Time had dragged its limbs across the floor since the last murder. The once-vibrant buzz of frightened discussion had long since decayed into strained silence and dead stares. I sat alone on the couch beside the waiting room, counting the slow tick of each second in my head.
Then, at 5:55 PM, the intercom crackled with static.
"No votes were cast. Kindly return to your rooms and enjoy your rest."
There was something… too kind about the voice. It was sterile, polite—almost rehearsed.
I complied. We all did. One by one, the remaining twenty-four scattered like broken chess pieces. Back to our corners.
I locked the door behind me after a couple of minutes at 6:15 PM, my body was resting on the bed when a doorbell rang at my dorm. That's when I noticed something: a thin envelope had been slipped under my door.
My pulse quickened.
It was clean—no name, no seal. Just a single card inside.
A silhouette of a man, broad-shouldered, standing in shadow. Beneath it, a single word:
Civilian.
And beside it—a brain icon.
I stared at it for a moment too long. Then glanced toward the door.
It wasn't forbidden to look. Not directly. The rule had said no one was allowed to go outside the room at night. But did this count? Did peeking into the hallway violate it?
My fingers hesitated over the doorknob.
A war played in my head whether my Curiosity or my Cautiousness will prevail.
In the end, curiosity won.
I cracked the door open just enough to peek through.
Nothing.
No movement. Just a long, dimly lit hallway stretching endlessly left and right. Silent. Empty. Watching.
I shut the door again, slower this time, making sure the latch didn't click too loudly.
I returned to my bed and sat down.
Then, I stared at the card again.
A civilian. Not just that—one marked with intelligence. That icon had to mean something. Was I a variable? A balancing piece? Or bait? And behind the card it was a symbol carved into a crescent moon with a knife piercing through it.
I laid the card face up on the nightstand. A civilian with a brain.
At exactly 2:38 AM, a scream echoed through the halls.
Male. Sharp. Then silence.
I didn't move.
Not this time.
I laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling. I listened as the building absorbed the sound of another life extinguished.
But I didn't move.
I had to know what kind of game we were in. What patterns existed. What rules could bend without breaking. And most importantly—what the killer wanted.
I reviewed the facts:
Two deaths. Both female. One with a white keycard.No pattern yet—but maybe that was the point.The announcer only speaks when something isn't done.The vote was optional. No punishment.My card was delivered after the vote failed. Is it the roles? That we are given?
That meant the cards weren't random. They were issued deliberately, likely as a way to remind us who we are in this twisted narrative. Perhaps only to those still playing their roles… correctly.
I was still in the game.
That meant I had time.
I'd have to bait them. Give them a reason to show their face. Or at least their intention.
Tonight, I stay quiet.
Tomorrow, I start asking the right questions.
By the time the sun clawed its way through the blinds, my eyes were already open.
We gathered again at 8:00 AM. All twenty-three of us now.
But something had shifted.
Some were hunched over, sleep-deprived and pale, their eyes twitching at every sound. A few looked like they hadn't even tried to sleep—just stared at the walls all night, waiting for the next scream.
Others… looked completely fine.
Well-rested.
Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
Like they were watching a game rather than playing it.
I scanned the crowd silently. One of them had blood on their hands. Maybe more.
And that man
was the Soldier.
His steps were slow, labored—like each one weighed more than the last. His uniform was torn, blood soaking the fabric around his abdomen. Panic flickered through the group, but he didn't collapse. Not yet.
He stood his ground.
The moment his eyes met mine, I knew something was different. His gaze wasn't clouded by pain or fear. It was sharp. Focused.
"I saw him," he said through gritted teeth. "I saw the one who did this."
Everyone went silent.
All heads turned as he slowly raised his arm… and pointed.
There, near the edge of the group, lounging in a seat like he owned the world, was a man who barely even blinked at the accusation. Legs crossed, arms draped lazily over the chair, his posture was all confidence—like a wolf among sheep.
"You," the Soldier growled. "You're one of them."
Murmurs surged. "What is he talking about?"
