Vincent’s eyelids fluttered open, his head pounding with a dull, persistent ache. The last thing he remembered was crouching in his kitchen, gripping his crowbar as the door jiggled and the landlord’s voice seeped through the cracks. Now, the room around him was unfamiliar, sterile and cold, the faint scent of bleach hanging heavy in the air.


    He sat up slowly, the paper-covered surface of a doctor’s examination table crinkling beneath him. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, unwelcoming glare over the room. Every detail seemed sharp, almost hyperreal, the sheen on the steel cabinets, the stark white walls, the faint reflections in the glossy tile floor.


    This isn’t my apartment.


    Vincent swung his legs over the side of the table, his boots scuffing lightly against the tiles. His backpack sat on a nearby chair, the crowbar strapped securely to its side. The sight of it sent a flicker of relief through him, grounding him amidst the surreal disorientation. He reached for the bag, pulling it onto his lap and unzipping it to check the contents. Everything seemed intact, the flashlight, the first aid kit, the water bottles, the spare SD cards. Even the radio was there, though it was turned off.


    Strange. I left it on.


    He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension in his muscles refusing to ease. It was then that he noticed the weight on his left wrist, a metallic device encircling it snugly, its smooth, silver surface broken only by a small screen. The display lit up as he moved, revealing a pixelated chibi version of himself, dressed in a stylized version of his current outfit. The tiny avatar shifted slightly, bouncing on its heels in a cheerful standby animation, its movements uncanny in their liveliness.


    “What the hell is this?” Vincent muttered, lifting his wrist for a closer look.


    The screen flickered, and text appeared beneath the animated figure:


    Welcome to the Game. Player: Vincent Price Stats:


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Resolve: High</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Awareness: Moderate</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Stealth: Moderate</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Fear: 0% (Rising)</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Luck: Questionable</li>


    </ul>


    Beneath the stats, a small icon pulsed faintly: three tiny hearts arranged in a row, with a caption that read:


    Innate Bonus: 1/3rd a Cat. A cat has nine lives; you have three. You are as useful as one third of a cat.


    Vincent stared at the screen, his mind racing to process the absurdity. He tapped the device with his finger, half-expecting it to break or glitch, but the screen remained bright and responsive. The chibi version of himself gave a jaunty little wave, as if mocking his confusion.


    Before he could delve deeper into the interface, the text changed again, presenting a new option:


    Select a Survivor Talent:


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Hider’s Instinct: Know when to stay still and quiet.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Fleet Feet: Improved speed during critical moments.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Sixth Sense: Gain subtle awareness of out-of-place objects.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Silent Steps: Reduced noise when moving.</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Scavenger’s Eye: Spot useful items more easily.</li>


    </ul>


    Vincent blinked, recognition dawning. The layout reminded him of an obscure online horror game he’d once tried to play, a niche title that simulated surviving against slasher villains or supernatural entities. It was an ancient game, impossible to find now that private servers had vanished. He remembered watching gameplay videos of it online, fascinated by the mechanics but frustrated that he’d never been able to experience it firsthand.


    This can’t be real. I’m dreaming.


    But the metallic weight around his wrist felt all too tangible. So did the faint ache in his muscles and the chill of the sterile room. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a dream.


    For now, he set the talent selection aside. His priority was figuring out where he was, and how to get out. Vincent slid off the examination table, his boots hitting the floor with a solid thud. He adjusted the backpack straps over his shoulders, the familiar weight a small comfort as he scanned the room.


    At first glance, it looked like a doctor’s office. A desk sat against one wall, cluttered with papers and an outdated computer. Cabinets lined the opposite side, their steel doors reflecting the harsh overhead lights. A single door, painted a sterile white, stood at the far end of the room.


    But something was off.


    As Vincent moved closer to the cabinets, he noticed subtle inconsistencies. The labels on the drawers were vague, “Supplies,” “Miscellaneous,” “Tools.” Not the kind of precision he’d expect in a medical setting. He opened one drawer, finding it stuffed with random items: rubber bands, a set of mismatched keys, and a single roll of duct tape. Another drawer contained rolls of gauze and several jars of what looked like marbles.


