The morning's meeting hasn't ended, but the silence it left behind was deafening. Whispers filled the hallways like drafts through broken windows—uncertain, paranoid, and aimless. No one seemed to have a plan. Some retreated to their rooms, others sat motionless in corners, as if hoping stillness would shield them from whatever curse now bound the Velvet Moon. The room that once bathed in golden glamour now seemed brittle and cold, like glass under strain.
I hadn't returned to my room yet. I lingered in the hallway, tracing every face that passed me. They were all masks—some hollow, some cracked, some too still. Twenty-four of us remained. But after this morning's announcement, it no longer felt like we were survivors. We were pieces on a board, and something unseen was moving us.
I turned to the Reporter again. She was leaning against the wall near the staircase, arms crossed, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "This isn't over," she murmured. "The first wasn't a fluke. The killer's still playing."
Before I could respond, a scream tore through the Velvet Moon.
This one was closer—far too close.
It came from the bar.
I sprinted. The moment my feet hit the marble floor of the lounge, the sharp scent of wine mixed with copper twisted my gut. Others arrived seconds later, gasping, shuddering, and standing frozen.
There she was—the Hostess.
The newer one. The girl who'd introduced herself so kindly, her voice soft like velvet, and her steps careful like she was walking through broken glass. And now she was part of it.
Her body was sprawled across the floor, twisted and bloody. Broken wine bottles had been driven into her—glass shards embedded in her arms, chest, even her neck. Blood trickled around her like spilled wine, mixing with the remnants of shattered bottles. Her face was frozen in shock, lips slightly parted as though trying to say one last word.
Someone gasped behind me.
I turned to see the other Hostess—the one from earlier, the performer, the mystery. She stood there in utter horror, hands trembling at her sides. "I-I… I just saw her a few minutes ago. She said she was going to clean something…"
Her voice broke. Her knees buckled slightly, but she didn't fall. I studied her closely. Her panic didn't feel rehearsed, but panic can be faked—and in a game like this, performance could be life or death.
"Is she… actually dead?" someone whispered from the gathering crowd.
"Yes," the Soldier answered grimly, stepping into the center with a cold calmness. "She's gone. Just like the first."
I stayed quiet, mind racing. That made two. One after another. But this time it's in the morning. Always in silence.
A meeting has called, the soldier called.
The Soldier turned to the rest of us. "Do any of you understand what that poem meant? The one from the announcement?"
Murmurs followed—confusion, denial, half-formed theories. Some said it was just a sick prank. Others claimed it was symbolic. But no one truly understood.
Except her.
A girl in the back slowly stepped forward. She looked young—but something about her presence was unsettling. Pale skin. White robes. A simple, silver cross hanging from her neck. She resembled a nun, but her eyes held something older, deeper.
She spoke quietly, but her voice carried.
"The poem was a rule. A warning."
Everyone turned.
She continued. "The first line—by moon's rest, none shall wander beyond their veil—means during the night, no one is supposed to leave their room. It's curfew. Break it, and you risk death. That's how they got her," she motioned to the Hostess's body, "She was outside her room."
In my mind did it happen before the rule? If it did then the rule has already been applied the moment the 1st death happened… the first scream. If it's not then something more meaning behind the rule stated. And why morning 2 of the recent death has happened at night but now why at morning. I couldn't grasp the feeling behind my thought.
Whispers rose around the room, some gasping in realization.
"The second line—*'By sun's rise, gather when the hour strikes eight'—tells us the meeting time. We're supposed to gather at 8:00 a.m., every morning. That's not a suggestion. It's protocol."
I hesitated my thought for a brief while I thought in the back of my mind why exact 8:00am why not any other time why couldn't it be 8:25 or 9:00 is there a specific reason why 8:00 it should be 8:00 could it be the time the murder starts at 8:00 and ends with 3:00am in the morning… The more I think the further my answer goes but I couldn't stop the feeling that my answers are too close yet so far.
