exist.

And then—
You were airborne.

Your body hit the ground hard enough to knock the last bit of air from your chest. You barely had time to suck in a painful breath before you saw the flash of metal—
—and the sword came flying straight toward you.

Pain exploded in your chest. The blade buried itself deep, driving out a sound that didn’t even feel human. You convulsed, vision blurring as hot blood spread beneath you, thick and metallic in your mouth.

Through the haze, you saw 1x1x1x1 approaching—slow, deliberate—lifting their second sword, their shadow falling over your trembling body.

You were dying. You knew it.
But your hand, shaky and blood-slick, still reached for the radio.

“D-Do you… hate Shedletsky?”

Your voice was barely audible, more air than sound, but you pressed record with the last of your strength.

For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then the sword froze mid-air.

A silence heavy enough to crush you settled between you both. You could hear your own heartbeat slowing, the faint static of the radio crackling beside your ear.

Then—

“…Yes.”

He answered, deep, distorted, layered in static and echo. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. It crawled down your spine, filled your ears, made the edges of your vision tremble.

And then, without hesitation, 1x1x1x1 brought the sword down.

The last thing you saw was the glint of red reflecting in their eyes as the blade sliced downward—and everything went black.

You woke up gasping in the lobby, hand instinctively clutching your chest as your lungs struggled to catch up with your mind. Your breathing was uneven, shaky—like you’d just surfaced from drowning.

The phantom ache of the sword was still there, sharp and heavy beneath your palm, even though there was no wound left behind. Just the ghost of pain and the memory of cold steel.

You blinked rapidly, trying to steady yourself, but the images wouldn’t stop flashing through your mind—
1x1x1x1’s distorted voice.
That single word dripping with hatred.
The way they had stalked Shedletsky, refusing to let him escape.
And then how they turned on you, crushing the air from your lungs like it was nothing.

Your hands trembled. You rubbed at your chest again, as if the gesture could erase the memory carved into your skin.

“...That was rough.”

The voice snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts.

You turned around—and there he was. Shedletsky stood a few feet away, posture rigid, expression halfway between irritation and exhaustion. His clothes were still a little torn from the match, his usual calm replaced by something tight around the eyes.

You froze for half a second, then forced a nervous smile before practically stumbling toward him.

“I— I’m so sorry,” you blurted out immediately, hands waving frantically as words tripped over themselves. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose—! I didn’t even mean to trigger the radio, I just— I thought it wasn’t— and then it—!”

You stopped yourself before the rambling could get worse, realizing how ridiculous you sounded.

Shedletsky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. For a moment, you braced yourself for a full lecture—maybe even a yell—but it never came. When he finally looked up again, there wasn’t anger in his face. Just weary understanding.

“Relax,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s fine.”

You blinked, confused.

“It’s… fine?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, glancing away briefly. “It’s not like I haven’t been tunneled before. Just… try not to broadcast our position next time, alright?”

His tone was light enough that you knew he wasn’t holding it against you, but still serious enough to make you nod like your life depended on it.

“R-right! Yeah— of course! I’ll be careful, I promise!”

Your cheeks burned, the heat rising fast as you rubbed the back of your neck. God, that was humiliating. You’d just sold out an experienced sentinel. You hadn’t done something that stupid in ages, and now it was with him of all people.

Shedletsky rolled his eyes, though there was no real irritation behind the gesture. It was that familiar mix of exasperation and faint amusement he always had whenever you managed to make a situation messier than it needed to be. Still, he could tell—just by the way your cheeks burned red and your shoulders hunched slightly—that you were genuinely embarrassed.

With a quiet sigh, he reached out and rested a hand on your shoulder. His touch was firm but not rough, steadying.

“It happens,” he said simply, his tone calm and even, the edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everyone has bad matches. Even me.”

You looked up at him, surprised by how casually he said it. His gaze held that same confident, teasing glint he always carried during matches—like the world could fall apart around him and he’d still make a joke about it afterward. Somehow, that steadied you more than the actual words.

You exhaled slowly, feeling your shoulders finally drop from the tense, defensive position they’d been in since you woke up.

“I—I’ll be more careful next time either way,” you murmured, offering one last nervous bow before straightening again. “Promise.”

Shedletsky gave a light pat to your shoulder, as if sealing that promise.

The tension finally broke between the two of you, replaced by that strange post-match calm that always filled the lobby. Around you, one by one, other survivors began to reappear—each materializing in flashes of light, their forms flickering back into solidity. Some were quiet, heads hung low; others groaned or muttered under their breath about how close they’d been.

You both turned to watch in silence as the last survivor returned, and with a soft hum of static, the match officially ended. The heavy atmosphere of defeat hung in the air, thick and familiar.

The group eventually gathered back around the table—surrounded by flickering lamps that cast uneven shadows across everyone’s tired faces.