    This isn’t a real doctor’s office.


    He approached the desk next, rifling through the scattered papers. Most were blank, except for a few with cryptic phrases scrawled across them in blocky, uneven handwriting: “They’re watching.” “Find the key.” “Time is running out.”


    Vincent’s chest tightened as his gaze darted to the door. He reached for the handle and turned it, only to find it locked. The handle wouldn’t budge, no matter how much force he applied. A soft chime emanated from the device on his wrist, drawing his attention.


    The chibi avatar now stood with its hands on its hips, a speech bubble appearing above its head: Locked. Look for the key.


    “No kidding,” Vincent muttered, his voice sharp with irritation. He stepped back, scanning the room again for anything he might have missed.


    The examination table. The cabinets. The desk. His eyes darted between them, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the logic of the room. He crouched by the table, running his hands along its underside, feeling for any hidden compartments. Nothing.


    The radio caught his eye as he stood, still strapped to his backpack. He hesitated, then turned it on. Static filled the room, the familiar hum oddly soothing in the sterile environment. But there was no voice, no cryptic message. Just the same static as always.


    “Of course,” he muttered, switching it off again.


    The clock on the wrist device ticked forward, though it didn’t display the time in hours or minutes, just a countdown, faint and ever-present in the corner of the screen. He forced himself to breathe deeply, steadying his nerves. The game had begun, whether he liked it or not.


    He moved to the cabinets again, this time pulling them open with more force. A faint scrape caught his attention as one of the drawers stuck halfway. Inside was a folded piece of paper and a small, rusted key tied to it with twine. The paper read, “The first step is never the last.”


    Vincent grabbed the key, his pulse quickening as he crossed the room and slid it into the lock. The door clicked open with a faint metallic sound, revealing a dark hallway beyond. The air was colder here, carrying a faint, musty smell that sent a shiver down his spine.


    Before stepping through, he glanced at the wrist device. The chibi version of himself now held a flashlight, its expression strangely confident. Beneath the avatar, a single word flashed in glowing red letters:


    Proceed.


    Vincent tightened his grip on the crowbar, his knuckles whitening. Whatever lay ahead, he wasn’t going in unprepared. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness.


    The hallway stretched out before Vincent, its dim lighting casting long, uneven shadows across the walls and floor. It wasn’t quite like a hospital hallway, at least not one he’d ever seen. The floors were a scuffed, off-white linoleum, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Small rolling beds were pushed against the walls at irregular intervals, their plastic mattresses sagging slightly. Some were covered with rumpled sheets, others completely bare, the stark steel frames glinting under the harsh lights.


    The air was cold, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and something more organic, a metallic tang that reminded him uncomfortably of blood. Vincent adjusted the strap of his backpack, the crowbar still gripped tightly in his hand, and took a cautious step forward. His boots squeaked softly on the linoleum, the sound startlingly loud in the eerie silence.


    He froze mid-step when he noticed he wasn’t alone.


    There were others in the hallway, five of them, scattered along its length. Each stood near one of the rolling beds, their postures tense, their expressions ranging from guarded to openly fearful. None of them moved to speak; they just stared at each other with the wary looks of strangers forced into an uncertain alliance.


    Vincent’s eyes flicked from one to the next, his mind racing to process what he was seeing.


    The first was a wiry young man with shaggy blond hair and a hoodie that had clearly seen better days. His jeans were frayed at the hems, his sneakers scuffed and patched with duct tape. He had the nervous energy of someone who didn’t trust his surroundings, or the people in them. His fingers fidgeted constantly, tugging at his hoodie strings or tapping against his sides, as if he couldn’t bear to be still.


    A girl stood a few feet away from him, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. Her hair was dyed bright pink, chopped unevenly as though she’d done it herself. She wore a leather jacket over a floral dress, combat boots scuffed with dried mud. Her gaze was defiant, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, but Vincent caught the faint tremor in her hands as she adjusted her stance.


