Chapter Text
You always study alone.
Solitude is equivalent to focus. Without being crammed between others who’ll just drag you down, your gaze can amble across your textbooks with so much more ease. It makes you feel better. It helps counteract the lingering eyes, the whispers, the smiles shot toward a girl with much more going on in her life than having to return them.
That’s why you always smile back, too.
From the moment you stepped out into the world — from the first second someone saw the roundness of your eyes and marvelled at your sweet demeanor — you understood what it means to perform. Your currency, at least in this life, isn’t yen. No stash of coins can compete with a shy smile from a girl like you: a flash of teeth sharp enough to cut through even the most impregnable of walls.
You know you’re pretty. You know that the stack of textbooks you’ve read in one session must seem intimidating to others.
Look up through your lashes; let your gaze settle like the weight of the world; smile gently first, then brandish some teeth and maybe a dimple when you’re sure they’re looking.
You know what that does to an ordinary person?
It makes them want another.
And, with nothing more than a saccharine little smile, they’ll think of you as more than just another smart girl.
They’ll call it beauty. Modesty. Humility, carved from gleaming marble into the form of Aphrodite. Some will flinch and try to spit on your image with your head turned, only to fall at your feet after another oblivious, apologetic smile. It’s almost cute. Like taking candy from a baby; and then letting the baby thank you for it afterward.
It’s easy.
Too easy, probably.
Personally, you’ve always thought of yourself as overconfident. Too daring, too prideful to back down from even the ugliest of challenges. But Lady Luck is always there to curl your hair at just the right angle — always there to keep the sun gleaming on you like a spotlight, underscoring every glitter of purity in your eyes.
After all: “Fortune favours the brave”.
But honestly? When your cheeks start to ache from all the pathetic smiles, pretending gets boring. The disinterest always manifests into an unyielding ache in your side, the pain sinking deeper as your first year in medical school stretches on, and you find yourself leaving the library earlier than normal as the ache tightens its grasp.
You know it’ll be fine. A mark or two down won’t mean much to the months you’ve spent hammering content into your brain. Luck is always on your side. Even in moments like these.
You’ll get that internship.
Like you said: overconfident.
Because that mark or two costs you a stumble away from the stage. An uncharacteristically stupid mistake that you can’t compensate for with another desperate simper.
Your score is one mark below the top.
An indignant smile — which you later mask as pride for being second — cracks across your face without purpose. The name topping the charts is one you don’t recognise. It’s never stood out enough for you to notice it, much less remember.
Who even is that?
Ah. Ah, you get it. Probably some hikkikomori who spends his days studying. Or it’s a fluke. Or he’s a cheater. Right? It’s one mark. One mark is nothing. You can win back one mark by the next test. But the other students around you are staring at you like your spotlight is quite literally flickering, dulling the smooth, sharpened silhouette you normally cast over a crowd. Like you really have lost to this guy.
Chishiya Shuntarou.
The syllables resound across the room instead of yours, like the class is casting a curse in the name of your only adversary.
Ha.
That’s when you decide that studying alone isn’t enough.
You begin to join group study sessions with a weak smile on your face, and only when you’ve participated in enough of them for people to notice that you’re actually struggling — asking questions, rifling through less textbooks, hesitating before answering — is when you choose to comment on it.
You clear your throat quietly, lips pursing and parting, finger twirling through the tresses of your hair. Nervous and timid. Whatever.
“I’m… I’m so sorry if I seem distracted. It’s just…” Your gaze remains on the textbook, and you wonder briefly if tears would be too much. Maybe. Maybe not. Laughing reluctantly, you finish, “Ah, nevermind.”
The anti-climax of it all immediately brings a melody of cooed comfort roaring to life. Ha. You’ve got them all tangled around your finger.
“No, no! I just don’t want to bother you,” you smile.
“You don’t have to worry, Y/N.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“We’d rather you be honest.”
Honest?
If only they knew. For a second, it’s almost like the deprecating, unimpressed smile on your face is real.
You breathe in. The room hinges on that inhale.
“…I’m sorry. I’ve just been having some problems at home. It’s a little difficult to focus, you know?”
Yeah. Family problems.
Why else would this have happened?
And immediately that guy’s name is out of their mouths, replaced with hushed apologies and soft condolences and pity that tastes a little too much like condescension. Not that your classmates would ever dare.
No, that disdain? It’s your own. A mingling chorus of elegance, profanity, purity, and intellect; and, still, none of it is enough to compete with that asshole.
Chishiya Shuntarou.
Him. It’s all him.
Teaching you the feeling of “worse” in your mouth. What it means to chew down on inferiority and learn the shape of it pushing back on your teeth: sleepless nights, declining grades, a slip from the podium, all digested through meals you begin to miss trying to ace the next exam.
When you see his name at the top of the board, sometimes you imagine what it would look like crossed out. Scratched through. Erased. What would it take to make someone disappear from the rankings permanently?
You always shake the thought away with a smile. But the flavours lingers. Curdling inside you like bacteria hiding in a plate of shortcake.
Bitter. Acrid. Entirely unfamiliar.
Eventually, it becomes the taste of hatred.
It’s a Friday when you wake up alone in Tokyo.
Well — if we’re being nitpicky — when you wake up in the university library.
Your books are crumpled beneath you. When you jump to check the time on your phone, you realise there’s no signal.
And; at what should be four in the afternoon; none of the lights are on.
When you stumble onto the streets by your university, you find that this uncharacteristic darkness has become a trend everywhere you go.
Was there a natural disaster? An earthquake? You don’t really remember where any of the shelters are. Ugh. You can’t really be wasting this time walking around when you should be studying.
