3:07 a.m.

Joseph sat near the window, his knees drawn up. The moonlight carved soft shadows over the glass. The others were scattered around the room—blankets half-on and limbs twisted. Leo had fallen asleep sitting upright, his head tilted awkwardly against the couch. Celeste and Sasha were curled up close on the floor. Even Jude was out cold, one arm still tucked beneath his hoodie as if it were a shield.

Joseph hadn’t planned to fall asleep. He had intended to stay awake. But there must have been a brief moment of unconsciousness, because when the sound came—heavy boots on the stairs—his eyes snapped open.

The lights turned on with a mechanical hum. This time, they were not harsh, just clean and controlled—someone's design.

By the time the last of them stirred, the figures were already there.

Ten masked men, uniformed, with guns in their hands like punctuation marks.

No one screamed. Maybe they were too tired, or perhaps the fear had calcified into something duller—something bone-deep.

One of the masked men stepped forward and placed a familiar velvet box on the coffee table.

The box. Their box.

It was the same weight, the same deep green, and the same fraying corners—the one they used for ridiculous dares and drunken confessions when the worst thing they had to fear was telling Max to jump into the pool naked.

Joseph felt it hit him like a bruise in the chest.

The screen lit up behind them. The same distorted voice played—still mechanical, still slow, as if it had all the time in the world.

“Good morning,” it said. “It’s time to begin.”

A camera blinked on in the corner, the red light gleaming faintly in the dark. Recording. Always recording.

The mastermind never appeared—just the voice.

“Inside the box,” it continued, “are slips of paper. Each one is a game. Tonight, your task is simple. Choose.”

The masked man opened the box. Thick stacks of folded paper sat neatly inside. Jude hesitated, then stepped forward, glancing at the others. They didn’t stop him. His hand hovered over the options, then picked one from the top.

He unfolded it slowly.

“…Musical chairs,” he read aloud.

A stunned silence followed.

Max barked a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The screen switched to an image of a dark room with eleven chairs, one of which had already been removed.

Joseph stood, eyes narrowing.

“Three rounds,” the voice said. “Each round, one chair is taken away. Each round, one of you will lose.”

The camera panned in, showing ten plain metal chairs arranged in a tight circle. They looked too clean and too controlled.

“There will be a final round,” the voice continued. “The three who lose will play again. One will not return.”

Sasha’s voice was barely audible. “What happens to the one who doesn’t?”

No answer.

The masked men said nothing. One gestured toward the hallway.

“Follow,” the voice commanded.

And they did.

The hallway led into the game room, filled with too much silence.

Joseph’s footsteps matched those of the others, but it didn’t feel like walking anymore—it felt like being pulled. Gravity had changed directions, and they were falling sideways into whatever came next.

The room appeared just as it had on the screen. Flickering white light illuminated ten chairs arranged in a circle. It resembled a setup for a basement therapy group—except this wasn’t for healing. This was for counting.

One chair was already gone.

Ten left.

The masked men spread out along the walls, unmoving. Behind them, the familiar voice crackled through the overhead speaker, always calm and a little too slow.

“Begin.”

The music started. It was warped and mechanical, like a carousel built in a fever dream—bright horns pitched too low, the rhythm stuttering.

Joseph moved with the others.

Lena, Nina, Max, Jude, Sasha, Preston, Leo, Celeste, Amelia, Eli.

But his eyes drifted, watching not the masked men or the chairs, but the people. He noticed how tightly Amelia’s arms were folded. Sasha barely lifted her feet as she walked, while Lena twisted her ring repeatedly, even as she moved.

The carousel tune stuttered, slowed, and sped up again, as if someone were playing it from a dying machine.

No one looked at each other. Everyone counted.

Ten chairs. Eleven of them. Someone would lose.

The music dragged on—longer this time, stretching the dread like elastic ready to snap.

Then—

Silence.

A beat.

A breath.

A flurry of motion.

Chairs scraped. Bodies dropped.

Joseph landed hard, his elbows knocking against the metal.

A single voice broke the stillness.

“…No.”

Lena stood in the center, her hands clenched, fists trembling at her sides. Her jaw was locked. Initially blank, her eyes slowly scanned the room, searching for something that wasn’t there.

A chair. A way out. A second chance.

Joseph didn’t breathe.

Neither did anyone else.

“Round one. Lost: Lena Avery.”

“No—” Eli lunged toward her instinctively, reaching out. “Lena—”

One of the masked men stepped forward and, without warning, fired.

The sound shattered the room.

The bullet struck the ceiling, kicking up dust. It was a warning shot—just that. But the echo rang down the hallway like thunder.

Everyone froze.

Eli stared at the hole as if it had opened in his chest instead. Another masked man raised his weapon slowly and silently, making it clear: try again, and the next shot wouldn’t miss.

Lena opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The voice spoke again. “You will wait.”

A side door opened behind her, lit from within. It revealed nothing but a single stool and silence. She didn’t move at first. But then, without a word, Lena walked to the door. Her steps were slow, as if she still expected someone to stop her. No one did.

The door clicked shut behind her. A beat passed. Then the masked man removed another chair. The music started again.

Joseph felt panic creep into his throat, but he kept moving, one foot after the other. Circle, circle, don’t stop. The cut. More chaos. Nina froze too late. 

“Round two. Lost: Nina Arquette.”

She halted where she stood, one hand raised as if she’d meant to grab a chair but missed. 