The Soldier took a shaky breath and continued. "I saw your card."
That caught everyone off guard. Because the card was just distributed last night.
"I risked everything last night. I broke the rules I went outside going straight to the scream. I needed proof. I needed to know who's behind this." He coughed, blood flecking his lips, but kept going.
"His card… it said Hitman. One of the killers. He's not just part of them—he's the one who killed the man that just currently died. I saw it."
Gasps. Faces turned pale. The man didn't deny it—he only smiled.
That smile chilled the room.
The Reporter stepped forward. "You're sure?"
"Positive," the Soldier snapped, the last of his strength pouring into those words. "He stabbed me before I could say a word. Tried to finish me off. But I got away."
The man finally stood. He didn't speak, didn't shout. Just rose, slow and calm, adjusting his sleeves like he had all the time in the world.
"I didn't think you'd survive," he said, voice like cold steel. "You're stubborn."
"Why?" someone whispered.
He smiled again. "Why not?"
Tension exploded. Everyone stepped back from him, like he'd become radioactive.
I didn't move.
Because I'd been watching him since Day One. The way he didn't flinch when someone died. The way he looked around like he was already ten steps ahead.
He wasn't surprised by the killings.
He was waiting for them.
The Hitman.
Now confirmed.
And still no one moved to stop him.
Then the intercom crackled.
"Kindly vote who to be kick."
The Soldier leaned against the wall, barely standing, but his words carried like a blade.
"You all wanted a name. You have one. Now what will you do with it?"
The man—the Hitman—smirked and sat back down, folding his hands.
"Who knows, things will get interesting starting from now on. But sadly I got found early on than what I expected didn't expect to see that you" pointing towards the soldier "Had a card that protects you from one night, I guess a soldier will always be a soldier."
The room stood on the edge of chaos, the silence stretched taut like a wire ready to snap.
Then—thud.
The Soldier reached into his pocket and tossed something onto the center of the round table. It slid across the polished surface and stopped at the very heart of the group.
A card.
Everyone leaned forward, breath held.
I stepped slightly closer, narrowing my eyes.
On the card was the silhouette of a man clad in military gear, the shape bold and defined, monochrome like mine—black and white, with sharp contrast that made it feel official…
Below the silhouette, a single word glared back at us:
SOLDIER
And under that, a sentence etched in fine print—just enough for us to read:
"You may survive one night against death, if the killer aimed for your life."
Gasps broke out. Whispers surged like a sudden current.
"I-it's true…"
"He wasn't lying…"
"He really did survive…"
The Soldier's breathing was uneven, but his eyes burned with purpose.
"I'm not here to scare you," he said, voice raspy but clear. "I showed you this because you all need to wake up. This isn't some game show. This is real. There are people in here who want us dead. I've already come face to face with one. This card... it's more than just a role. It reflects who we are. I used to be in the army—now I'm retired. But that part of me, it never really left. And it seems this game hasn't forgotten it either it know the current me and the past."
He shot a sharp glance at the man still sitting calmly—the Hitman—as if daring him to move.
Some people stepped back again. Some reached for chairs or glasses, anything they could use to protect themselves. Others still looked unsure… in denial.
My thoughts raced.
That card confirmed everything.
The rules weren't just psychological chains. They were mechanical in some way—real, tied to roles and conditions. It wasn't paranoia anymore. The card system was structured, calculated.
And the Soldier had used his one life.
A second attempt… he'd be just as vulnerable as the rest of us.
I felt the weight of the card in my own pocket. Mine, marked CIVILIAN—with a faint brain icon etched beside it like a whisper meant only for me.
I didn't understand the full system yet… but I would and I know I will.
Someone finally spoke.
"What happens now?"
No one answered.
The Reporter scribbled notes in a small worn journal, murmuring to herself. "The Hitman… the Soldier… these roles—how many more are hidden among us?"
Someone else backed away toward the wall. "How can we trust anything now?"
The Soldier slammed a fist onto the table, staggering but still standing.
"You'll all die if you keep hesitating."