But no-one else is in Tokyo.
Then you stumble across the signs.
Winding, plastered in red arrows, leading you… somewhere. What you end up finding is a mid-sized residential home, fluorescence bleeding through only the entrance. You continue to amble in the direction the signs are pointing you in. Weird.
The doors are wide ajar. Through the nursing home’s entrance, you can make out a few people peppering the reception. Intrigued, you step through. A shiver crawls across your neck. There’s a lingering heat on your skin – a soft buzz, a snap of red. Your finger twitches as you pause in front of the door you’ve just entered, and when you turn back an inch, you’re met with a strange humming. Must be door sensors. Slowly, you reach your hand out to see if—
Chime!
You pause, mull over your options, and use your hand to tuck your hair behind your ear instead.
When you turn back, you find that there’s a screen from across the way. What must be the receptionist’s computer has been moved on the desk to face you.
‘TWO MINUTES UNTIL REGISTRATION CLOSES.’
Is this a campus event? Surely not — you would’ve written it neatly onto your calendar by now. And in a residential home, of all places? Trying to straighten your slightly rumpled clothes out, you decide that some volunteering experience wouldn’t be so bad. Even if this is a little… sporadic.
You’re flexible enough to take it in your stride. It’s you, after all.
Ah. And there it is.
You feel the room lean in slightly as you sweep your gaze across it, brows raised, lips pursed, eyes round. A picture of innocence. When you smile, one of them smiles back almost instinctively, before turning away. Ha. Glancing around at the others, you slide fully across the threshold and begin to catalogue your options for socialising. Eleven other people are already here. You make twelve.
In the corner of the room is a man who seems to be in his mid-forties, wearing an expensive suit that doesn't particularly fit his nervous energy. Poor thing.
Just beside him – far enough for them to not really be associated, close enough for the potential to still buzz – is an intimidatingly pretty woman in her late twenties, with her arms locked around her defensively. Her eyes are tracking everyone's movements. Including yours. The smile is not returned when you throw one her way. How rude.
There’s a boy in a high school uniform, who looks like he was on his way home from cram school before coming here. Beside the entrance is a couple who, predictably, can't keep their hands off of one another. No rings though. Then, the loner type. Grey hoodie, his eyes fixated on you. They twitch away when you smile once again. Aw. Flustered.
Insanely disinterested with the cluster of idiots you’ve just stumbled upon, your lips part softly to strike up a conversation. Then your eyes fall in front of you.
‘ONE MINUTE UNTIL REGISTRATION CLOSES.’
‘THERE ARE CURRENTLY ELEVEN PARTICIPANTS.’
You stare at the singular phone on the table – attached by a keyring to the case is a thick wristband. There’s a small sign behind it.
‘ONE PER PERSON.’
Words flicker to life across the phone’s screen as you pick it up.
‘FACE REGISTRATION IN PROGRESS.’
‘PLEASE WEAR YOUR WRISTBAND AND WAIT FOR THE GAME TO COMMENCE.’
Wristband? You feel it with your fingertips: the ragged, light blue fabric, the slight obtrusion from beneath. Surely this would be for the patients? The band curls onto your wrist without so much as a sound.
You keep your eyes on the phone, blinking softly at the text.
‘REGISTRATION CLOSED. THE GAME WILL NOW COMMENCE.’
Ah. A game? That’s it? What a waste of time. You better not have just been scouted into a reality show.
When you look up, without a word, the other people have moved their gazes to the screen.
‘GAME – INFECTION (感染).’
You cock your head.
Infection?
‘DIFFICULTY – NINE OF HEARTS.’
A nine out of ten difficulty, right? Somebody behind you curses. Your eyes flicker to them briefly. The one in the suit – his phone is slick with the sweat from his hand.
‘TIME LIMIT — 90 MINUTES.
RULES —
EACH PLAYER HAS BEEN RANDOMLY ASSIGNED AS EITHER “INFECTED” OR “UNINFECTED”.
PLAYERS DO NOT KNOW THEIR OWN STATUS.
DURING THE FIRST 10 MINUTES OF EACH ROUND, “INFECTED” PLAYERS’ WRISTBANDS WILL VIBRATE.
“UNINFECTED” PLAYERS' WRISTBANDS WILL NEVER VIBRATE.
EVERY 15 MINUTES, PLAYERS MUST VOTE TO ELIMINATE ONE PLAYER.
THE ELIMINATED PLAYER MUST BE LOCKED ALONE IN A ROOM AND WILL DIE.
AFTER 6 ROUNDS OF VOTING (90 MINUTES), THE GAME ENDS.’
That cracks a small, honest smile across your lips, which you quickly smooth over into a vaguely fascinated expression. Die? Whatever weirdo wrote the rules didn’t need to be so morbid about it.
‘CLEAR CONDITION(S) —
IF ANY OF THE 6 SURVIVORS ARE “INFECTED”, ONLY THE “INFECTED” SURVIVORS CLEAR.
IF ALL 6 SURVIVORS ARE “UNINFECTED”, THOSE 6 UNINFECTED CLEAR.
THERE ARE 4 “INFECTED” PLAYERS AND 8 “UNINFECTED” PLAYERS. PLAYERS MAY SHARE INFORMATION ABOUT THEIR WRISTBANDS FREELY.’
Okay? The “game” just told you there are four Infected. That's information everyone has. But it's a good way to spur all of you on: find those four, “kill” them, win! Right? And maybe let whoever you don’t like go as well, since there’re two empty spots.
It’s ripping perfect accuracy from constrained thinking.
