They didn't speak for a long time.
Twenty-four students stood at the base of the grand staircase, staring at the pedestal and the two unnatural dice that rested on it — untouched but humming with presence. Like they were aware. Like they were waiting.
The silence stretched, brittle and sharp, like it might snap with a breath.
Finally, someone broke.
Jonah stepped back, shaking his head. "No. No way. I'm not doing this. I don't know what this is, but it's not normal — and I'm not part of it."
His voice was too loud in the stillness. He turned and marched toward the door they'd entered through.
"Jonah, wait—" Belle called, reaching for him, but he didn't stop.
He didn't look back.
The others followed — some calling out, others just running, desperate for the idea of escape. Even the ones who had said nothing until now moved like they'd just woken from a trance.
They reached the front hall.
The door was still there.
Closed. Sealed.
Jonah grabbed the handle, twisted hard, and pulled. Nothing.
He slammed into it with his shoulder. Again. Again. The wood groaned under the pressure, but it didn't give.
"Come on!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Open, dammit!"
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then a sound filled the hallway.
A deep, dragging scrape — like something moving behind the walls. Or beneath them. Something heavy. Alive.
Then...
Jonah screamed.
His body convulsed violently, legs buckling. He arched backward, spine bending at a horrible angle. His eyes rolled up, wide with pain and terror.
Black mist poured from his ears, mouth, and nose — thick and slow like oil.
Then, just as suddenly, he collapsed.
Still.
Silent.
His skin was pale.
Not just pale — drained. Gray. Lifeless. Like something had been sucked out of him and taken elsewhere.
Belle fell to her knees beside him, her scream echoing in the vaulted space. "Jonah! Jonah, please!"
She shook him. Slapped his cheeks. Pressed her ear to his chest.
Nothing.
He was gone.
"He was just trying to leave!" she sobbed. "He didn't even touch the dice! He didn't do anything!"
The voice returned.
Cold. Clear. Final.
"No one leaves before the game begins."
Its words weren't shouted. They didn't need to be. They vibrated through the walls, through the floors, through bone.
Ava felt it in her teeth.
Reuben stepped forward, face pale. "We need to carry him back. We can't just leave him there."
Four of them moved quietly, gently lifting Jonah's body and bringing him back into the main room. They laid him down beneath the pedestal, like a warning. Or an offering.
No one spoke. Not for a while.
The students stood in clumps now, uncertain. Some sat on the stairs, rocking or hugging their knees. Others leaned against the wall, eyes darting around like they were waiting for it to happen again.
Tasha broke the silence. "So that's it, then? We roll the dice or we die?"
Marcus stepped forward. His voice was calm, but his hands were trembling. "Who's going to roll?"
No one answered.
Tasha's voice shook. "You want us to just... play? After that?"
"Do you want to be next?" he asked.
No one did.
Ava stared at the dice.
The symbols pulsed faintly. Snake. Clock. Flame. Eye. Hand. Key.
Each face felt like a sentence. She didn't know what they meant, but she knew they weren't safe.
She felt watched.
Not just by the others — by the house itself. As if the walls had eyes.
Something inside her clicked — not courage, not recklessness, but something close to acceptance. A sense that waiting was worse than playing.
She stepped forward.
Daniel moved with her, grabbing her wrist. "Ava, don't."
"I'm not playing," she whispered. "I'm going to understand it. Before it understands us."
She pulled free, hand shaking, and stepped onto the platform.
Everyone held their breath.
She reached out and picked up the first dice.
It was warm.
Not like stone warmed by the sun. Like skin. Like breath.
She dropped it onto the pedestal.
It rolled.
Once. Twice.
Then stopped.
An eye.
She stared at it. The symbol pulsed with a soft glow.
The eye looked back.
She picked up the second dice.
Her palm was slick with sweat now. Her breath came in short bursts. But her lungs didn't close — they hadn't since she'd entered the house.
The second die was heavier somehow.
She threw it.
It landed hard, bounced once, and settled.
A flame.
The room shifted.
It was subtle, but everyone felt it — like pressure dropping before a storm. The air went heavier, thicker, hotter.
A low hum began.
Doors slammed shut down the hallway.
The chandelier overhead flickered, then dimmed — casting a red glow over the room.
The symbols on the dice pulsed in sync.
Eye.
Flame.
And then the voice whispered again.
"Game One:
Reveal what you see — or burn in silence."
The words struck like ice.
No one moved.
"What does that mean?" Nadia whispered.
Belle was still on the floor, cradling Jonah's lifeless hand. She didn't look up.
Ava turned to the others. "It's a game about truth. The Eye — it means seeing. Flame… punishment?"
"So what, we answer questions or we die?" Reuben asked.
"Maybe it's worse than questions," Marcus said grimly. "Maybe it's secrets."
Tasha backed up a step. "Nope. I'm not doing this. I didn't sign up for therapy from hell."
The hallway behind the pedestal shifted again. A door appeared — one that hadn't been there before. It was black with a brass handle shaped like an open eye. Beneath it, orange light flickered through the cracks like fire waiting for a breath of air.
Twelve chairs rolled into the room from the hallway.
One by one.
Each scraping slowly across the floor — as if pulled by invisible strings.
They stopped in a circle.
Each had a name.
Tasha. Ava. Daniel. Marcus. Reuben. Maya. Belle. Nadia. Dax. Leah. Thandi. Jonah.
Ava read the names aloud, quietly.
Jonah's chair stood empty.
Twelve players.
"But why us?" Maya asked, voice thin. "How does it choose?"
"I don't think it matters," Daniel said. "It already has."
The chandelier dimmed again.
The door creaked open.
And inside — the room flickered with firelight.
Waiting.
Ava turned to face the others.
Her voice was low.
But firm.
"We play together. Or we burn alone."