I stared at the card again.
Survive one night.
He survived once.
But none of us had that safety now or is it we still don't know the other cards.
Except maybe me… if I played smart enough.
The tension in the air was unbearable. Eyes darted from person to person, as if searching for some hidden cue. The soldier, though still bandaged and wincing from the pain, stood tall and slammed his hand against the table.
"If you want to win and survive this idiotic game," he growled, "vote the Hitman. We let him slip now, and we all pay the price later."
A hushed murmur spread across the group, hesitation thick in their expressions.
Then, the accused—the man who had sat like a predator among sheep—leaned back in his seat, arms folded, a crooked smile on his lips. His voice was smooth, too calm for the chaos unraveling around him.
"Just so you know..." he said, deliberately slow, drawing everyone's attention."I can't attack the next night. Or any night. It's written clearly on my card."
He leaned forward, eyes scanning the room, as if daring anyone to call his bluff.
"So, if you vote me out, you're wasting it. You're playing right into whoever the real killer is."
A few people exchanged unsure glances. Some began to doubt. His composure, his confidence—it was unsettling. It made the air around him feel cold.
But I didn't look away from him. Not once.
Because I noticed something—the twitch in his jaw, the forced breath, the subtle shift in tone when the soldier exposed him. This wasn't confidence. It was control... cracking.
The soldier narrowed his eyes. "Convenient, isn't it? That you're suddenly harmless the moment you're caught? And the evidence is literally in front of everyone me who got injured."
No one said anything.
Then the Reporter spoke, her voice sharp: "If he's lying, and we skip... someone else dies tonight."
The silence returned.
And suddenly, the announcer's cold voice echoed from the hidden speakers once more:
"A new rule has been set: This meeting will end precisely at 9:00 AM. Voting begins at 9:01 and ends at 9:20. Failure to vote will be considered an abstention."
A dreadful silence followed.
Time was no longer just a concept. It was a noose tightening around our necks.
9:15 AM.
Only five minutes left.
The weight of every second crept along our spines like a slow-moving shadow. People were whispering, pacing, fidgeting with their phones. Some looked toward the accused. Some looked at the floor.
Out of 23 remaining, the Hitman received 16 votes, including mine.
The Soldier received 3 votes.
And 4 were undecided.
All anonymous.
Earlier, our phones buzzed simultaneously. A secured voting system. It listed everyone's full name. No aliases. No titles. Just names. Including mine.
I remember the names on the screen. Burned into my memory now.
Luther Hale
Selene Varric
Damien Cord
Selene Montgomery
Noel Strand
Kara Fens
Rin Aclaire
Desmond Rake
Calla Myrrin
Elias Thorn
Jonas Merrow
Reyna Solace
Kaito Dunn
Leira Vaughn
Silas Dray
Mila Ronen
Ashen Crow
Thorne Delven
Naomi Syre
Vern KaelIris
DenholmTyver
ShadeCaius Turner
2nd Deceased (Not votable)
1st Deceased (Not votable)
I hesitated for a moment then—before I cast my vote. But only briefly.
The Hitman had to go.
His posture hadn't shifted. Even as the numbers stacked against him, he remained calm. But that calm was too calculated. Like a mask—tightening.
At 9:19, the voting interface locked.
We were all staring at our phones.
Then the screen blinked:
"VOTE CONCLUDED."
"EXECUTION IN 3... 2... 1..."
A gasp.
A sharp, thunderous clang—like a switch thrown behind a wall.
The Hitman's chair suddenly jolted back and locked to the floor. His arms were pulled down by black metallic cuffs from under the table.
He didn't scream.
He didn't speak.
He only smiled.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"Wrong play..." he muttered.
"You're all still dancing in the dark."
Then a low hiss filled the room.
A blinding light turned off.
BANG!
And just like that...
He was gone.
Lights came back.
The center of the table slowly retracted with a mechanical groan, revealing the Hitman's lifeless body beneath—his corpse fresh, eyes still half-lidded, and a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him
Just silence…