Sounds fun. Also useless: you have another exam in a few weeks. Maybe you can slip away once the game starts.
Just as you’re padding back toward the exit, the room abruptly explodes.
"Six survivors?" a man in a business suit says, his voice rising. "Then let’s be quick about this."
There’s a resounding murmur across the room.
That’s murder.
You stifle a laugh, retreating into the corner and twirling your hair innocently. Everyone’s so dramatic.
"Murder? That's the game," he counters, voice gravelly. "It said there are four Infected. We find them, we lock them in, they die, we win."
“…And how exactly do you plan to 'find' them?" the woman beside him grumbles.
"Uh, we can guess," someone else suggests — that high school student. "Force them into the room and just… you know. Let it happen."
The casual way he says it makes your brows twitch slightly. Wild guessing? Clearly someone hasn’t been listening in school.
You let them argue, watching contentedly. Business Suit continually interrupts any criticism, his shoulders square, brows perpetually furrowed. Ugh, he’s one of those. Men who crave control but barely know what it means to lead. The woman he’s fighting with, meanwhile, is clearly defensive. Paranoid, all-too-nervous, curling into herself every time the man’s diction leans too heavily on accusation. The others in the room look like they’re still figuring out what’s happening. Supposedly, you included.
Your wristband hasn’t vibrated.
Uninfected. Eight of you are. But only six need to win. Well, information like that only means something when it’s sharpened into a blade.
And anyways — this is getting boring.
“Um, excuse me?” you beam from across the room, cutting through their petty fight with a quiet smile.
You tilt your head. Everyone turns to look at you.
Time to make your mark.
“Instead of discussing like this, why not start off with some introductions?”
The man and woman that are arguing practically flinch at your emphatic compromise.
The man blinks and scoffs. “I’m not wasting our ninety minutes telling you my name,” he almost laughs, brow creasing.
Huh. What an ass.
You bat your lashes, recoiling slightly, like you’re hurt by his outburst. Then you tap your forefinger to your lip. “No? But you’ll waste it bickering like children?”
Well, you’re not normally so patronising, but he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.
"Fine," Business Suit says, though he looks uncertain about ceding ground. "We introduce ourselves.”
He turns to the woman beside him in tandem with you, though your movements aren’t as forceful. The expectant smile on your face seems to wake her up.
“…I’m Chiyoko,” she says, words clipped. You try not to roll your eyes. Suspicion as obvious as that will amount to reactivity, not strategy.
“What do you do for work, Chiyoko?” you ask innocently. Judging by the outfit, nothing special.
Chiyoko’s jaw tightens slightly. “Word processing.”
Oh, no. You were right.
The next introduction is from the high school student, Yuuta - looks like he’s a few years younger than you. As he speaks, his eyes dart around at others for cues on how to speak. Probably desperate for any semblance of guidance.
Then, the couple: Hiro’s, the boyfriend’s, hand remains on the girl’s lower back while she’s gripping his sleeve. Her grasp is unyielding, knuckles white, fingernails digging into fabric. Meanwhile, Hiro’s smile is easy, albeit protective, and his thumb moves in small circles against her spine. Soothing? Controlling, maybe? Weird. Guess they'll prioritize each other over optimal strategy. The girl is about to give her name when her mouth snaps shut, nervousness flushing her face. Gosh. Get it over with. Hiro says it for her: Sakura.
Grey Hoodie doesn’t make eye contact with anyone during introductions. Barely whispers his name. Halfway through her name, the forgettable woman’s – “Miho’s” – fingers jump to her wrist. Must be nervous. Besides that, there’s an all-too-anxious office lady; and a well-built man who does not give his name. Strong, silent type. There are three more names you catalogue but whose matching faces don’t really catch your eye. You'll track them peripherally, but won't invest unless they become relevant.
Then, last and definitely least, Business Suit. His shoe has been tapping against the carpet for the last few minutes. Got places to be, gramps? Maybe he’s an impatient guy.
You turn to him. When he doesn’t say anything, you go as far to raise your brows.
Incredulously, he mutters his name.
“Takeshi.”
Hm. Someone’s still too confident. Let a man like this think that they’re in charge, and everyone else will fall in line. Sheep in wolf’s clothing.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t quite hear that,” you hum.
His eyes remain latched on yours, lip twitching as he fights what is probably a scowl.
“Takeshi—”
“Oh, let me guess,” you say, rocking back and forth on your heels. “You’re this place’s janitor?”
“…I’m a consultant,” he spits.
“Consultant? I can see it now.”
Takeshi’s glare burns into yours. And, this time, when you smile, it reaches your eyes.
Looks like riling people up is much more fun than having them bow at your feet.
Finally, slinking forward and clasping your hands behind your back, you finish with: “Well, I’m Y/N: a medical student at the University of Tokyo, though I’m not really that good. I hope we can all get along.”
With that, the room has softened into a deeper calm — though earlier’s altercation is fraying everything at the seams.
"So," you say brightly, now that the introductions have finished, "Time to figure all this ‘Infection’ stuff out."
"Feel free to enlighten us on how," Chiyoko sighs.
Your jaw tightens beneath your smile, eyes creasing. “…Well, Chiyoko. The Infected players' wristbands vibrate every ten minutes," you note, as if this is information everyone might have missed. "We can watch at the ten minute mark, right? Catch little details out. Such as, you know," you breathe, "physical tells."
It wasn't so hard to figure that out, if they’d just stop panicking about the rules. Are these people stupid?
Takeshi nods slowly. "Fine. Everyone stay where you are. We'll watch."
