It felt like hours.

No voice. No knock. Just silence, until the locks clicked open all at once.

Joseph didn’t move right away. None of them did.

The door creaked open with a slow hiss. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a release.

He stepped out into the hallway, blinking under the cold white lights. One by one, the others followed—clothes wrinkled, eyes swollen, shoulders hunched as if they had aged overnight.

But there were only ten of them now.

And everyone noticed.

Lena’s door was still shut—same white panel, same gold plaque. 

Except this time, someone had painted a red X over it—thick, crimson, dripping as if it hadn’t dried yet.

“Lena?” Eli pushed past the others, knuckles rapping hard on the door. “Lena, open up—”

No answer.

He grabbed the handle, twisted it, and shoved his shoulder against the door, but it wouldn’t budge—not even a little.

“Lena!”

His voice cracked as he hit the door again. And again.

Joseph stood farther back, watching the group. No one spoke. No one reached for Eli. Not even Preston, who just stared at the red X as if it meant something more than it did.

Eli turned around sharply. “You think this is funny?” His voice pitched higher. “You still think this is some kind of game?”

Preston’s expression flattened. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re the one who planned this, right?” Eli stalked toward him. “The weekend. The cabin. The box. You think this is fun now, Preston? Huh? You think it’s some kind of edgy immersive escape room?”

Sasha stepped in between them. “Eli, stop—”

“Get out of the way.” Eli’s voice was low and shaking. “Let me talk to him.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Preston said, hands raised, voice tight. “I swear to God, I didn’t plan any of this.”

“Bullshit.” Eli lunged, grabbing the front of Preston’s shirt and slamming him back against the wall. “You’re always trying to impress people. You wanted to go big this year, right? Right?! Bring out the velvet box. Add guns. Add masks. You want to win the group chat award? You want us to clap for you when this is over?!”

Preston’s face flushed. He shoved Eli off him. “You think I’d do this? You think I’d hurt Lena? You’re insane—”

Eli almost swung then—fist raised, jaw clenched—but Leo caught his arm. “Don’t,” Leo said quietly but firmly. “That’s not helping.”

Eli jerked his arm free but didn’t throw the punch. Instead, he turned away, pacing and breathing hard. “She was right there,” he muttered. “She was right fucking there—”

No one moved.

Even Max didn’t speak at first. Then—

“Okay, um,” he said, weakly raising a hand. “So… that was a lot. But maybe this is still, like, super elaborate? Like… prank-level elaborate? I mean, Lena’s dramatic. She could be in on it, right? Hiding behind that X like a Scooby-Doo villain or something.”

The silence that followed made it worse.

Max’s grin faltered. “No? Not funny?”

“Shut up, Max,” Amelia said flatly, arms crossed.

“I was just—” Max tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “Trying to lighten the mood.”

“Well, don’t,” Nina said tiredly. “There’s no mood to lighten.”

They drifted back to the living room like ghosts—everyone too hollow to speak, too heavy to stand still.

Jude ran a hand through his hair and started counting the windows. Not to escape. Just to do something.

Celeste moved to the kitchen but didn’t touch anything. She stood there, staring at the sink as if she could rinse the dread off her skin.

Sasha sat on the floor near Preston, knees pulled to her chest, saying nothing. He didn’t look at her.

Amelia watched from a corner of the couch, arms folded tight, gaze flicking toward Jude—but when he looked back, she didn’t hold his gaze.

Joseph sat last.

It was hard to tell how much time passed. 

Minutes? Hours?

There were no clocks. No windows. Just white light that never dimmed, and the hum of air vents that never stopped.

They stayed in the living room, some curled on the couch, some on the floor, others pacing like ghosts trapped in too-human bodies. No one talked much. When they did, it was in whispers—fragmented thoughts, unfinished questions, names they didn’t want to say out loud.

Eli sat by the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, face half-hidden. Sasha tried to bring him a blanket once, but he didn’t look at her.

Joseph didn’t move much. He just sat in a worn chair by the fireplace, staring into nothing. Every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward the hallway.

Still no Lena.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Controlled.

The door creaked open, and eleven figures stepped in.

The masked men—same black uniforms, same rigid stances.

But beside them walked someone different. Smaller. Slighter. Wearing a mask, yes, but not the same hard plastic. This one was softer, velvet, styled like an antique masquerade. The person wearing it moved like they weren’t used to being watched.

They wheeled in a long cart, silver trays stacked with steam and shine—bowls of fresh soup, roasted duck, glistening fruit, desserts dusted with gold flakes.

It was the kind of food they had joked about before—that belonged at rich people’s weddings and tasting menus that Preston used to post about.

The masked maid didn’t speak; she began setting the table plates, polished silverware, and glasses filled with rich, deep red wine. 

Celeste stood up slowly, her brows furrowed. “What… the hell is this?”

The answer came from the speaker, in that same voice, too calm, too clean.  

“Congratulations,” it said. “You survived your first game. This is your prize.” 

Amelia let out a cold breath. “You’re kidding.” 

“Eat,” the voice instructed. “You’ll need your strength for what comes next.” 

Max laughed once, a breath too loud. “Okay, great. Five-star hostage dining. What’s tomorrow—spa day?” 

No one laughed. No one moved toward the table either. 

“I’m not eating that,” Sasha whispered. 

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Leo said quietly. “They said we’d need strength.” 

“So what?” Nina replied. “If we don’t eat, what? Another bullet in the ceiling? Or do we skip straight to the head?” 

Joseph stood first, not to eat, but just to move. He needed to be vertical again. 

“They’re watching,” he murmured. “They want us to react. That’s what this is.” 

“So what’s the right reaction?” Celeste asked, arms crossed. “Gratitude?” 

There was no answer. 

Eventually, Preston sat down. He didn’t say anything; he just picked up a fork and started eating, as if it was the only way to make sense of the world again. 

One by one, the others followed—not because they wanted to, but because pretending to be fine was easier than being the first to break. 

Max sipped the wine like it was a test. “It’s actually decent,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Kind of fruity.” 

Eli didn’t touch anything. 

Jude chewed quietly, his eyes constantly flicking toward Amelia’s side of the table. 

Amelia didn’t eat much; she moved her food around slowly and deliberately. 

Joseph waited, watching and studying. 

The masked maid finished clearing the last tray. Then, without a word, she reached into the cart and pulled out a velvet box. 

It looked exactly the same—green, soft, wrong. 

She placed it at the center of the table and stepped back. 

The masked man didn’t leave; neither did she. They stood there, silent and unmoving, watching. 

The speaker crackled to life with that same calm voice. “Inside the box,” it said, “are slips of paper. Each one a game.” 

No one reached for it. 

“Later,” the voice continued, “someone else will lose. Choose.” 

Still—nothing. 

Joseph’s eyes flicked around the table. Sasha clutched her napkin as if it might tear in two. Max stared at the ceiling. Amelia didn’t even blink. 

Then one of the masked men stepped forward, deliberate and controlled. 

He moved behind Max and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

Max flinched. “Wait, what—why me?” 

The man didn’t answer; he just nudged him forward. 

Max stood, awkward and stiff, eyes wide. “Okay, okay—fine. Jesus.” 

He moved toward the box as if it might bite him. 

His hands hovered over the lid before he opened it. 

Inside were stacks of folded paper, identical in size and shape. 

He hesitated and looked back once for help, but found none. 

Max picked one, unfolded it, and read. He blinked once or twice, as if he were making sure he had read it correctly. 

“...Piñatas,” he said slowly. 

A pause. 

Then the voice crackled through the speaker, calm as ever. 

“Game selected: Piñatas.” 

And the room stopped breathing.