Morning arrived with a stale kind of silence, like the air itself was holding its breath. The light that poured through the hallway windows didn't feel like warmth—it was more like exposure, as if the building wanted to remind us we were still trapped inside came with an announcement that turned the tension on its head.
The announcer's voice came shortly.
"No one has died last night. Please proceed to the meeting room."
The room fell into a stunned silence as the message echoed. It was as if the air itself paused, disbelieving. For once, death didn't show that night.
It didn't feel like good news.
Murmurs broke out in the center chamber. Some looked relieved—others confused.
The Soldier immediately stood from his seat, marching toward the intercom.
"Why?! Why did no one die?! Are the killers backing down?! Speak!"
But the announcer gave no reply. Just a buzz of static.
Murmurs filled the room. Some said maybe the real killer was the hitman, Are we free after this day? Are the killers got scared?
Then, I noticed, there stood Selene Varric a.k.a the reporter.
Her hair was a little frizzed, her shirt wrinkled from a restless sleep—but her face was calm, eyes sharp yet felt like in pain. She looked exactly like before. Except for one thing.
I saw it. Just beneath her thigh—a line of faint stitches. Quick procedure. Professional. But enough to suggest someone had patched her together in that night.
She caught me staring and shot me a wink, before sitting like nothing ever happened.
But I still saw it. The relentless movement of her feet. A half-second of hesitation in her left leg. She was good at hiding things, but not good enough.
The meeting began, but it was empty. Hollow. The energy in the room felt like dead air—no one had a clue. The tension had flattened into pure confusion.
The Soldier tried his best to push the group.
But today felt different. Tension still lingered, but the fear wasn't loud. It was quieter—internalized. Like everyone was conserving their paranoia. Nobody had a name. Nobody had a plan. The Soldier tried to rally them—asking pointed questions, demanding someone speak up. But only a few of us remained attentive: the Hostess, the Nun, Reporter, and me.
But his voice was just noise to most of them now. They were too tired. Too paranoid. No one wanted to talk. No leads. No whispers. Just silence.
No one else cared to listen.
Only four of us stayed to listen. Me, the Hostess, the Nun, and Reporter. The others avoided the soldier like he was some kind of virus.
The rest. They sat like statues. Some dazed. Some exhausted. Others just... detached. Maybe the game was getting to them. Maybe silence felt safer than being wrong.
The voting system arrived on our phones.
At 9:20 PM, the screen showed the result:
"0 votes. Voting skipped."
Just like that.
Later that day, around 3:30 PM.
I sat on the edge of the central platform, the sun dimming through the glass dome above us. Afternoon, but it felt like dusk. That's when I noticed the Soldier standing at the north end, arms crossed, exchanging words with Selene.
I found myself watching the Soldier. He was deep in conversation with Selene. But they weren't alone. Beside them stood someone new.
Leaning on the wall nearby, arms crossed, was a man I seen before. His posture was lazy, but his presence felt loud. Arms covered in tattoos that crawled up his neck. His hair was tied back carelessly, and his posture screamed boredom. But the moment our eyes met, I felt something colder.
If I remembered his name is Jun he was one of the people who introduced himself. He had that kind of face—half smug, half uninterested, like everything was beneath him. His grin was sharp, like someone who enjoyed a fight way too much.
Jun. The name dropped like a heavy coin. Maybe a Gangster's name?
While they were talking he corrected her. "Name's Noel Strand," he said, spitting the alias is not a casual thing to say. "Jun's what they called me back in the gang. Don't call me that here."
When our eyes met, he chuckled.
His voice was thick, low—more growl than words.
When Selene asked him about his role or what he observed, he just shrugged, answering with vague sarcasm. But when I stepped forward to listen in, he turned sharply, squinting at me like I was something he stepped on by accident.
"You the quiet type, huh?" he said to me, tilting his head. "Figures. You look like the type that gets eaten first."
I didn't say anything. He walked past me, nudging my shoulder a little harder than necessary.
He turned around came back, looked at me and said "And what's your deal, nerd boy?" he muttered, his tone mockingly light.
