Day 2—10:11 AM
Arman woke on the couch, soaked in cold sweat. The used needle lay beside him, a dead bug stained with rust-red.
He stared at it, a long blink, wishing his brain would glitch.
No such luck.
Last night crashed back—the door-voice, the mirror-shard, the blood-slick.
He wanted to un-remember. Wanted to quit, yeah, really fucking wanted to quit.
He pushed himself up, rubbed his face raw, decided to bail. Maybe fresh air could scrub the stink off. The streets coughed empty thanks to COVID—city half-dead, like it was mourning itself.
He walked on autopilot.
Then he was there again.
The house in daylight: ordinary. Too fucking ordinary. Small building squatting quiet in the sun, door shut like nothing happened.
Didn't dare get close.
He stood there, froze up. No cop cars. No kicked-in doors. Nothing.
Then—buzz. Phone alert.
Telegram.
The group.
New message.
"Ready for the next one?"
Another skull asked. Maybe the drop-off guy. Maybe a new leech.
Arman's brain screamed no fucking way. So he typed it.
"No."
Hit send. Closed the app. Turned his back on the house and walked home.
Back in his apartment, the silence was a fucking tomb. He sat on the bed's edge, floor-staring. If he could just keep the static up—hands and brain busy—maybe the jonesing wouldn't drown him. But there was fuck-all to do. No job. No faces. Just COVID lockdown, the clock's tick-tock, and brain-rot. Phone check again. No buzz. No nothing. But the silence… It wouldn't fucking last.
Late sun bled through the blinds. Arman hunched over his phone, fingers twitching as he unlocked Telegram. Same dead-drop chat popped open. No new message—but the skull count climbed to four. New name glowed: “Marla_V”. He tapped her profile. Shadow-avatar on gray—no action. No posts, nothing to read her. Blank slate. Heart thumped. She walked into the same kill-box.
Then—buzz. Original skull—¤ posted. Message: same chill-drip.
“Deliver the shit to 112 Hawthorne Lane. Midnight. Don't fuck up. ”
But not for Arman. For Marla_V. Arman's chest tightened. Didn't want her to eat the same shit. Tapped Marla_V, opened a private line, and typed:
“Don't go. Get out. ”
Hit send. Then watched. …Nothing.
No "Seen." Message hung there.
Arman closed the chat, stared at the group again. Four skulls now: ¤, ?, him—and Marla_V, drifting in the dead air.
The weight crushed him. Do nothing, she goes. Interfere, he's marked.
Addict-self hissed:
"None of your fucking business. Task first."
Rational-self screamed:
"Gotta save her."
He tapped Marla_V's profile again. No clues. No rope to throw.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
The group-chat waited, a dead zone. Clock ticked loud as a bomb.
Arman shut his eyes, blew out air.
Midnight , someone else eats it at Hawthorne Lane—someone clean.
And he's still got his own shit to deal with.
Phone in pocket, heart a lead weight.
Game's not fucking over.
10:19 PM
Hoodie skin-tight on Arman's back, mirror-facing, breath shallow. Shoes laced. He's going. Gotta hit 112 Hawthorne before Marla. Maybe grab her outside. Maybe stop the kill-show.
Jacket zipped. Hand on the door—
Ping.
YouTube flash.
"Live Breaking News | Crime Scene at 112 Hawthorne Lane—One Dead"
Arman froze. Finger twitched on the alert. Chest cold. He tapped.
Video buffered. A spin. Then:
"—authorities cordoned off 112 Hawthorne. Female body found. Earlier tonight.
Sources: slashing wounds. Broken mirror piece."
Phone slipped. Almost gone.
Mirror.
Bed. Stumbled back. Brain… swarm.
Marla?
Dead?
Or…?
Chat: silent. Empty.
Telegram open. Shaky hands. No reply to his message.
Think straight. Try to. Another body? Not her? Not connected?
Mirror though. Address. Time.
No fucking way.
Dark. He sat. YouTube glowed. Red and blue street flash.
Game darker now.
Fingers shook. Telegram. Group chat. Shadow-light. Heavy.
He typed:
“Hawthorne Lane? Body? You know?”
Seconds. An age. Reply fro
m ¤:
¤: “Terminated”.
Heart: hammer.
Arman: “Terminated? Broke any rule?”
Pause. Long. Wrong. ? replied:
?: “Went early. Time slot wrong.”
?: “No cleaned-glass photo.”
Arman stared. Brain spin.
Arman: “You killed her? For that?”
Chat blink. ¤ flat:
¤: “Enter the game, break rule, get terminated.”
¤: “Her task is pending”.
He sat. Still. Cold spread.
What the fuck?
?: “Only you. Only us.”
?: “You gotta do it now.”
?: “But different task.”
Screen stare. No type. Mind… gone. Blackmail? Cult? Block? Delete? Cops? Guilt clawed. Craving hissed.
Phone lock. Sit. Minutes.
Unlock.
Message there. Waiting. A wound.
What if… house touch?
Warning note… "If you had touched..."
Could've been him. Not her.
Chest tight. Can't breathe.
Now what?
Know too much.
Quit = death?
Part of him—cops. Out.
Other part… needle rush. Shadow-self in control.
Thumb moved. Slow.
Chat open. He typed.
“Ready for next task.”
Sent.
No going back.
Morning light: wrong. Too bright, too fucking honest after last night's blood-show. Arman sprawled on the bed, heart still doing the jackhammer at Marla's exit. News report looped in his head: body carved up, mirror shard dripping red.