"And the last part?" I asked, finally speaking. "Speak, doubt, and choose the one to fall. Unmask the shadow hiding among you, or let silence be your noose…?"
The girl sadden faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Every day, we vote to eliminate someone. We guess. We gamble. If we're right, we survive. If not… the killer continues. And more blood is spilled."
The room felt colder.
It wasn't a game.
It was a play or guilt game.
A system designed to turn us against each other until only the truth survived.
The Soldier rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. "So we're trapped here… playing some sick version of execution theater."
"No," said the Reporter firmly. "This isn't just random. The killer—or killers—have a goal. A reason. The way both bodies were displayed? One crushed in glass, another impaled with it. That's not convenience. It's a message."
"To who?" someone asked.
"To all of us," I answered, my voice lower than I intended. "They want us to know they're close."
Everyone was quiet.
Then, in a barely audible voice, someone in the crowd asked, "Then what do we do now?"
There was no clear answer.
The Soldier stepped forward once more. "We survive. We follow the rules. And we find the ones hiding behind masks."
For a moment, silence returned.
But it wasn't the silence of calm.
I raised my hand slowly.
The tension in the room shifted slightly—eyes flicked toward me, curious or cautious. The Soldier turned slightly in my direction, but it was the girl in the white robes—the nun-like one—who acknowledged me.
"Yes?" she said softly. "Is there a question?"
I nodded. "Yes. Just one."
She gave a small wave of her hand, motioning for me to continue.
I stepped forward, just slightly. My voice remained calm, but my words were sharp, deliberate. "In the context of that poem… what does 'Know your roles' actually mean?"
The room stilled.
Her expression changed instantly. The calm, composed presence she held just seconds before faltered. She blinked, lips parting slightly, but no words came out.
She hadn't thought about it.
The realization played across her face like a slow, crumbling landslide—she'd recited the poem, dissected its meaning line by line… yet she had completely overlooked one of its most important parts.
That phrase.
"Know your roles."
"I…" she tried to begin, but stopped again. Her eyes flicked toward the floor, then toward the Soldier, as if silently asking for help. None came.
Everyone was watching now.
Some confused, some intrigued. A few began murmuring among themselves. I could almost hear their thoughts forming—Was that part of the rules? Was it important? Had they already broken something they didn't understand?
The Reporter stepped closer beside me, arms crossed. "He's right," she said flatly. "You gave a detailed breakdown of every other line. But you missed the opening statement entirely. And it wasn't just decoration—it was a directive."
The girl in the robes looked shaken now. Her fingers curled tightly into the sleeves of her robe, knuckles pale. "I… assumed it meant metaphorically. Like… know your place. Your role in the situation."
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "Not in this game."
I glanced toward the others, then back at her. "Roles. Plural. Not titles. Not personalities. Roles. Like… parts we've been assigned."
She stiffened.
The Soldier narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting there's something more going on? That we've been given… what? Secret identities?"
I met his gaze. "Think about it. The message told us to follow the rules. The message said to know your role. And the announcer... didn't speak like someone warning us. It was like a performance. Like we're part of a play."
A grim silence swept the room.
The nun-like girl finally lowered her head slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "...Then this isn't a riddle. It's a script."
"And someone's already playing their part," the Reporter said.
The Soldier straightened up. "If that's true… then we're not just trying to survive. We're in a game designed with intent. Which means someone knows more than they're letting on."
Eyes darted across the room. Suspicion started to settle again, like ash in the air.
But I wasn't done.
"One more thing," I said, quieter this time. "If we all have roles… that means some people know more than others. Maybe someone knows who the killer is. Maybe someone's meant to find them. And maybe someone's supposed to stop them. That's maybe the reason why the other hostess died since there's also another hostess presented and in conclusion each role we have is only 1 no more double but 1"
The Soldier met my gaze, and for the first time, I saw the flicker of agreement in his eyes.
No one said anything for a while.
But something had changed.
The room wasn't just filled with panic anymore.
It was filled with questions…. And soon, it would be filled with accusations.