Someone had left first aid kits on the dining table. Not just one box, but ten complete kits—bandages, antiseptic, gauze—all laid out neatly like party favors. 

None of them questioned it. They sat around the table in silence, treating their wounds. They wrapped torn knuckles and winced at the sting of alcohol on broken skin. Sasha’s hands shook as she peeled a strip of gauze. Max winced when he pressed a wipe too hard against a raw cut. Nina gently tended to Celeste’s palms, careful with every motion.

Leo knelt behind Celeste with a quietness that didn’t match his usual presence. He parted the blood-matted strands of hair on her forehead and cleaned the gash left from the piñata. She didn’t flinch or speak; she just stared blankly ahead as he worked. He taped a padded square gently across the wound. His hands didn’t shake.

Joseph wrapped his fingers with quiet efficiency, then helped Eli tape up a split knuckle. No one said thank you; no one needed to. The silence between them was heavy enough to crush a room.

Celeste stared at her bandaged hands as if they didn’t belong to her. Without warning, she sank to the floor, arms around her knees, and let out a sob that felt as if it didn’t belong in her throat—too raw, too human, as if it had been building behind her smile for years.

“Please,” she choked out, looking up at Preston with red eyes. “Just stop it. Please, Preston. Whatever this is, whatever sick joke you wanted to play—end it. We get it. You win.”

Preston stared at her as if she’d just slapped him. “Celeste, I—”

“You wanted to scare us?” she pushed. “You wanted a reaction? We’re scared! We’re terrified, okay? You did it. You fucking did it. So just stop—”

“Celeste, I don’t know what’s happening!” Preston’s voice cracked, louder now. “I didn’t plan this! I didn’t sign up for this either!”

“This is your place,” Nina said quietly, shaking. “And the box.”

“I didn’t know that box,” he snapped. “Our box. The dumb one. For dares. For drinks. Not this—” He gestured wildly, his hands trembling. “Not this psychotic shit!”

Celeste let out another sob, burying her face in her hands. Sasha knelt beside her, whispering something no one could hear. Max paced like a trapped animal. Amelia leaned against the wall, her arms no longer folded, just limp at her sides.

Eli stood by the far window, breathing hard, still stained with dust and sweat from the last round. 

“You expect us to believe this isn’t you?” he said, without turning around. “You’ve been pushing this game since day one.”

“Yeah,” Preston snapped. “The game we all used to enjoy. The dares, the velvet box—Eli, I didn’t plan this one. I didn’t plan for people to get taken. I didn’t know Lena—”

He stopped. His voice broke open there.

Leo stepped in then, not loudly, not angrily—just stepped into the center like someone used to breaking up storms. 

“Enough,” he said. “All of you.”

Everyone stilled. He looked at Preston. “We’re scared and angry. But if you don’t know anything, then say it clearly. Just once.”

Preston met his gaze. “I don’t know anything.”

Leo nodded. “Then stop talking like someone who does.”

The quiet that followed was worse than yelling. Celeste’s shoulders curled forward, folding in on herself. She didn’t even try to hold it back this time; she just shook with a fresh wave of sobs, tears slipping down her bandaged hands.

Joseph moved beside her. No big gestures, no speech. He just sat close, leaned gently into her side, and wrapped one arm around her back—the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything in return—a quiet presence.

Celeste turned towards him and cried harder. No one interrupted. Not even Max. Joseph didn’t look at the others; he didn’t need to. He looked at the timer. Eighteen minutes left before Round Two.

The clock struck zero. They didn’t need the voice to say anything. The locks clicked again, and ten masked men stepped into the room, as if they’d never left. Their movements were sharp, practiced. They weren’t here to speak.

“Up,” one of them barked. 

Nobody resisted this time. The group stood slowly, hands still sore, bandages fraying from restless fingers. Joseph lingered behind Celeste, his arm falling away gently as she rose. She wiped her cheeks. No one said a word. 

They followed the masked men silently, past the same long corridor and back into the playroom. But this time, they didn’t even get a chance to see the setup. As soon as they entered, they were stopped.

Blindfolds were passed around, forced onto their faces, tied tight. Then rough hands turned them, pulled them, and pressed them one by one against cold, smooth poles spaced evenly across the room. Arms were bound behind them, ankles shackled, and cloth gags tied tight across their mouths before anyone could protest. 

Joseph tried to breathe slowly. He heard someone struggle—maybe Max or Eli. But it didn’t matter—a sharp command, followed by stillness. 

Then the voice returned. “Welcome to Round Two,” it said, too bright, too cheerful. “In this version of the game, you are the piñatas.”

A pause. Someone whimpered—Celeste, maybe, or Sasha. “How fun is that?”

Joseph’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Here are the rules,” the voice continued. “You will remain blindfolded and silent. You may not move. You may not scream.”

Footsteps echoed softly around them.

“Ten children will enter the room. Each will be given a real bat.”

Joseph flinched. He heard Max let out a sharp, muffled breath.

“They are blindfolded, just like you. They do not know what they are hitting. They believe this is a game. And they will play.”

Joseph clenched his teeth against the gag.

“The first one to make a sound… loses.”

There was no countdown. No warning.

Just the sound of a door creaking open.

Then came the laughter.

Giggling. Light footsteps. The soft slap of sneakers against the floor.

Joseph felt his knees lock. Then—

Crack.