Elliot leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface. “So... that was a disaster.”

“Understatement,” Guest 1337 muttered.

The low murmur of discussion began again, everyone dissecting what went wrong, what they’d seen, what they thought 1x1x1x1 was planning once again.

You stayed quiet, your eyes fixed on the table but your mind far from it.
Your thoughts churned—images replaying in loops behind your eyelids.

How 1x1x1x1 had targeted Shedletsky with obsessive precision.
How they had ignored you, even when you’d practically handed yourself over.
How they’d looked at you—cold, mechanical—and then spoken.

Wait.
They answered.

The realization hit you all at once, cutting through your daze.

1x1x1x1 had actually responded to your question. Not through gestures or vague reactions like the others sometimes did—no, with an actual word.
A voice. Distorted, guttural, but unmistakably deliberate.

It hadn’t even been a complex question. Just a simple Do you hate Shedletsky?
But the way they’d paused, the weight of that “yes,” the venom behind it—it was unlike anything you’d documented before.

Your pulse quickened as your thoughts spun faster and faster, connecting half-formed theories. Maybe 1x1x1x1 wasn’t as mindless as they seemed. Maybe there was something—or someone—behind that rage. A motive. A grudge.

You barely noticed how long you’d been silent until—

“You’re doing it again,” Shedletsky’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked up, startled. He was watching you with that knowing look of his—half smirk, half weary amusement, his elbows resting lazily on the table.

“Thinking too fast,” he added, leaning back in his chair. “I can practically see the steam coming out of your head.”

You froze, caught red-handed. A couple of the others glanced your way, curious.

You spoke before you could stop yourself. “I was thinking about how they targeted you the entire round.”

The words slipped out so naturally that it took you a full second to realize what you’d just said.

Shedletsky’s reaction was instant. His expression dropped, color rushing to his face in a flash of embarrassed irritation.

“Wha—?!” He started, but it was too late.

Chance’s loud, wheezing laugh filled the air, bouncing off the walls of the lobby. “OHH, they noticed!” he teased, clutching his stomach dramatically. “The killer’s got a crush on you, Sheddy!”

The table erupted with laughter, and even a few tired survivors cracked small smiles.

Shedletsky groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face in defeat. “Oh come on! It’s not like I wanted him to chase me!”

He threw his hands up, pacing back from the table like he needed physical distance from the humiliation. His tone was equal parts outrage and disbelief.

“God, what even was their problem?!” he snapped, voice pitching higher at the end in pure frustration.

Chance only cackled harder, slapping the table. “You tell us, pretty boy! Maybe they didn’t like the competition!”

The rest of the survivors chuckled amongst themselves, the tension from the last match fading into the usual post-round banter. Laughter echoed faintly around the table, and even the dim, humming lights above seemed to flicker more warmly now.

You didn’t join in, though.

Your smile faded as your mind wandered again—back to that moment, that single word that had crawled through your earpiece like a ghost. You knew exactly why 1x1x1x1 had chased Shedletsky so obsessively.

You swallowed, your hand tightening around your pen before you even realized you were speaking.

“…It’s because they hate you.”

The words slipped out far too easily.

And instantly, the room went silent.

Every chuckle died mid-sound. Heads turned. Eyes widened. You could feel the air shift as your words settled like an unwelcome drop of ink in clear water.

Shedletsky blinked, brow furrowing. Chance’s smirk froze in place. Even 007n7 stopped mid-fidget, staring at you with that half-tilted head of quiet confusion.

It was Chance who finally broke the silence, voice cutting through the stillness like a needle.

“…Excuse me?” he said slowly, one eyebrow raised high. “Why do you say that?”

Oh.

You froze. Your stomach dropped. Oh, no.

Now every pair of eyes was on you—curious, skeptical, waiting. You felt like a deer caught in headlights, every instinct screaming at you to say something, anything, but definitely not the truth.

Because the truth was insane.
You couldn’t exactly tell them, ‘Oh yeah, 1x1x1x1 personally confessed it to me right before they shoved a sword through my chest.’

That’d go over great.

Your brain scrambled for a lifeline. “I, uh—” you started, then cut yourself off, forcing a shaky laugh. “I just, you know… noticed a pattern.”

Chance tilted his head skeptically. “A pattern, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “The way they—uh—ignored everyone else, and, um… went straight for him every time. It’s kinda obvious if you think about it.”

You were talking too fast. You could hear how suspicious you sounded, and yet somehow that only made you double down.

Chance squinted at you for a long moment, his sharp eyes narrowing in suspicion under those dark glasses. For a second, it felt like he was about to call you out—really press the question—but then they just sighed, rolling their eyes and shaking his head as if deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Yeah, yeah—whatever,” He muttered, waving his hand dismissively before turning his attention back to the group. “Point is, somehow, 1x1x1x1’s got a personal vendetta against Shedletsky.” He snorted under his breath. “Which... doesn’t exactly help any of us.”