Your brows raise. Keeping everyone on the spot will just freak them out more. If everyone’s hearts are pounding at ten minutes, what difference would a little vibration make?
Making conversation with these people doesn’t sound fun, but silence sounds worse. You begin, “So—”
“Don’t.”
You smile softly. “I’m sorry, Takeshi, did you want to start instead?”
Takeshi’s gaze cuts into yours, unamused.
“It said we have to eliminate someone, right? Lock them in a room, and, um…” you laugh softly, jokingly, though Takeshi’s eye twitches, “let them ‘die’. What room is that referring to?”
Puzzled, the others look around. Anywhere that isn’t the reception is swallowed by the emptiness of Tokyo at night.
Just when you’re about to follow their eyes, as if on cue, one light in the hallway on your right clicks on. Vivid white hums to life, painting the first door in fluorescence. Huh. Okay. Whoever’s running this event must really enjoy a spectacle.
You take that as your chance to have some fun.
Immediately ambling into the newly-lit hallway, you walk toward the first door. Your hand finds the handle, but—
“Wait,” Chiyoko hisses, stepping after you, “You don’t know what those doors might do.”
With a brief smile, you try the door.
Ugh. It’s locked.
“You’re playing into the Game Masters’ hands,” Takeshi calls.
Game Masters? This isn’t The Hunger Games. Ignoring the both of them, you step toward the darkness. Nobody else except Chiyoko seems to care. Nobody else has a brain, apparently. Every inch closer, the next light flickers on. Every door closer, you find that each one is locked.
Until you reach the end of the hallway. The light blinks alive, brandishing a dead end, a black screen, and the last two doors.
You almost skip the second-to last out of frustration.
Click!
Your eyes light up.
The lock actually yields under your touch, having been cracked open.
You glance behind you. Nobody else has followed. Chiyoko gave up halfway; only Yuuta and Sakura are watching you from the hallway’s end, though Hiro is tugging his girlfriend back. They're too far to see what you're seeing.
Your pulse kicks up slightly. Whatever's in here, you'll see it first. The door opens with a soft creak.
At first, your brain doesn't process it. The room is small: maybe fifty square feet. Fluorescent light hums to life overhead when you open the door, casting everything in sterile white. There's a table in the center.
Oh.
Brows twitching together, pulling your face into an expression you’d never show anyone otherwise, you stare at the contents of the table.
“Three more minutes before the ten minute mark,” Yuuta calls from behind you.
You hesitate. Slightly. Then you crane your neck to flash the kid a flustered smile.
“Thank you!”
He disappears from the end of the hallway. Sakura and Hiro are already gone.
You’re alone.
You turn back; your blood thunders in your ears.
Was the use of weapons in the rules?
A baseball bat, a crowbar, a sledgehammer, a shovel. A pair of bolt cutters. Your eyes track left. Beside them are smaller tools. A box cutter, its blade retracted but present. A cleaver: the kind from a butcher shop, edge honed to silver. And… Huh.
Pooled in circles beside one of the table’s legs is a thick metal chain link. Wonder what that’s for.
Some of the weapons are rusted. Some are… When you touch your fingertips to the red-black stains, the crust-like texture that comes away is unmistakable.
Your hand jerks back.
The machete has it too. Dried in the fuller, spattered across the blade. The baseball bat. The sledgehammer. Even the baton. All of them.
They’re all used.
What type of event could this possibly be? They can’t have found shit like this in a residential home.
Well. That’s… not strange at all.
You stare at the table, at the arsenal laid out like hell’s buffet.
But — surely these are here for a reason.
Without a word, you dip into the room and slide the box cutter into your sleeve.
Then you go over to the last door. A supply closet. There’s a pane of glass at your eye-level. Through it is a sign of the same caliber as the ones you’d seen earlier.
‘ONE PERSON AT A TIME.’
Your eyes move down. The door’s lock has been broken off, too.
Found you.
You make it back just in time to catch the ten minute mark. Grey Hoodie jumps slightly when you enter the room, hand tightening on his sleeve.
That’s funny.
Despite his initial dissatisfaction, it seems Takeshi's the only one who cares enough to ask you of your findings. His foot is restless again.
“It’s just in the supply closet at the end,” you say, half-sigh, really, like that revelation isn’t enough to satiate your curiosity.
The box cutter, meanwhile, is tight between your sleeve and skin.
Ten minutes have passed. Playing it off as you re-enter the reception, you carefully watch everyone's micro-expressions as the first vibration window comes. Grey Hoodie's eyes are slightly wide. He must have felt it: earlier, his hand twitched toward his wristband before he could stop himself.
You see Sakura react too. She closes her eyes briefly, breathing hard. When she opens them, she immediately turns into Hiro, burying her face in his shoulder. Melting into him, as though he’s the one solid thing in this room.
You try not to smile. There’s a melodic chime.
‘FIVE MINUTES REMAINING. PLEASE VOTE FOR THE PLAYER YOU WOULD LIKE TO ELIMINATE.’
And now comes the interesting part. How do you eliminate these four without retaliation? How do you manipulate the votes? How do you ensure you're one of the final six when the Uninfected eventually have to turn on each other?
You need something more.
"Well," Takeshi clears his throat. “What are your statuses, everyone?”
Around the room it goes. Everyone claims to be Uninfected, obviously. Grey Hoodie’s voice is too quiet; Miho’s answer edges on a weird, nervous laugh; Sakura's hand is shaking, clasped hard in Hiro’s; the well-built man says nothing at first, then mutters "Uninfected" when pressed. And… Oh. Oh, look at that. You haven't seen her react to any vibrations, but the office lady shakes like a wet dog and can barely even whisper whether or not she's Infected.