“No—” Leo began, stepping toward her, but she shook her head once. “It’s okay.”

She looked around—at Leo, at Sasha, at the ceiling. Then she walked to the same door. No goodbye—just quiet. Another chair disappeared.

“Begin.”

Max missed. He stood in the center, blinking at the floor as if a chair would appear if he waited long enough.

“Round three. Lost: Max Delaney.”

He didn’t argue. He exhaled, gave a slight shrug, and joined the other two behind the door. It sealed shut.

Then silence.

No music. No movement. The screen at the front of the room flickered to life again, and for a moment, Joseph thought it might be someone’s face at last—a glimpse of whoever was behind this. But it wasn’t a person. It was a room. Two chairs. Three people. The losers. Lena, Nina, Max.

Their expressions flickered across the screen like surveillance footage. They were all pale and waiting. Joseph stepped back slightly as the voice returned.

“Final round.”

The music began again, this time slower, duller. There was something cruel in the way it dragged on. 

On screen, the three of them moved in a circle. Max let out a short, nervous laugh. Nina clenched her jaw. Lena didn’t look at anyone.

The cut came.

Lena didn’t sit fast enough.

“Final elimination: Lena Avery.”

“No—” Eli’s voice cracked. He lurched forward, but Jude caught his arm before he could do something reckless. 

Max and Nina were thrown back with the others.

On the screen, masked men entered the room. Lena tried to run. One grabbed her, then another. Her scream was clear, even through the grainy audio. Joseph felt it like a strike to the ribs. 

The others stood frozen as the masked men dragged Lena off-screen. Then the screen cut to black. 

Silence. The final image burned behind their eyelids—Lena standing alone in the white room, breath heaving, eyes wide, too stunned to cry. The voice returned, cold and final: 

“Return to your rooms.”

The same door they had entered through slid open with a hiss. No explanation. No closure. Just that. 

Max spun around. “Wait—what the hell does that mean? What happens to her?!”

Sasha was now crying openly. She clutched Preston’s arm, shaking her head. “We can’t just leave her—”

“We’re not leaving her!” Eli barked, stepping forward. “Lena! Lena!”

He tried to run back, but two masked men caught him—a rugged, tight grip around his arms. He struggled. 

“Get off me! Let me see her—she didn’t do anything!”

“Eli—” Jude grabbed him, trying to pull him back. “They won’t let you—don’t—”

“They can’t just take her!” Eli’s voice cracked. “She’s not gone! She’s not gone!”

But the masked men didn’t move. They didn’t answer. Behind them, the white door to the game room clicked shut. No sign of Lena. Not even a shadow through the glass. 

Celeste turned away, one hand over her mouth. Amelia’s face had gone blank, arms crossed, shoulders trembling slightly. Joseph stood still, feeling it like a weight pressing into his ribs—not grief exactly, but something colder. Something quiet.

Preston whispered, “What if she’s just… gone?” 

No one answered.

Max was the first to break the silence. “No. No, screw this—what kind of sick freak does this? It’s a chair game! It’s a joke! This isn’t—this can’t be—”

A masked figure stepped forward. They didn’t speak, just pointed. Eight masked men moved into position, closing around them like herding animals. 

One by one, the group was separated. Sasha screamed when they tried to pull her away from Preston. “No—please—I don’t want to be alone!”

Preston tried to hold on. “Let her stay with me—just for tonight!” 

A gun was raised but not fired—it was just shown. The message was clear. 

Joseph watched it all happen, heart thudding but face unreadable. He didn’t fight when they touched his shoulder, guiding him toward the hall. He passed Eli, still shaking, eyes wild, muttering Lena’s name under his breath. 

Max cursed at the top of his lungs, a string of broken threats that meant nothing. Jude didn’t speak. Neither did Amelia. They all moved, not by choice, but by force. 

They were dragged down separate hallways toward the too-white rooms with their names gleaming on gold plaques. Joseph’s door was waiting: Joseph Hale—neat and cold. 

He turned back once. The hallway behind him was empty. The door clicked shut. And this time, there was no voice—just silence. The hallway cameras blinked red one by one. Eleven doors. Eleven rooms. 

Inside, they moved restlessly—some pacing, others sitting motionless on the edge of their beds. One person cried quietly, another scratched at the wall as if trying to peel it back. Joseph sat in silence, his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on nothing. From the surveillance booth behind the screens, the masked figure watched every movement, every crack in their facade.

There was no sound—just the quiet hum of electricity and the shifting weight behind heavy fabric. The camera feeds flickered once before holding steady. Then, the masked figure turned. 

They moved down a narrow hall, colder and dimmer. “LENA AVERY”—etched on a gold plaque—was mounted on the door as if it had always been there. It was polished and unmoving. It was the same sterile hallway with the same smooth white paneling as the others. 

Inside, Lena sat tied to a chair—her ankles bound, wrists lashed behind her back with black cord. Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her breathing was shallow, and her head hung down, as if she hadn’t moved in hours. The masked figure stepped forward slowly, holding something small in one gloved hand. They crouched in front of her and tilted their head.

“Hey, Lena,” the voice came, distorted again, but different this time. It felt closer, more intimate—a different filter. Almost teasing. The figure held up the object between them: a power bank. Sleek. Familiar. Scratched on the side where a sticker used to be.

The change in Lena was instant. Her eyes snapped up, and her whole body tensed, the terror of recognition flooding her. “You remember?” the voice asked softly now. 

There was a long beat of silence. Then—