Selene glanced between us before I could respond, Selene stepped between us and chuckled awkwardly. "Alright, Noel, play nice."
He clicked his tongue, stuffed his hands into his pockets.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get your mic tangled, reporter girl."
He backed off, still smirking, and leaned again on the wall. But the way he looked at me… like I was prey.
It was a power play. He was gauging me. Which meant he saw me as a threat.
Interesting.
I felt amused.
I had a feeling this guy wasn't just muscle. We could have a use of him.
After a brief conversation they all left. Leaving no lead had found.
Selene had just turned to leave, her hand tightening around her notebook, when I stepped closer and spoke.
No pretense. No politeness. Just the truth.
"Selene. What happened to you last night?"
She turned slightly, blinking, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips.
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"I saw your thigh," I cut her off. "The stitches. Someone saved you. Someone brought you back. You were dead, weren't you?"
That wiped the smirk clean off her face.
For a few seconds, she stared at me, lips parted, words forming and dying before they could leave. Then, her gaze softened—not with trust, but the fatigue of someone who'd tried to forget something painful and just realized they couldn't.
"I…" she paused. "I don't remember much. Just pain. I remember… being stabbed—more than once. My stomach, my ribs, and then—my throat. I wanted to scream. I really did." Her voice cracked slightly at that.
In my mind, that's why last night there was no scream.
I noticed her hand trembling.
"I was sure I was going to die. I was on the bed. I saw the blood. I tasted it. It felt… real."
She looked down, as if trying to convince herself it didn't happen.
"But then—it all went black but I felt a hand touched me before I passed out. And when I woke up, I was in my bed. My body—healed completely like magic but some hasn't healed and those are the stitches. Weak. My voice barely there. Whoever saved me didn't stay long. I never saw them."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't know who it was. Or why."
She left after that—quietly.
I stood there for a moment. Processing.
It all made sense now.
Not just her survival.
But the pattern.
I sat by the stairwell, away from everyone, and pulled out my notebook. I hadn't touched it much since Day 1, but now I filled it with furious scribbles.
My thoughts, as clearly as I could write them:
This isn't just a death game. This is a psychological war.
The game is based—loosely—on something we've all probably played before: Mafia.
Created in 1986 by a Russian psychologist named Dimitry Davidoff. Back then, the setup was simple. The group is divided between Mafia and Civilians.
The Mafia—hidden among the group—kills at night. The Civilians—who outnumber them—try to figure out who's guilty.
Roles were added later. Doctors. Detectives. Jesters.
But this… This is a twisted version. A live-action nightmare.
The rules aren't just psychological—they're real.
The Soldier is a role. So was the Hitman. Which means…
There are more. Specialized variants.
That makes it dangerous and harder to solve, but also—structured.
If there's structure… there's logic.
The cards we were given—
They don't just reflect the roles we play.
They reflect our truth.
Our purpose in the game.
Mine says "Civilian."
That means no special abilities. No night powers.
But I still have a brain.
And in this game, maybe that's the most dangerous weapon of all.
I paused, tapping my pen against the side of the notebook.
If Selene was attacked—and survived—someone must have healed her.
A Doctor-type role. But unlike in the classic game, this "Doctor" didn't reveal themselves. Which meant:
1. They were careful.
2. They understood their value.
3. They might try to stay hidden until absolutely necessary.
I underlined that last point twice.
Then a thought hit me, sharp and clear.
The rules of the game might be flexible. But the logic behind them isn't.
If I could decode the roles—identify each one, even speculate what they could do—I could start predicting who was who.
And more importantly?
What the Mafia wanted or Who even is the Mafia?
Civilian. Soldier. Hitman. Hostess. Reporter. Nun. Doctor.
That's 8 roles I'm aware of but im not sure if some of the roles are true or maybe im just making assumptions for now Nun, Hostess and Reporter are the unclear since I just base on their looks and what they do.
And each time a card appears or someone acts out of line… the pieces shift.
But with enough time, enough observation—
I could solve this.
Even if it kills me...