A few survivors murmured in half-hearted agreement, the room filling with the low buzz of exhausted voices. Someone groaned, another yawned, and the tension slowly melted into a dull, uneasy quiet.

Across the table, Shedletsky dramatically dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, fantastic,” he mumbled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just what I needed—an interdimensional virus with a grudge.”

That earned a few small laughs. Even you couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips, though you quickly hid it behind your notebook. You quietly flipped a page and started jotting down quick, messy notes—snippets of what everyone said, fragmented ideas, theories that might make sense later.

But your mind wasn’t really on the conversation anymore. It was stuck replaying the same moment over and over again.

They answered you.

No one else ever had.

John Doe only ever responded with anger—short, sharp bursts of fury that made your blood run cold. Slasher didn’t even bother to speak, just watched from the shadows, silent as a blade. c00lkidd? He usually ignored you entirely, too wrapped up in his own chaos—or worse, looked at you with a flicker of confusion, like you didn’t belong there.

And Noli... you didn’t even like thinking about Noli. His voice through the radio always came out distorted, warped, a metallic rasp that clawed at your ears. You barely got a sentence in before he used your signal to teleport directly to you. Instant death, no chance to hide.

But 1x1x1x1 had been different.
They’d paused—looked right at you—and answered.

You tapped your pen nervously against the page, staring down at the half-finished notes as the voices around you blurred into meaningless sound. You tried to focus, but the realization kept circling back like a buzz in your head, impossible to shake off.

And then—

“I don’t know if I imagined it,” Elliot’s voice cut through the room, clear and cautious, “but... wasn’t the killer ignoring [Name] for a few moments there?”

Every sound seemed to die instantly.

The chatter, the soft tapping of pencils, even the hum of the flickering light overhead—all gone.

You froze, your pen still midair, heartbeat thudding uncomfortably loud in your chest. Slowly, almost mechanically, you lifted your head—only to find every single pair of eyes locked onto you.

Shedletsky raised a brow. Chance frowned. Elliot looked half-curious, half-accusing.

Fuck.

Your throat went dry.

“No—” you stammered quickly, your voice coming out sharper than you meant. “He, uh—killed me like everyone else. Why would he ignore me?”

It wasn’t even an answer, more like a question thrown into the air—one meant for yourself as much as for them. Because honestly, you didn’t know why 1x1x1x1 had done that. You’d replayed the moment in your head a dozen times already, and it still didn’t make sense.

The others exchanged glances. You could feel the doubt radiating off them—Chance narrowing his eyes, Elliot frowning slightly, the rest murmuring among themselves in quiet confusion. Elliot leaned forward, opening his mouth to press further—

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the room like a blade.

Guest 1337’s deep, unamused voice silenced everyone instantly. His arms were crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the group before landing squarely on you.

“We have more important things to focus on than who 1x1x1x1 ignores or doesn’t ignore,” he said flatly. The tone left no room for argument—firm, clipped, and laced with quiet authority.

You could’ve sworn the air itself grew heavier after he spoke. No one dared to reply.

Saved by the veteran, you thought, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Still, the way Guest 1337’s eyes lingered on you—steady, calculating—sent an involuntary shiver crawling down your spine. He hadn’t forgotten about your little “interview” with him, that much was clear.

You offered him a small, wordless nod of acknowledgment—half thanks, half apology—but avoided holding his gaze for too long. Your pen trembled slightly as you went back to your notes, pretending to focus on the page while the weight of his stare lingered just long enough to remind you: you were still on thin ice.

Guest 1337 didn’t say another word after that.
The discussion slowly picked up again, the others drifting back into murmured theories and strategies as though the moment had never happened.

You, however, couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. As soon as the spotlight moved off you, you exhaled—a sharp, shaky sigh you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your shoulders slumped, muscles still tight. Guest 1337 hadn’t looked your way again, not directly—but every so often, you caught those sidelong glances from him, quiet and deliberate.

And it was enough to keep your nerves on edge.

Chapter Text

Eventually, Shedletsky turned in his seat, catching sight of your stiff posture and furrowed brow. His usual smug expression softened into something almost curious.

“You alright?” he mouthed silently, careful not to draw attention from the others.

You hesitated before leaning slightly toward him, whispering just loud enough for him to hear.
“Things are still tense with Guest 1337,” you muttered, your voice tight. “I can feel it.”

Shedletsky hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his armrest as if weighing his words. Then, with that same casual bluntness he was known for, he replied.

“Well, that sucks. Especially since you’re cooking with him tomorrow.”

You blinked.
Once.

Then your neck snapped so fast toward him that the crack that followed made Shedletsky visibly flinch.