The first blow landed near his ribs. It didn’t break anything, not quite, but it stunned him. The impact ricocheted through his spine.

A second hit. Someone else. A sharper grunt.

Then a pause.

Then chaos.

The room filled with the sound of bats striking bodies. Each blow is random. Clumsy. Most hits landed softly, bouncing off shoulders, backs, and thighs.

But then came the knuckles.

That’s when it burned.

A wild swing landed squarely on Max’s hand. He let out a choked gasp—just air, no sound. Joseph heard the breath catch in his throat, strangled by restraint.

Another crack. Jude’s pole shook.

Someone was crying. Sasha.

Not loud. Not yet.

But getting close.

Then Joseph felt it.

The unmistakable crack of wood against bone. His forearm screamed. His vision pulsed behind the blindfold. He bit down on the cloth in his mouth so hard that his jaw trembled.

More hits. Laughter from the kids. A carnival of pain.

Sasha’s breath came faster. Faster.

Then—

A muffled scream.

Short. Sharp. But real.

Everything stopped.

It was enough.

The kids froze.

One voice, small and confused:  

“…Did I hit someone?”  

Another chimed in, half-laughing. “Where’s the candy?”

The room stilled in a strange, eerie dissonance—ten blindfolded children gripping real bats, suddenly unsure if they had crossed a line they didn't know existed.

“Is it broken? I didn’t hear anything fall.”  

“Do we get a prize now?”

A masked man stepped forward, his voice flat and rehearsed.  

“Game complete. Return to the door.”

The children didn’t argue. The bats were collected, their sneakers squeaking as they were ushered out like nothing had happened—giggling, curious. None of them knew the difference between paper and skin.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Then the voice came, colder now. Unforgiving.  

“Round Two. Lost: Sasha Reed.”

Joseph didn’t see her. But he felt the way the pole beside him shook when she started struggling.

Heavy boots moved toward her. Cuffs clinked. She gasped behind the gag, the sound choked and panicked.  

“No, no, please—” she whimpered into the cloth, barely audible. “Please—Preston—Preston, help me—!”

Their blindfolds were ripped off first.  

Then the gags.

They blinked against the harsh light, gasping for air, their mouths red and raw. But their arms remained bound behind them, wrists burning against the cold metal.

Sasha’s face was streaked with tears. Her lip was bleeding. One of her knees was scraped raw from the struggle. She turned frantically toward Preston—her boyfriend, her last thread of hope.  

“Preston, please—please don’t let them take me—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t even scream—”

Preston thrashed against his restraints.  

“Let her go! Let her go, please—she didn’t do anything! You said no sound, that wasn’t even a scream, it wasn’t even—”

“Preston—” Sasha sobbed. “I’m scared. I’m scared—”

“I didn’t plan this!” Preston shouted at the masked men. “I told you I didn’t plan any of this!”

“Please—don’t let them—I don’t want to go—” Sasha’s voice shattered.

Two masked men grabbed her arms. She screamed for real now, her voice echoing in the bare room as she kicked and twisted.

Joseph turned away, his eyes burning. Celeste sobbed into her shoulder. Max yelled something—indistinct, furious.

Leo swore under his breath. Amelia had gone pale. Jude’s jaw was clenched like stone.

But it was Preston who broke the most.  

“Sasha!” he shouted. “Sasha, I swear I’ll stop this—I’ll find a way—I’ll find a way—!”

Her eyes never left his, even as they dragged her across the floor, even as the door opened.

She kicked one last time, and then—  

Gone.  

The white door clicked shut.  

And the room was silent again.  

Except now, there were only nine of them.  

And a red X waiting to be painted.

They didn’t get to mourn.  

Not properly.  

No time. No warning.

One by one, the masked men came back wordless, as always. Rough hands grabbed arms, and cold metal unlatched from the poles.

They were dragged again down the hallways. There was no chance to speak, no chance to ask where Sasha had gone.

Joseph didn’t resist. None of them did.  

By now, the silence between them said more than words ever could.

The doors were already waiting.  

Preston Vale.  

Celeste Monroe.  

Amelia Cross.  

Max Delaney.  

Leo Whitmore.  

Eli Hecter.  

Nina Arquette.  

Jude Madox.  

Joseph Hale.

One by one, the doors clicked shut behind them.

The camera feeds blinked. In the surveillance booth, a masked figure monitored each screen, tracking every movement, every sob, every moment of stillness.

Sasha Reed's room looked just like everyone else's—too quiet, too sterile, as if it had been waiting.

Suddenly, the door slid open. A masked man stepped in, dragging Sasha behind him. She was still blindfolded and gagged, her wrists bound behind her back, her steps stumbling. Each movement caused her breath to hitch with fear.

The masked man pulled her forward and then shoved her roughly into a chair bolted to the center of the room. Her ankles were tied, and her arms were bound tightly.

The blindfold and gag were removed. Sasha blinked rapidly, disoriented, her eyes darting around the room. 

“Preston?” she whispered hoarsely. “Is anyone—?”

But no one answered. The masked figure stepped forward again, holding something to her—a folded piece of paper that looked old and wrinkled. Sasha stared at it, her confusion turning to dread. 

She didn’t reach for it; she didn’t have to. The masked figure didn’t speak, only tilted its head as if to say, You remember, don’t you? 

Sasha’s breath hitched again, and then the door clicked shut.