Didn't move till the phone buzzed on the nightstand. Telegram glowed, one skull pinging. Thumb hovered, stomach did a slow coil of dread.
He opened it.
"New task, maggot."
Pulse spiked. Marla's unfinished business. Not the clean-up gig. This was fresh hell.
"Ravenswood Asylum, East Wing Basement Tunnel.
9:00 PM sharp, dickhead.
Service tunnel under the old morgue.
Storage room—three crates stacked like dead bodies.
Open 'em. Might find something alive… or half-dead, twitching.
Snap a pic of the freak.
Suck its blood.
Get the fuck out."
Ravenswood Asylum: dead since '82, guts falling in, windows sealed tighter than a coffin. East wing—morgue basement—service tunnel hidden behind a rust-flake door. Locals whispered: night noises echoing from the black underbelly.
Arman read it twice. Words blurred into a shit-smear, but the 9 PM stuck. He closed the app—brain went full-throttle freakout.
* What the fuck's in those crates?
* Something alive… or half-alive and dribbling?
* Rabid dog? Looney escapee?
* Or some fucked-up science experiment gone moldy?
Chest squeezed. Marla's mirror-death loomed, a neon warning. But he's already neck-deep in the crazy.
He paced, picturing shattered glass, fresh blood, dead eyes staring from whatever the fuck waited. Each image worse than the last.
Clock check: hours till showtime. Time to prep—and time to shake like a leaf. Whatever's in the boxes, tonight's the unveiling.
Arman read the instructions twice. Words swam, but 9 PM stuck like a splinter.
He closed the app—and his brain threw a goddamn rave.
* Crates: what the fuck's inside?
* "Living… or half-living"?
* Rabid dog? Asylum escapee in a drool-bib?
* Or some twisted fuck-up left to ferment?
Chest squeezed. Marla's mirror-death flashed, a neon "DON'T" sign. Too late. He's already mainlining the crazy.
He paced, saw shattered glass, fresh blood, dead eyes staring from Box Surprise. Each brain-fart worse than the last.
Clock ticked: hours till showtime.
Time to prep—and time to shake like a chihuahua on meth.
Whatever's in those crates, tonight's the unboxing.
Arman's hands did the jitterbug packing the go-bag. Thin jacket, flashlight batteries, mirror-shard in a Ziploc—and knife, slid into his pocket like a relapse. Digital clock glowed 8:30 PM. Twenty-five minutes to Ravenswood Funhouse.
He hit the dead streets. City's usual static gone—holy fucking silence, cracked only by his shoe-thuds on the broken concrete. Each step closer to the asylum's looming black boner, brain puked up crate-visions. Half-rotted things. Failed human garbage. Something not-fucking-human. One thing's for sure: it's gonna be a shit-show deluxe.
8:55 PM
He paused at the rust-tooth gates. Ravenswood: busted windows like dead eyes judging. Vines humped up the walls, moon threw long black dick-shadows across the entrance. He swallowed battery acid, slipped through a fence-gap.
Inside, halls yawned into blackness, swallowed by nothingness. Flashlight on. Beam sliced through peeling paint and debris-vomit. Moved careful, eye-fucking every corner, till he found the service d
oor: "Authorized Personnel Only" in flake-paint. Behind it: tunnel-dark.
He pushed it open.
Pitch black.
He clicked the flashlight on again and stepped into the tunnel—a low, puke-damp hallway where the air tasted like mold and rust-rot. Walls dripped sweat. Footsteps echoed like a fucking doomsday clock.
Far end: storage room door. Cracked open, stink oozing out. Hit him like a fist: rot-sweet, decay-sour, and something acid-wrong that made his eyes water and his gorge crawl up his throat.
First thought: bail. Sprint. Blackout. Never look back.
Too far in.
Steady breath, white-knuckle grip on the flashlight, he stepped inside.
Beam showed three crates stacked like corpses against the far wall. Stink cranked up. Heart did a fucking mosh pit in his chest.
Threshold pause, brain on fast-forward freakout: What the fuck waits?
He shoved the door wide. Creak like a dying man's last gasp.
Flashlight swept the floor—shattered glass crunching underfoot, slick with old jizz. Some bottles crusty, others still wet-gleaming. Then his eyes locked on the boxes. Three squares. Metal. Blank. Stink-central.
Breath shallow. Air thick, wrong, clinging to his skin like a dead man's come-on. He crouched by the first box, peeled back the rust-lid slow.
Jolt.
Fell back. Flashlight did a seizure dance.
Inside—dead baby-things. Small, grey-green rot-sacks floating in yellow slime-piss. Limbs bent backwards. Eyes half-popped, seeing fuck-all.
Brain short-circuited. Couldn't process the fuckery.
Paralyzed. Minutes? Hours?
Then, instinct-dragged, crawled to the next box and opened it.
More babies—alive. Barely.
They didn't cry. Can't cry. Tiny limbs twitched air, fighting nothing. Skin ghost-pale, see-through almost. One head-bobbed toward the light. Another hand-flailed, a baby-wave to nowhere.
Arman's mouth went sandpaper. Stomach did a backflip.
Not ready for this shit.
And yet, phone out. Hands shaking, snapped the pic. Then dropped to his knees, eyes glued to the scalpel chilling near the box-corner.
Message clear: Blood. Get some.
He picked up the blade.