“Excuse me?” you hissed, eyes wide.

He immediately raised his hands in surrender, startled by your reaction.
“I—uh—yeah? The cooking schedule? You and Guest 1337 are up for tomorrow.” He blinked again, realizing you were deadly serious. “Wait… you didn’t check the board?”

You stared at him blankly. The silence between you was deafening—broken only by the quiet scrape of chairs as the others began standing, chatting idly as they left the table.

Your brain was still catching up, the words slowly echoing in your skull. You. Guest 1337. Cooking. Together.

Finally, you breathed out in pure disbelief, voice dropping to a muttered plea.
“Say sike right now.”

Shedletsky just grimaced, giving you an apologetic half-smile that screamed you’re doomed.

“...Yeah, uh. Sorry, but you’re out of luck on this one.”
Shedletsky rubbed the back of his neck, his tone half-apologetic, half-regretful. “I mean—it could be worse,” he tried to add with a weak shrug.

That did not help.

You grabbed him by the shoulders so fast he nearly lost his balance.
“Shedletsky, it IS worse!” you hissed, shaking him slightly. “I asked him about his wife and kids—!”

Your voice cracked somewhere between a whisper and a shriek, panic dripping from every word. You could practically feel the sweat forming at your temples. Oh god, oh god, oh god—you were absolutely doomed.

For a solid two seconds, Shedletsky just stared at you, his brain clearly buffering. Then his entire expression morphed into horrified disbelief.

“Oh my god.” His hands shot up, gripping your shoulders in return. “Why would you—how did that even come up?! That’s like the one thing you don’t ask a war vet!”

You winced, guilt flooding you all over again. “I didn’t mean to! It just—slipped out!”

The next thing you knew, Shedletsky’s palm collided with the back of your head.
“Dumbass!” he shouted, punctuating the word like a judge delivering a death sentence.

“I know, I know—!” you stammered, rubbing your head furiously. “It just slipped out, okay?! You know how questions just—fall out of my mouth when I feel cornered!”

Shedletsky looked at you like you’d just confessed to petting a live grenade. He groaned loudly, dragging both hands down his face in pure, unfiltered exasperation.

“Oh my god,” he muttered into his palms. “Do you hear yourself? That’s not a defense—that’s a cry for help!”

You winced. “It’s a terrible defensive mechanism, I’m aware.”

He exhaled sharply, pacing a few steps like he needed to walk off the absurdity. Then he turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief.

“So let me get this straight,” he said slowly, voice rising with every word. “You were standing in front of a literal war veteran—a man who could probably snap you in half like a breadstick—and your brain went: ‘Hey! Let’s ask about the family he lost!’ That’s what you thought was a good idea?!”

“Not at the time!” you protested, throwing your hands up defensively. “It wasn’t like I planned it! My mouth just—” you gestured helplessly, “went rogue!”

Shedletsky stared at you for a long moment, then let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Unbelievable. You’ve got a death wish.”

“Apparently,” you muttered, slumping forward. “If he stabs me with a spatula tomorrow, just know I died doing what I do best—asking really bad questions.”

Shedletsky pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “If he doesn’t kill you, I might. Out of mercy.”

You went quiet, forcing a nervous smile as your hand drifted to the back of your neck.
“…I’ll apologize,” you blurted out finally, voice cracking slightly.

You had planned to apologize eventually—just not under a looming twenty-four-hour deadline with a side of mortal dread.

Shedletsky stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head like he was trying to process a particularly tragic mistake. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath before speaking up.

“…You better,” he said, tone flat but weary. “And don’t even think about asking him questions. Not about his past, not about his scars, not even about his favorite seasoning.”

He gestured at you, brows furrowed in warning. “Just cook, apologize, and pray he doesn’t turn you into the next ingredient.”

You raised both hands in mock surrender, though the anxiety in your eyes betrayed you. “Got it. No questions, no probing, just... quiet apologies and culinary teamwork.”

Shedletsky’s expression softened just slightly, but then something clicked behind his eyes. He frowned. “…Wait. How do you even know about his family, anyway?”

You froze for a moment before giving a half-shrug, trying to play it cool.
“I’m a journalist. I have my ways,” you said, tone a little too casual to be reassuring. It wasn’t exactly a lie—just the truth dressed nicely enough to pass inspection. “You can find out a lot with the right phrasing in the right places.”

You tilted your head, adding casually, “And you? You close to him, or did you just realize all that because I said it?”

It came out smooth—too smooth—and Shedletsky, in his moment of exhaustion, didn’t even catch it at first.

“Nah,” he replied, folding his arms and leaning back slightly. “I’ve known him long enough. You don’t survive a war like that without… y’know, some ghosts hanging around. Common sense not to poke them.”

Then, as the words left his mouth, his eyes narrowed. His head tilted.

