"Mom?"
"Yes, Sam?"
"Why would you ask that?" Samantha's eyes were wide, her body frozen. Sweat mingled with tears on her face.
Heather tilted her head, still seated calmly. "Oh, sorry... maybe I wasn't being very specific—"
"Dad died because of a Would You Rather question. Why would you ask that?" Samantha's voice trembled. She let out a hollow laugh, the kind that barely masked her panic. "You were joking, right?"
Heather's voice softened. "Sam, if you choose the zombies—"
"No! No! What the hell?!" Samantha stood up abruptly and backed away. Heather remained seated, her face gentle, sympathetic. Not like Nick's—Nick's had been empty and vacant. One thing both faces have in common however, is that they're both wrong.
"Why would you say that?! Even as a joke—what kind of joke is that?!"
Heather stood slowly. "Sam, if you choose the zombies—"
Samantha collapsed to her knees, shielding her face with her hands. Her sobs were muffled, her body shuddering under the weight of confusion and fear.
Heather's tone remained eerily calm. "The abandoned city is right here in Chicago. If you choose the sea monsters, you'll be sailing on a fragile wooden pirate ship in the middle of the Pacific. In both scenarios, you must survive from 12 a.m. to 4 a.m. So, Samantha—what do you choose?"
"Why... why is this happening..."
Heather knelt beside her and stroked her hair. Her touch was warm, familiar—but the words made everything felt like they came from a stranger.
"Sam... please answer."
After a long silence, Samantha gave in.
"...The... the zombies."
The second she said it, Heather wrapped her arms tightly around her. "Oh, Sam... it must've been so hard for you, hasn't it?" Her voice cracked, her mother seemed to have returned. "Nick... that idiot..." She laughed bitterly. "He must've done something stupid to end up like this, right?"
Samantha didn't speak. She just nodded faintly, face still buried in her hands.
—
"What the hell do you want me to do here?" Liam muttered under his breath, staring at the graffiti on the wall. "You're gonna have to be more specific."
A nearby dumpster rattled loudly in response.
He approached it cautiously. Written on the lid were more details—locations, context: [Chicago. Pacific Ocean. Wooden ships. 12 to 4 a.m.]
"I can't escape this, can I?" he asked aloud. The alley answered in silence. The silence was louder than any voice—it was the most threatening 'yes' he could imagine.
Liam opened the dumpster. No secret messages, just the cat's corpse from earlier. He stared at it—and then, inspiration.
The graffiti. The cat. Tyler. Death.
"Can I answer later?" he asked.
He shut the lid.
Another graffiti appeared behind it: [Latest by 9 p.m.]
"What if I don't answer by then?"
Silence again. And he didn't need more.
Liam took out his phone and opened his contacts. Thirty-three unread messages from Caitlyn. He drafted: [Can you meet me for the movie right now?] But before he could send it, a new text popped up.
[You're online!]
*Stalker,* he thought.
[Are you okay? If you need someone to talk to, I'm at the Starbucks where you work. I came to find you but I guess I got your schedule wrong? Lydia and Jason are here too.]
"You didn't have to get my schedule right," he muttered. "Lydia, huh... maybe I should go for her instead. I'd say even society would thank me."
He replied simply:
[I'm on my way.]
[Wait—you're actually coming? To work or to talk to us?]
He didn't bother responding again. Instead, he called a number from earlier: Officer Quinn.
—
The police station was a mess.
Over 100 suicides. One day. One hour window.
"Hey," Quinn called to his colleague, "did your witness say anything about a Would You Rather game?"
She looked at him, confused. "No? Yours said that?"
"Yes and that eccentric witness of mine was very, mind you, VERY insistent. Said all of today's suicides were caused by some... twisted game."
"Well, there's no proof to the contrary," she shrugged. "I guess that makes it slightly more probable..."
"Yeah right," Quinn said wryly. "Slightly more probable than if all 100 got eaten by dinosaurs maybe."
"Hey, weirder things have happened. A hundred suicides in one hour? That's not a coincidence. That's murder—or something worse."
"Evidence says otherwise. Cameras caught a few of them... They jumped on their own."
"Superpowers," she said, sipping her coffee.
"What?"
"I'm serious. That story last month? Guy had super strength. The one before? Genius-level intelligence—engineered. What if this is part of that wave?"
Quinn raised an eyebrow, half amused. "So... suicide game masterminded by superpowered pranksters?"
"Think about it."
Quinn chuckled—and then his phone rang.
His ringtone was embarrassingly recognizable.
"No way. Justin Timberlake?"
"What? I like his music." He answered. "Quinn."
"This is Liam Dye." The voice on the other end was calm. Cold.
"Yes, Mr. Dye?"
"Lydia Ryder. Student at my university. Jason's classmate—your son's. She's been using him. Self-proclaimed best friend, but she manipulates him for his money, your money. Keeps him from dating the girl he likes so she can have him all to herself. For money. For popularity."
"Alright alright, real dick of a character." Quinn frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"
"She plays the victim. She's bled a few guys dry, even her own friends were manipulated at times. All about the image... You said you wanted to believe me."
"I did. I do. But it's hard when you can't show me anything."
"I can't show you how it happened... but I can show you how it will."
A pause.
"Go on."
Liam's voice was steady. "Tomorrow, Lydia Ryder will commit suicide."
"That's not something you say lightly, Mr. Dye."
"I'm showing you how the suicides happen. So watch closely, Officer."
He hung up.
Quinn lowered the phone slowly.
"What was that?" his colleague asked.
"My eccentric witness."
"The Would You Rather guy? You believe him?"
Quinn didn't answer—but his silence wasn't empty.
It was full of consideration.