Liars, liars, pants on fire. Five different reactions. Four Infected players.
Potentially, at least.
"Okay," Takeshi says, checking the time on the screen. "We have four minutes until we have to vote. We need to decide who to eliminate first."
The room goes quiet.
"We should vote for whoever seems most suspicious," someone suggests.
"Based on what?" Chiyoko snaps. "We don't have evidence. We're just guessing."
Takeshi says, "Better to eliminate someone than refuse to vote and see what happens."
"No," you say, raising your hand slightly. "We don't need to guess. We watched for reactions at the ten-minute mark, right? We should vote based on that."
When your lips part more, her name is the first to jump onto your tongue.
Fidgeting, curling into herself, biting her lip until it bleeds just to hide the quivering. The office lady. Easy pickings. She’s Infected.
A nine out of ten difficulty.
Funny. When does that piece fall into place?
But, when her eyes jump to yours – like she knows what’s about to come – you pause.
Intrigued, your mind walks back through the observations: Grey Hoodie at the ten-minute mark, clear as day. His eyes widening, the hand twitch. All of that. Now, the others?
Miho shifted at two minutes. During her introduction. She touched her wristband as if something had changed. That wasn’t the ten minute mark. You'd dismissed it initially, but she did it again at four. With that, a pattern blooms: your mind stumbles over itself, steadying into a sprint. Sakura flinched at four minutes, too. Then, maybe, at eight. If there was anything past six, you’d have missed it going through the doors in the hall.
Ah.
You hum to yourself. There might be a catch.
The Infected’s wristbands aren’t all vibrating at the ten-minute mark. They're randomised within each interval.
Now that could be interesting.
If it’s different for each person, then only one name is surely struck through on the board: Grey Hoodie, with his clean ten-minute pattern. The rest? Educated guesses at best.
"Well?" Chiyoko presses, arms crossed. Guess she didn’t miss your hesitation before speaking.
Oops. Admitting uncertainty would be stupid; but naming someone without confidence on the first vote would destroy your credibility immediately. The former is risky, but taking one risk is much smarter than guessing wrong entirely.
"I’m, um, not sure."
Takeshi's jaw tightens. “Very helpful."
"I'm just saying that maybe we should pool our observations," you counter softly.
The room shifts slightly. A few people nod — it sounds reasonable, collaborative. Group-thinking is easier. And it buys you time.
"I noticed something," Hiro says quietly. All eyes turn to him, and, strangely, Sakura’s breath hitches slightly. "That guy in the grey hoodie. He kept looking at his wrist. Multiple times."
Grey Hoodie’s eyes widen. "I was just— Nervous—"
"At what times?" you ask, leaning forward. If Hiro confirms the ten-minute interval, that solidifies your observation.
He frowns, thinking. "Ten minute mark. Like you said."
Perfect.
"Then, I— I think we, uh, we should vote for him,” another woman speaks up, her finger trembling as she points at Grey Hoodie. The office lady. You almost sigh in relief. She's doing your work for you.
"Wait," Chiyoko interrupts, eyes narrowing at the woman. "You've been fidgeting constantly. How do we know you’re not Infected?"
Office Lady’s face goes white. "I— What? No, I'm just— I'm just…"
Cocking your head, you watch the woman carefully. The stammer, the nervous tics, the way she keeps wrapping her arms around herself. Nervousness or Infection? Her interval could have been too long for you to see. Eight? Nine? You can’t bet on her being the right guess.
"Actually, I think you make a really good point," you say carefully, drawing attention away from her. Maybe she’s Infected, but she’s definitely someone you need more time to observe. You gesture toward Grey Hoodie. "Let's not waste our first vote on uncertainty if two people are sure."
"Him, then," Takeshi says.
Grey Hoodie’s face immediately goes pale. "What—"
"Him," someone agrees.
Oh?
She's no longer shaking, no longer murmuring. The accusation slips from her mouth like she's more than certain it's the truth.
An amused smile cracks across your lips as you turn back to the office lady. Well, where’s that stutter now? Without any eyes on her, she’s levelled into a very neutral stance. It’s like watching the curtains close on a good performance.
That's fun.
There might be someone else who knows how to play the field.
"That's not— What? I'm just—" Grey Hoodie stammers now, the real panic setting in.
"I... You may be right," you say gently, as if you're reluctant to agree. "But we should make sure everyone has a chance to defend themselves first. Okay?"
Grey Hoodie looks at you with something much too close to reverence, not realizing you've just condemned him with faint praise. Maybe he's weak to pretty girls.
"I'm not Infected!" he says desperately. "I swear, I'm not. I'm just— I'm scared, okay? This is insane! I don't know what to say!"
"We're all scared," Takeshi says. "But we need to make a decision. All in favour of eliminating him?"
Hands go up slowly. One, two, three. Yours rises with an apologetic wince — such a small movement, but his eyes find yours immediately.
Four, five, six. His face is draining of colour.
"No, wait! Please—" His voice cracks. He backs toward the wall, hands up like that'll stop what's coming.
"I'm sorry," you say softly, and you really sound like you mean it. “Oh, I really am. But someone has to be first."
Takeshi nods to Hiro. They move in sync, practiced, like they've done this before — but of course they haven't. No one has. Hiro catches Grey Hoodie's right arm; Takeshi grabs the left.
"No! No, you don't—" Grey Hoodie thrashes, sneakers squeaking against the floor. "I'm not Infected! I swear, I'm not!"