“Wait a damn minute—” he started, realization dawning. “Did you just manipulate me into giving you info?”

You blinked innocently. “…No?”

Shedletsky pointed a finger at you, glaring, though there was amusement in his tone. “You absolutely did. I swear, you’re like a magnet for trouble.”

You smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, but at least I get good material.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, and I’m not even gonna be surprised.”

You laughed nervously.

“I’ll… think about how to apologize to him,” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. Then, after a brief pause, you added quietly, “Can I ask you something else?”

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, brow lifting. The suspicion was still there— lingering ever since your little journalistic slip-up —but curiosity won out. He shifted his weight, folding his arms as if settling in. “...Go on.”

You hesitated for half a second, trying to frame it casually—but the question had been clawing at your chest since the match. You needed to ask.

“Do you have any idea why 1x1x1x1 might hate you?” you asked carefully, voice dropping low. “Or... do you know who he is?”

The air shifted.

Shedletsky's expression didn't change much—he was too good at keeping his face neutral—but you caught it. A faint, near-invisible flicker in his eyes. His jaw tightened. The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the faint hum of the lobby lights overhead.

You didn’t need him to answer. You already had it.

Still, you waited—out of formality, or maybe curiosity, just to see what kind of lie he’d build.

And when he spoke, it was smooth. Too smooth.

“Nah,” he said with a careless shrug. “No idea why they’d hate me specifically. Guess some people just hold grudges for no reason.”

It was perfect. Toneless, calm, confident. But you were a journalist; your job was to listen to how people said things, not what they said. And buried under that ease was a faint tension—a single crack in the polished mask.

You smiled faintly, nodding like you bought every word. “Right. Guess that makes sense,” you said, feigning casual interest.

Shedletsky gave a noncommittal hum, but his eyes lingered on you a second longer than usual—as if he could tell you didn’t entirely believe him. A silent standoff. One liar recognizing another.

You looked away first, pretending to jot something down in your notebook to break the stare.

Inside, though, your thoughts were already spinning.
He knew something. You were sure of it. And if he wasn’t ready to tell you now, you’d just have to find another way to dig it out.

After all, if there was one thing you’d learned, it was that everyone—no matter how strategic or smug—eventually slipped up.

"Well, it sucks that they hate you for no reason," you said, your tone playfully light, trying to patch over the sharp tension that had sliced through the room moments ago. "I’ll make sure not to use my radio when you’re in the match with her, then."

It was half a joke, half a promise.

Shedletsky let out a short breath—something between a chuckle and a sigh. His shoulders eased ever so slightly, the stiffness melting from his frame. The small grin he managed looked more like relief than amusement.

"Yeah, uh… thanks," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "See you around."

He turned toward the door, and his footsteps echoed faintly against the tile.

The moment he left, silence crept back into the room like fog—dense, heavy, humming with things unsaid. You didn’t move at first. You just listened to the fading sound of his steps until the door clicked shut.

Then you whispered under your breath,
“…He totally knows something.”

That realization snapped through you like static.

You grabbed your notebook—its cover worn and bent at the corners—and flipped it open with shaky fingers. The pen slid across the page almost frantically as you wrote in bold, messy strokes:

Shedletsky knows.

Those two words stared back at you, heavy with meaning. Enough to make your pulse quicken. Enough to make you sure.

You started writing faster, spilling everything out before the memory slipped: his pause, the almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes, the way his lie came out too clean, too rehearsed. It was the kind of lie someone perfected only after telling it too many times.

You underlined the word lied three times.

He knows who 1x1x1x1 is.
And whatever ties them together—it’s not business. It’s personal.

You leaned back in your chair, staring at the words until they almost blurred. The more you replayed the conversation in your head, the more the cracks showed. His defensiveness. His silence when you asked that question. The tension that bled through his voice.

You felt a rush of excitement crawl up your spine.
A lead. Finally, a real lead.

You were going to find out what he was hiding—no matter what it took.

Your fingers drifted toward your radio, thumb brushing against the dial before you pressed play. The static burst to life, followed by that voice you’d come to dread.

«"D-Do you hate Shedletsky?"»
A pause. A breath. The faint buzz of electricity.
«"…"»
Then, flat and cold—
«"Yes."»

Your heart skipped a beat. The air in the room suddenly felt colder, sharper, as if the word itself had cut through it.

You swallowed hard.

You were going to ask 1x1x1x1 directly.
You had to.

Even if every instinct in your body screamed that you shouldn’t.

The faint static from the recorder filled the empty room before the audio kicked in one more time—your own trembling voice echoing back at you, followed by 1x1x1x1’s answer. Hearing it again made your stomach twist. That voice—mechanical, detached, like it was being spoken through a dying circuit—still carried a weight that chilled the air around you.

