Scene One: The Watcher (POV)
Games are only fun when the players don't realize they're playing.
I've been patient. Too patient. Weeks of silence, slipping between shadows, waiting for the cracks to widen. It's always easier when they think their wounds are private.
But pain leaks.
And I collect it.
Him—hiding behind smoke, the taste of ash always on his lips, pretending distance can cleanse the rot he carries.
Her—drowning quietly, clutching the faint hope that someone, anyone, might finally stay.
Perfect opposites.
Perfect victims.
But they are not alone. Ten of them. Ten souls already circling the board. Some don't even know they've been chosen yet. Some are already bleeding.
Love is a weapon.
Trust is currency.
Lust is the trap.
And the rule is simple: not everyone makes it out.
I let my fingers hover above the keys. Just one message. Just one whisper in the dark. That's all it takes to split the seams and feed the hunger.
The first move.
Let's see who bleeds first.
---
Scene Two: His POV
The city outside my window roared with traffic, but my apartment was a tomb.
I sat in the half-dark, cigarette dangling between my fingers, ash threatening to fall but never quite reaching the tray already crowded with the dead remains of the last hour.
Smoke coiled around me, but it wasn't enough to blur her out. Her face. Her breath. The way she whispered my name like it meant something.
Safe. That's what she thought I was.
The laugh that escaped my throat was sharp, bitter, almost cruel. Safe. Me. She didn't know a damn thing. If she did, she would've run.
My phone buzzed.
The sound was too loud. A crack of thunder in a silent room.
Unknown number. One line.
"She still cries when she says your name."
For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The cigarette slipped, burning my knuckles before it hit the carpet.
My heart stuttered.
I saw it in my mind — her, curled up, tears streaking her face, whispering my name into a silence I created. And something in me twisted, sharp and deep.
No. It couldn't be her. She didn't have this number. Even if she did, she wouldn't send something like that.
But whoever it was… knew.
I read it again. And again. Each time, the words pressed harder into my ribs until it felt like they might crack.
Delete it. Ignore it. Pretend it was a mistake.
But I couldn't. My hand hovered, trembling, frozen in the half-light.
The phone buzzed again.
Same number.
"You can't hide forever."
The cigarette hissed where it burned into the carpet, smoke rising in thin, angry tendrils.
For the first time in years, I felt something heavier than guilt.
I felt watched.
---
Scene Three: Her POV
Three days. Three nights. Same dreams. Same emptiness.
Every time I closed my eyes, he was there — not his face, not his smile, but the shadow of his back, walking away, leaving me clutching air and silence.
I told myself I was done crying. Told myself I wouldn't waste another tear. But the tears always came back. Soft, endless, like a tide I couldn't fight.
Tonight, I sat in front of the mirror, knees pulled up, staring at the stranger who stared back. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. A girl who looked smaller, weaker, like someone already fading.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number. One line.
"Do you still trust him?"
The words carved through me.
My throat tightened. My chest locked.
Was it him?
Was this how he reached out — cruel, twisted, making me doubt myself even more?
I wanted it to be him. God, I wanted it to be. Even if it was cold, it would mean I still mattered. That I wasn't just another ghost in his bed.
But something about the text felt wrong. Too precise. Too sharp. Not his recklessness, not his silence — this was something else.
I typed a reply. Stopped. Deleted it. My hands shook.
Buzz.
Another line.
"He never loved you."
The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering against the floor. My heart stopped, then started again too fast, like it wanted out of my chest.
Tears blurred the mirror. My reflection fractured. I wanted to scream, throw the phone, claw away the part of me that still hoped.
Instead, I sat there, trembling, suffocating in the dark.
And I swore I could feel it.
Eyes. Watching. Breathing against the edges of the room.
I wasn't alone.
---
Scene Four: The Watcher (POV)
The screen flickers. The feed rewinds. Slows. Freezes on her tear-stained face. On his trembling hands.
A voice, low and distorted, leaks through the static.
"Two pieces. One board. But the game isn't theirs alone."
A chuckle — sharp, amused, cruel.
"They think they're broken. But broken things are easier to play with."
The camera pulls back. One monitor becomes three. Three become twelve. A wall of lives glowing in the dark.
Ten players. Ten secrets. Ten fates.
The Watcher leans forward, fingers brushing the glass as if touching their faces. Almost tender.
"The first move has been made."
Click. Silence.
And the game begins.