You almost laugh out of simple surprise, brows peaking. A bit much. “Hey, you could be a little more gentle—”
“End of the hallway?” Hiro asks, voice uneven.
Bemused, you nod.
"Please!" His voice goes high, desperate. "Someone! Anyone!"
Jeez. He’s really making you feel bad, huh? Must be why the hallways drags on so long.
You follow at a distance. So does Yuuta, face pale, steps hesitant but inherently curious. Grey Hoodie’s eyes find yours again as they haul him past. Wild. Pleading. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and glance away, letting your expression settle into something pained. Regretful. Like this hurts you too.
Takeshi wrenches the supply closet door open.
"Please," Grey Hoodie whimpers. No more screaming. Breaking, struggling, though his desperation is waning. "Please don't."
“Don’t forget that the lock doesn’t work,” you chirp.
They shove him inside.
With much more force than needed, you note. Grey Hoodie lunges back immediately, hands slamming against the door as Takeshi throws his weight against it. The glass rattles. Grey Hoodie’s face is pressed against it, distorted, eyes so wide they don't look human anymore. God, it’s all really… theatrical. If this is a weird reality show, they hired some damn good actors. Almost as good as you.
For a moment, there's just the sound of his palms slapping against the glass. Rhythmic. Frantic. Then his fists. Pounding.
“I’m not– I’m not–”
And it stops.
Lingering heat, a soft buzz, a snap of red. You blink.
What just happened?
Collectively, Takeshi and Hiro exhale. Takeshi steps back from the door, breathing heavily. When he pulls it open, it’s the repugnant smell that swirls toward you first — the smell of burnt hair, and cooked meat, and something chemical and—
You have to move backward to avoid the corpse that spills out from behind the door.
“Wha— What the f— What the fu—” The words clench into a sharp gag. Yuuta stumbles over to the wall, emptying his insides onto the carpet.
There’s a chime to your left.
On the wall, the screen illuminates:
‘FIRST ELIMINATION COMPLETE. 11 PLAYERS REMAIN. 5 ELIMINATIONS REQUIRED.
ELIMINATED — KENJI.
STATUS — INFECTED.’
Oh.
Well, that’s nice.
They’re giving you assurance.
"We did it," Takeshi says. Now his voice is… stronger. He almost laughs, running a hand through his hair. "We got one."
You stare at the smouldering hole that’s pierced straight through the boy’s head. Charred black, smoking slightly. Into skin and bone and out from the hollow of his jaw.
This isn’t a game.
The rules didn't mention lasers, or execution, or stakes as high as this. Your eyes track back to the hole in the boy’s skull.
The press of your nail into your palm tells you that this is real: that's a real person who was alive two minutes ago, who pressed his face to the glass, and begged you to let him live. You watched him through the window — watched the hope drain out of it like water from a broken cup.
And you smiled.
You…
No, Y/N. Stop. Think.
If this is real, and you’re here, then you need to adjust your strategy. If there’s a chance you’ll die, then… You grit your teeth. The numbers won't line up, the variables keep shifting. If this is real, then what? A reality game show, versus an actual death game, versus mass hallucination, versus—
“Get up, kid,” Takeshi says flatly.
You blink. His voice snaps you back to reality.
Takeshi turns to Yuuta, who’s hunched into himself beside a pool of vomit. Your gaze meets his, and in them is nothing more than sheer horror. He’s so pale he might as well disappear into the white wallpaper.
“Wh— What—” His voice fails him, body wracking with shock. “He’s… He’s—”
“Dead,” Hiro finishes, eyes locked on the interior of the supply closet. “Have you never been in a game before, Yuuta?”
His expression is telling enough.
“What about you?” Hiro asks.
You?
What about you?
You’re trying not to laugh.
The other two have barely reacted to… to whatever the fuck just happened. Whether it’s from surprise, or puzzlement, or disgust, something is bubbling in your stomach.
But: from the moment you stepped out into the world, you understood what it means to perform. And if you have to smile while people die to set your own survival in stone, then…
Then fine.
New rule: winning means survival, loss means death.
You can work with that.
“Well, what do you think?”
The words come out steady, easy, as though you've said them a thousand times before. Leaning against the wall, you coil the tightening disturbance in your chest into nothing more than an easy smile.
Fuck.
Takeshi grits his teeth. “Enough of this. Get up.”
“No! What the fuck is happening?” Yuuta bursts out, clamping his head between his hands. “Where is everybody?”
Hiro drops by Yuuta’s side, placing a cautious hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“We… I mean, who even really knows, Yuuta?” he says weakly. “This is only my — and Sakura's — second game.”
Your eyes find the end of the hallway. Sakura is lingering there, visibly distressed as she watches Hiro kneel by Yuuta. Clingy. Or just twitchy, for obvious reasons.
Disinterested, Takeshi starts back down the hallway. Though your gaze is drawn back to the dead body right before you leave, you can’t help but follow suit.
“Hearts games are the sort to…” Hiro continues, trailing off.
You continue. Every step under the stark lights overhead feels like another piece of you ripped from your body. Exposed, unravelled, replaced.
“…The sort to drive people to the edge.”
Your blood for perfume. A limb for a smile. A skeleton in return for a soapbox.
As you step back into the reception, dressed in new skin altogether, Hiro’s last words ring down the hall.
“Welcome to the Borderlands, Yuuta.”
“Well, Kageha,” Chiyoko breathes. “You got it right. And you, Y/N.”
You glance at the office lady, “Kageha”. Of course you did. You knew that boy was Infected from the first ten minute mark. But everyone else thinks it was probably good collective judgment. Birds of a feather flock together.