You remembered how it felt the first time. How your blood had run cold the moment they actually answered you.

You shivered.

Asking them directly again… yeah, that was either going to be the best idea you’ve ever had or the worst idea in your entire, questionable existence.

But who were you kidding? You were going to do it anyway.

You could already feel the excitement bubbling up inside your chest like carbonation—answers, glorious answers, stacking in your head like little sparks of dopamine. You loved answers. You lived for answers. The thought that you might get even more of them made your heart race so hard you actually considered standing up and doing a small victory jump—until you realized how insane that would look and physically forced yourself to stay seated. You cringed at yourself.

Get it together.

You let out a shaky laugh and turned toward the window. The glass reflected the dim glow of the control room monitors, but beyond that, the sky was still pitch-dark. Not even a hint of sunrise. You blinked, trying to remember—how long had it been since breakfast? Since the round? Since strategy time?

It was hard to tell. The Spectre, in all their mysterious, sadistic glory, hadn’t bothered to provide something as simple as a clock. Everyone was left guessing, relying on instinct—or worse, on Taph’s internal schedule.

If Taph said it was bedtime, everyone went to bed. If Taph knocked on doors, it was morning. No one questioned it. They didn’t need to do it, but they did anyway—like a routine that gave them comfort in a place where time had no meaning.

You stretched your arms above your head, sighing. The Spectre was probably somewhere out there, watching all of you scramble to maintain some semblance of normalcy. You could almost feel them smirking behind whatever invisible lens they used.

But that didn’t matter.

Not right now.

You had answers to chase. Leads to follow. The moment the next round started, you’d look for 1x1x1x1 again. You’d ask. You’d dig. You’d find something.

You could—

…

You froze mid-thought.

The realization hit like a slap.

The odds. The goddamn odds.

You weren’t guaranteed to face 1x1x1x1 next round. In fact, the chances were ridiculously low.

You stared blankly at your notebook, all that restless excitement draining out of you in an instant, replaced by that familiar, cold frustration that came with waiting.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your face with both hands.

You’d already faced 1x1x1x1 twice in a row. Twice. The thought of a third encounter was… well, impossible. It just couldn’t happen. And yet, the faint flicker of hope—irrational as it was—gnawed at the back of your mind.

Your heart thumped painfully in your chest, erratic and loud enough that you were sure anyone nearby could hear it. You grabbed your notebook with trembling hands, desperate to impose some order on the chaos of your thoughts. You needed a count. You needed to see the patterns. You needed to know… who would be the killer next.

“1x1x1x1 appeared twice…” you muttered, almost to yourself, flipping aggressively through the pages, jotting down names, tallying appearances. “John Doe and c00lkidd took turns between each other like… four days… Slasher was behind them twice as well—”

Your voice caught. Your body went rigid.

Noli. Noli was the killer for the next round.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. All the excitement that had been bubbling in your chest, the thrill of maybe getting answers, drained out in an instant, leaving only a hollow pit of dread.

…Damn it.

It wasn’t even the fact that you couldn’t technically get answers. You probably could, if you had enough time to decipher Noli’s strange, warped speech patterns. But ten seconds in the round, ten seconds, and you’d be dead. No chance. No notes. No study. Just an instant replay of your own failures.

Your fingers fiddled nervously with the radio at your side. It was useless. The strap, long enough to allow swinging and some semblance of control, was indestructible. You’d tried to cut it before—tried everything. Nothing worked. It was like the Spectre had designed it to taunt you, and maybe… they had.

The more you thought about it, the more your mind spiraled. How could you fight Noli? How could you even communicate, when the second he sensed your presence via the radio, he’d teleport to you and end you before you had time to blink? You were trapped in a cycle of hope and fear, strategy and futility.

And the Spectre? The Spectre was probably sitting somewhere watching, smirking, letting you panic while they kept score, amused at your desperation.

You slammed your notebook shut, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. Noli was next. Noli meant unpredictability. Noli meant survival was on thin ice, and answers were… well, temporarily out of reach.

You leaned back against the cold wall, letting out a shaky breath as your thoughts spiraled again. The upcoming round clung to your mind like static, impossible to shake off.

You could already feel the dread of it—Noli’s distorted voice, the sudden hum of the radio, the inevitable flicker of light before everything went wrong. The very idea made your stomach twist painfully.

You tilted your head back, staring up at the dim ceiling. “Please don’t let me die first,” you whispered under your breath, half prayer, half plea to whatever god might be listening—if any of them still bothered with this place. “Just… let me last long enough to do something.”

And then, a thought slithered into your mind. Dangerous. Tempting.

You could use the others’ locations.

You froze.

The idea was cruel, desperate—but for a split second, your mind toyed with it anyway. If you could convince Noli that you’d tell him where the others were… maybe he’d spare you, just long enough for you to gather data. Long enough to survive.

