The shadows stretched long across the cold basement walls as the killer stepped out of the darkness. His knife caught the dim light, reflecting it like a glimmering warning. The air was thick with fear.
"Sit," he commanded, voice low and sharp, cutting through the room. We obeyed, sinking to the floor, legs numb from the cold concrete. My stomach twisted. My mind raced.
"One of you," he said slowly, deliberately, "will die. Only then… will the others live. Until then, no food. No water. No escape."
A gasp rippled through the group. Clara clutched her arms around herself. James' hands shook as he pressed them together. Victor's jaw tightened, and he stared at the floor.
I froze. My mind spun. I hadn't read the book all the way—only halfway. I don't know what happens next. The rules, the patterns… the story could have changed. My knowledge was incomplete, and panic clawed at my chest.
"What… what do we do?" I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself. My thoughts scrambled, flashes of half-remembered scenes mingling with fear.
The others looked to me, silently expecting guidance. I couldn't give them any. I swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at me. Think. Think fast.
And then my eyes locked on the killer. He stood still, tall and quiet, scanning us like a predator enjoying its prey. The knife in his hand gleamed, and I realized something: panic wouldn't save us. I had to try something else.
"Why?" I said, voice soft at first, then a low, eerie whisper, letting it stretch in the silence. "Why are you doing this?"
The room seemed to shiver. The killer froze, eyes narrowing under his hood. His grip on the knife faltered slightly. Something shifted in the air—a pause in his rhythm, a hesitation.
He blinked at me, almost as if I'd spoken a spell.
I didn't understand it at first, but then it clicked. I remembered. A fragment from the book—one I'd read halfway—flashed in my mind. The killer… he secretly likes one of the characters. The one he'd been waiting for, watching over, trying to protect in twisted ways. That character… is me. Leah.
His fingers tightened around the knife, then loosened, his head tilting slightly, the mask of menace cracking. "You…" he muttered, voice low and uncertain. "Why do you ask?"
I swallowed hard, forcing my panic into calm. "I just… I want to understand. Why? Why put us through this?"
He shifted, his attention pulled fully toward me. A strange, almost vulnerable look flickered in his eyes, buried beneath the menace. The others noticed it too, but no one spoke. Fear still weighed on the room, but now it had a different edge—an unspoken question: what just happened?
I realized then that even in panic, instinct could be a weapon. I had touched something deep in him—something buried, something emotional. The killer, who seemed untouchable, was reacting to me. To Leah.
The killer's knife lowered slightly, though his gaze never left me. "One of you must die," he said finally, voice low, quiet, almost… personal.
My chest pounded, and for a moment, fear and awareness collided. I hadn't needed the full story to survive this—my instincts, my memory of half-remembered lines, had guided me perfectly.
And though I didn't know what would happen next, I felt a sliver of control. A dangerous, fragile sliver—but enough to give me a chance.
The rest of the captives sat frozen, unaware of the shift, unaware of the secret advantage I'd stumbled into. But I knew. And that knowledge… could save us.