Idiots.
“That…”
Your breath is still unsteady.
Enough, Y/N. You swallow slightly, then preen yourself into the same girl you’ve always been.
“Okay, everyone, that went great," you say brightly; too brightly. "Three more Infected to go."
Everyone has eased into it by now: the first kill validated the strategy. They can do this. They definitely think so.
You check your mental tally. One Infected eliminated. Three remain. Five more eliminations are needed. Still, at least two or more of those will be Uninfected.
"Seven minutes until the next vote," you announce helpfully. "We should use this time wisely.”
Three other vibration windows pass. And you find yourself watching again. Harder, this time. Unwilling to pass up even the most fleeting of chances. Miho, Sakura, the muscled one. Each gives way to their respective anxieties for at least a millisecond. A twitch, a flinch, an incidental flick of the wrist.
During a conversation with her boyfriend, Sakura's eyes drop to their joined hands. She stares at them for a long moment, before looking back up at his face. He doesn't reciprocate. Nothing in their expressions seem to shift, but, afterwards, her grip on his hand loosens slightly.
After that, Sakura’s eyes flick to you thrice: at the seven, eight and ten minute marks. Could be incidental. Miho reacts at the four minute mark. She seems to learn from that by the eight minute mark. The man’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at six minutes. Once, only once. So controlled it may as well be nothing, but you catch it. Of course you do. Three Infected remaining.
You should throw Miho and Sakura into that closet right now. With them, your conviction is set.
"I've been watching everyone during these little ten-minute marks,” you murmur, eyes trained on Miho’s. “Some people have really specific reactions. Like touching their wristband,” you say.
Miho won’t meet your gaze. Not even halfway in and you’re already tired of smiling.
Chiyoko's lips turn into a thin line. "Who did you see react?"
"Oh, I don't want to accuse anyone without being sure," you say softly. "Anyone else?"
Easy. You're crowdsourcing the observation and leaning on the anticipation of your own hesitance: the accusations will fall like whispers from your lips and like shouts from theirs. Easy.
"I saw Miho touch her wristband," someone immediately says.
Miho's arms jump to wrap around her torso. "What? I was just—! It’s a nervous tic, you idiots."
"Well, I didn't see anything," Hiro quickly counters, defensive.
Hm? That was a little too quick. You watch Sakura relax into him slightly, her eyes stuck on the toes of her pumps.
So that’s it. Notice one thing, notice another. If Miho’s so easy to catch, why wouldn’t Sakura be? What a protective boyfriend.
"I think we should vote for Miho," Chiyoko says. "If multiple people saw her react, that's evidence."
"But… What if it is a nervous habit?" Yuuta asks. His jaw is still slack, voice barely carrying across the room. He’s slumped against the entrance to the hallway. "What if we— oh, fuck— kill her and— and she's Uninfected?"
"Then we've made a mistake," Takeshi says grimly. "But we have to make decisions based on the information we have."
You watch Miho spiral.
She knows she's Infected; she knows she reacted; and she knows she's about to be voted out. If you get this right, then your theory about the randomised intervals could be right, too.
Possibilities. Miho, every four minutes. The well-built man, six. Sakura, two or four.
"You— You morons," Miho almost laughs, incredulous, tears pricking at her eyes. "Are you serious? I'm not Infected. I swear. Don't do this."
"All in favor of eliminating Miho?" Takeshi calls once more.
Nine hands go up. Including yours, raised with a sympathetic pout.
They drag her down the hallway. You decide to stay in the reception this time. She's sobbing, begging, screaming, et cetera. The door locks. The laser sounds. The screen illuminates.
‘SECOND ELIMINATION COMPLETE. 10 PLAYERS REMAIN. 4 ELIMINATIONS REQUIRED.
ELIMINATED — MIHO
STATUS — INFECTED.’
Another collective exhale. Two for two.
Easy.
"We're on track," Takeshi says with growing confidence. "Two Infected down. Two more to go, then we choose among ourselves."
You nod along encouragingly. "We're doing really well. Everyone's observation skills are really great.”
Maybe too great.
Chiyoko has begun to watch you now, really stare you down, with a different expression to her usual guarded one. She's starting to realize. You're too accurate for coincidence.
Funny. Surely only someone who’s Infected should care to suspect your methods?
And again, the ten minute mark passes. Same as usual. That man and Sakura.
But Hiro is becoming a problem. He's noticed Sakura's reactions, and he's actively deflected suspicion. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. No matter how cute it is, if keeps shielding her like this, Sakura might actually make it to the final six.
Him and Sakura. The well-built man and Chiyoko. Looks like the confirmation has scrunched up into a gamble.
You raise your hand again. As usual, the room tunes in to revel in your breath.
"Everyone: I've been watching quite carefully, and I really do think that there are two more people who keep reacting strangely."
Everyone’s eyes widen slightly.
Chiyoko bites her tongue before replying, like she wants to reconsider the one word she graces you with. "Who?"
You bite your lip, as if reluctant.
“Him,” you say, pointing to the silent man, “and…”
Well, Hiro. You’re a big boy. Surely you can take a blow or two.
“…Sakura.”
Hiro’s eyes immediately shoot up to cut into yours, brows knitting together. One foot moves forward.
“What?”
You sigh slightly, eyes rounding apologetically. “What?”
“God— I mean, are you kidding? Sakura isn’t—”
"Hiro," you say gently. "Let Sakura speak for herself. I'm really sorry, but—"
“She's not Infected,” he hisses. He's closer now. "You're making this up to save yourself, aren’t you?”