You could reason with him. Bargain. Make it look convincing.

…Right?

The thought lingered for a few seconds too long before you snapped yourself out of it. No.

Immediately, you shoved the idea away, horrified that you’d even let it bloom in the first place. The guilt hit fast, hot and heavy, crawling up your throat until your chest ached.

That was a line you couldn’t cross. Not here. Not now. Not when trust was already a fragile thing among the ten people you were stuck living with. They might not all like you, but they didn’t deserve betrayal—especially not from you.

You groaned quietly, sliding further down the wall until you were sitting on the cold floor, your notebook limp in your hands. The room felt smaller somehow, like the walls were inching closer with every passing thought.

“God, what is wrong with me…” you muttered under your breath, pressing your palms against your face.

Sure, you were desperate—every round chipped away at your nerves a little more—but not enough to throw the others under the bus for a few extra minutes of life. That wasn’t survival. That was selfishness.

You exhaled slowly, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of your heart. You needed a plan—a real plan. One that didn’t involve lies or betrayal. You needed to figure out how to outthink Noli instead of begging him.

Still, even as you tried to clear your head, one bitter truth lingered, heavy and undeniable.

You were running out of strategies.

And worse—Noli never ran out of ways to find you.

You let out a small, weary sigh and decided to give your brain a break. You were tired—mentally drained from everything. What time was it, anyway? You had no idea. The dark sky outside offered no clues, and the Spectre certainly didn’t care to provide one.

Your stomach growled, breaking the fog in your head. The faint smell of cooking floated in from the kitchen—you guessed it had to be either lunch or dinner. Following your nose, you peeked toward the kitchen doorway and saw Elliot already there with Taph, working at a counter and chatting casually.

You turned back toward the dining room, hoping to lose yourself in your notebook for a while, maybe jot down observations before the next round. But as you settled into your chair, a soft creak made you freeze. Someone had sat down beside you.

“Can I have a word with you, [Name]?”

Your entire body stiffened. Builderman.

“I—Yeah, sure,” you stammered, lowering your hands nervously toward your lap. Almost instinctively, your fingers edged toward your radio, pressing the record button without Builderman noticing a thing. Better safe than sorry, you thought. One never knew.

Builderman leaned slightly forward, resting his hands on the table. His expression was calm, unreadable—but that subtle edge underlined every word he spoke. Your pulse immediately spiked.

“…I noticed you’ve been spending time with 007n7 lately,” he said slowly, each word measured, deliberate. “Just… wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

Your stomach dropped. Shit. You had completely forgotten that Elliot had snitched on your “little collaboration” yesterday. Your mind scrambled for a response, your throat suddenly dry.

“We were just chatting. Everything’s fine,” you said smoothly, carefully choosing your words. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly—you and 007n7 had been talking—but you weren’t upset at Builderman’s wariness. Truthfully, it did look a little suspicious, the two of you huddled together the night before, whispering under the dim lights like conspirators. You added, with a tilt of innocent curiosity, “Why the question?”

Builderman’s eyes flicked to you, sharp and calculating, as if he were trying to unravel the truth hidden behind your carefully neutral tone. His gaze lingered, making your stomach tighten ever so slightly, but after a few tense moments, he relaxed just a fraction, seemingly satisfied with how composed you appeared.

“…Just wanted to know the nature of the conversation,” he said finally, shrugging with a casualness that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nodded slowly, masking the spark of curiosity behind a calm demeanor. You had a feeling he was more aware than he let on, but it didn’t hurt to press a little. “Can I ask you something?” you ventured carefully, letting your voice remain light, almost casual.

Builderman’s brow flicked up, a silent disapproval. You caught it immediately and added smoothly, “You asked me a question. I think it’s only fair that I can ask you one as well.” A little manipulation, a soft tug at the rules of conversation—subtle, but effective.

For a moment, Builderman didn’t move. His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning you like he was weighing whether your audacity was foolish or clever. You held his gaze, not letting your own thoughts betray you. Then, with a long exhale that seemed to carry both resignation and caution, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

“Fine. Ask away,” he said finally, his voice even but tinged with a faint huff, still keeping you under a careful, almost predatory gaze.

“What happened in the Banlands?”

Builderman’s entire body went rigid. His shoulders squared, his posture sharpened, and the faint hum of chatter from the kitchen suddenly felt too far away. You caught the subtle twitch near his temple, the kind of tick that only appeared when someone was forcing themselves not to react.

If you could see his hands, you were sure they’d be clenched into fists beneath the table.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. The air between you thickened, heavy enough to choke on. You could almost hear his pulse—or maybe it was yours—hammering in the silence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously calm, every syllable precise and measured.

“…Why do you want to know?”

You blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t deflect. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t even deny. Just that question—quiet, sharp, cutting clean through your nerves.

You swallowed, forcing yourself not to break eye contact.
“…I’m curious.” You managed to say, though your throat felt tight. The moment those words left your mouth, you regretted them. It sounded too small. Too stupid. Too honest.

Builderman’s stare didn’t waver. He leaned in slightly, the table creaking beneath his arms, and for one dizzy second you were convinced he could hear your heart pounding.

“Curiosity kills the cat,” he murmured, low enough that the words almost blended with the hum of the lights above.

You went silent, the phrase settling into your spine like ice water.

Then, because your mouth had a mind of its own, you muttered back—barely louder than a whisper—
“But I’m not a cat.”

The tension cracked just slightly. Builderman’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like the ghost of one, sharp and humorless. He leaned back, exhaling through his nose, eyes still locked on you.

“Funny.” His tone dripped with sarcasm, though there was something else buried in it—something darker, like the edge of a warning. “Curiosity is usually what gets people killed. And if I remember correctly…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You’re always one of the first to die in every round.”

The smirk that followed wasn’t kind—it was predatory. A quiet, knowing expression that made your skin crawl.

“What a coincidence,” he added softly, before the silence returned—thick, heavy, and suffocating.

You felt the heat creeping up your neck, a burning flush of embarrassment spreading across your face. For a long moment, you didn’t answer, just fidgeting with your hands in your lap, feeling like the tiniest, most obvious fool in the room.

“…I’ll be more careful from now,” you finally muttered, your voice small and apologetic.

Builderman let out a long, deliberate sigh, and you thought you saw the barest hint of approval in his posture. His expression softened just slightly, no longer the intimidating, unreadable mask it had been moments ago—almost as if he were satisfied that you’d recognized your mistake and backed off quickly.

“Good,” he said simply, the single word carrying both weight and finality. Then he added, standing from the table and straightening his posture, “And tone your questions down, seriously. I’m getting a lot of complaints.”

You nodded, biting your lip and fidgeting with your fingers, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Every nerve in your body screamed that you’d just barely survived that conversation without screwing up again.

Builderman gave a small nod, as if to seal the moment, before walking away. He moved to sit alongside Shedletsky and Dusekkar, the three of them leaning in close, their voices low but animated.

You froze for a moment, watching them from your seat. The air around their table felt electric, like they were exchanging secrets you weren’t meant to hear. Your curiosity screamed at you, a mix of fascination and frustration bubbling up. You wanted—no, needed—to be there, to eavesdrop and catch even a sliver of the conversation, the gossip, the “tea” of the admins.

Instead, you stayed frozen in your seat, a notebook unopened on your lap, fingers tapping nervously against the edge. You promised yourself you’d figure out a way to hear it later… you just had to survive Builderman’s glare long enough to find that chance.

You pressed the stop button on your radio, the faint click echoing in your ears, and set it aside. The recording would wait; there was plenty to study later, when you had time and could actually focus without feeling like your chest was about to burst with all the thoughts spinning in your head.

Lunch came and went, the low hum of chatter and the clinking of utensils filling the room. You ate almost mechanically, your mind far away, tangled up in everything that had happened today.

1x1x1x1 answering your question—actually answering you. Shedletsky’s perfectly executed lie, the slight cracks you caught in it, and Builderman, who had danced around your curiosity with a calm menace that made your spine tingle. Each encounter had left its mark, some small, some deeply unsettling, and all of it filled your mind with more questions than answers.

The day hadn’t been bad—not at all. In fact, it had been… interesting. Every interaction had given you a tiny sliver of insight, a piece of the puzzle you were determined to assemble.

After lunch, you settled in with your notebook, scribbling down every detail you could remember. The way 1x1x1x1’s focus on Shedletsky had been so unnerving, the tension in Builderman’s calm voice, the subtle things Shedletsky had let slip, the tiny gestures that gave away more than he intended. You cataloged it all—reactions, expressions, even the silences—and tried to make sense of the patterns.

Hours slipped by almost unnoticed. You were so absorbed in your notes that the fatigue building in your body barely registered. Every scribble and margin note was a step closer to understanding, a thread connecting the chaos of the day into something resembling order.

By the time you finally dragged yourself to your room, your limbs felt leaden, your head swimming with half-formed ideas and lingering adrenaline. You leaned against the doorframe for a moment, letting out a long sigh as the day’s intensity caught up with you.

“I think… I’ll just rest a bit,” you muttered, your voice quiet even to yourself. You sank onto the bed, letting the sheets envelope you, the world shrinking down to the soft rustle of fabric and the rhythm of your own breath.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and slowly, inevitably, the exhaustion claimed you. Dreams crept in around the edges of your consciousness, fragmented and restless, shadows of the day’s encounters dancing just beyond comprehension.

For now, sleep was the only thing that could hold back the storm of thoughts, and you let it.