"Please," you say, and your voice is so soft, so understanding. "I think we all understand that you love her. But we need to be honest about what we're seeing. If she's Infected and we let her survive, we all die.” Your brows raise. “Including you."
The room is silent. Save the sobbing from Sakura, which she’s muffling with her palms.
"We’ll vote on that one first," Takeshi gestures to the man, offering his life as a compromise. "Sakura is… someone we can discuss next round."
Same difference. The man’s still Infected. Eliminating him brings you closer to winning. The vote is quick, unanimous: brutal. He's eliminated. The man doesn't even fight as they lead him to the third room. Pitiful, for someone who seemed so sturdy.
Standing at the edge of the hallway, watching the man’s form grow smaller and smaller, you feel the heat of a stranger’s presence beside you.
“Y/N,” she greets under her breath, cautious.
When you turn, you find Chiyoko is very openly staring at you now. "How did you know?" she murmurs.
You fidget modestly, looking down in mock embarrassment. "Guess I’m pretty lucky, right?"
The understatement makes it worse somehow. You've just correctly identified three Infected players with perfect accuracy and you're acting like you got a passing grade on a pop quiz.
“That’s not luck,” Chiyoko denies.
You smile.
“Oh, Chiyoko. Isn’t it?”
Her eyes narrow, lingering a moment longer, before she flinches away with a sigh and crosses her arms once more.
Ha. She must hate you.
“I think we both know who we need to vote for after him.”
You cock a brow. “I think we–”
"Shit! Hiro!"
Your head snaps toward the sound. Takeshi's voice, raw with panic. There’s a slam of metal clanging into place.
"You idiot, don't you dare!"
You're slinking forward before you think about it, Chiyoko right behind you. At the end of the hallway, Takeshi is pressed against the supply closet door – but it's rattling, bulging outward with each impact from inside. Hiro is on the ground, clutching his ribs. A weak groan exits his mouth.
"What’s happening?" you ask, but you already know.
Fighting for your life back is the more sensible option, isn't it? Looks like Hiro got in the man’s way.
"Hiro!" Sakura shrieks from behind you, but Chiyoko grabs her collar before she can rush forward.
"Don't!" she hisses.
You and Chiyoko step forward instead, watching Takeshi struggle to keep the door closed.
Another slam against the door. Takeshi braces harder, jaw clenched, teeth gritting maniacally. His feet slide against the carpet as the door shudders.
"Get—back—" Takeshi grits out.
Behind the glass, the man's shoulder is pressed against the wood. He isn't saying anything. You only hear the steady, methodical slam, slam, slam, of a body throwing itself against an obstacle. Testing its hold and extracting weaknesses.
"What's going on?" Sakura’s voice, thin and distressed, breaks through from behind you.
You don't answer. Silently, you're watching the way the door bows slightly with each impact. Watching Takeshi's feet slip another inch. His grip is beginning to falter. The man is strong — stronger than Takeshi, maybe stronger than both him and Hiro combined. And Takeshi is on the wrong side of the door. Another slam. The frame cracks slightly. Takeshi's eyes go wide, mingling horror and rage lighting within them.
"One of you— Help—!"
But your hands are loose at your sides, feet unbothered to try. The box cutter is still tight in your sleeve.
You’re thinking.
Sakura starts toward the hallway again, freeing herself from Chiyoko, but she falters at your next words.
“Wait.”
She looks back.
Your voice comes out steady, calm. Gentle, maybe.
“...Let it happen.”
Chiyoko’s head snaps to you, but even she seems to stumble over a reply.
And that’s that. The sheep fall back into the herd. Ha. How cute. It’s like they choose to be paralysed only when you give them permission.
Slam! Slam! Slam— This time, the door gives out. Not much. Just a few inches. But it's enough. A hand shoots through the gap — thick fingers, red knuckles — and grabs Takeshi's collar.
The hand yanks hard. Takeshi's yell cuts off as his throat collides with the doorframe. There's a quick, wet crunch — cartilage, or probably even bone — and then he's being dragged through the gap, thrashing, clawing at the wood. The man hauls him inside with a terrifying efficiency.
The door slams shut behind them.
That’s when the screaming begins.
Muffled and scorching. The sound of flesh on flesh, something heavy hitting the ground, the sharp snap of something breaking. It goes on for too long. Chiyoko’s eyes are torn wide open, arms tight around her stomach. But you only watch the door. You begin to step backward. Through the window, you can see shapes moving in the darkness. Chiyoko and Sakura follow your lead. You move away from the flashes of violence, from a will to survive that’s marked by the black within the closet.
When that man escapes, slamming the door shut behind him, you’re all far enough to watch from a distance.
To wait until it all stops.
Takeshi’s weak groaning fractures to a halt. The door rattles once, then goes still.
The screen down the hall illuminates. The man down the hall’s silhouette bites through the backlight. Slowly, he turns. But you only see the white of his eyes from here.
Guiltless, breath heavy, dressed in new skin. An animal.
The outline of the box cutter in your sleeve is depressing onto your skin.
‘THIRD ELIMINATION COMPLETE. 9 PLAYERS REMAIN. 3 ELIMINATIONS REQUIRED.
ELIMINATED — TAKESHI.’
Well.
You didn’t like him all that much anyways. One less player. One less person competing for the final six spots. One less person to dismantle your grasp over the flock.
‘STATUS — UNINFECTED.’
The man's gaze latches onto yours from across the hallway. For a moment, you think he might say something. Maybe he’l justify it, or apologize, or wildly threaten you. But he doesn't.
He just looks at you. Waiting; wondering; wanting to see how you might react.
You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
And you smile.