    Then there was the man in the suit, dark, tailored, expensive-looking. His tie was loosened, his white shirt untucked, but the overall impression was still one of authority. Or at least it would have been if his face wasn’t slick with sweat and his hands weren’t trembling slightly as they gripped the edge of a nearby rolling bed. His neatly combed hair was starting to stick up in places, and his polished shoes squeaked faintly as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.


    Further down the hallway, Vincent spotted a stocky middle-aged woman with short, graying hair and a no-nonsense expression. She wore a janitor’s uniform, sturdy work pants, a plain button-down shirt, and steel-toed boots. Her hands were rough, calloused, and she gripped a large wrench like it was an extension of her arm. She looked around the hallway with the assessing gaze of someone who had seen her fair share of bad situations and survived them.


    Finally, there was the boy. He couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, his dark eyes wide with fear as he clung to a stuffed bear that had clearly been well-loved. His clothes were simple, jeans and a hoodie, but they were clean and neatly pressed, at odds with the dirt smudged across his face and hands. He stood close to the janitor, who seemed to have taken on the role of protector, her stance subtly shielding him from the rest of the group.


    Vincent swallowed hard as he took them all in, his mind racing with recognition. They weren’t just people, they were types. Tropes. Archetypes straight out of every horror movie, survival game, or nightmare scenario he’d ever encountered.


    The Nervous Everyman.


    The Rebellious Girl.


    The Corporate Shark.


    The Reluctant Protector.


    The Innocent Child.


    His gaze flicked down to the chibi figure on his wrist device, still bouncing lightly in its idle animation. What role did he play? Was he the Cynical Loner? The Burnt-Out Skeptic? The Reluctant Leader? Or was his role something more sinister, something he hadn’t yet realized?


    Before he could dwell on the thought, a soft chime emanated from his wrist device, startling him. The sound echoed faintly down the hallway, and the others reacted immediately. Each of their watches had chimed in unison, the eerie synchronicity cutting through the tension like a blade.


    The chibi character on Vincent’s screen turned to face him, waving cheerfully before a new message appeared:


    “The final Survivor has arrived. Let the game begin.”


    The same text flashed on the devices of the others, who glanced at their wrists with varying degrees of confusion and alarm. A low murmur began to ripple through the group, the first tentative signs of conversation breaking the oppressive silence.


    “What the hell does that mean?” the man in the suit muttered, his voice low and gravelly. He swiped at the screen of his watch as though trying to dismiss the message, but the text remained stubbornly in place.


    “It means we’re screwed,” the pink-haired girl said, her tone defiant but strained. She crossed her arms tighter, glaring at the others as if daring them to argue. “Whatever this is, it’s not good.”


    “Y-you think?” the hoodie-clad guy stammered, his voice pitching upward with barely-contained panic. “This, this is crazy. We’ve gotta get out of here. There’s gotta be a way out.”


    “Calm down, kid,” the janitor said, her voice steady and firm. She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, her presence radiating a quiet strength that seemed to ground him. “Panic won’t get us anywhere. Let’s figure out what we’re dealing with first.”


    Vincent remained silent, his gaze drifting down the hallway. There was a door at the far end, slightly ajar, its darkness yawning like an open mouth. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, their rhythm uneven, as though the electricity itself was hesitant to commit.


    The backpack on his shoulder felt heavier now, the crowbar pressing into his hand with familiar weight. He adjusted his grip, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. The chime from the watches, the sterile hallway, the eerie archetypes, they weren’t here by accident. This was part of whatever game he’d been dragged into.


    The radio, still strapped to his bag, let out a faint crackle of static, drawing his attention. He turned the knob instinctively, but the noise settled into silence, offering no clues. It wasn’t time for answers yet, only for questions.


    “Hey,” the pink-haired girl called out, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She was looking directly at him now, her sharp gaze challenging. “You just gonna stand there, or are you part of this freak show too?”


    Vincent’s lips twitched into a wry, humorless smile. “Looks like I am,” he said, his voice dry. He raised his wrist slightly, showing her the watch. “Same as you.”


    Her expression softened, if only slightly, before she rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath.


    The janitor spoke next, her tone measured and calm. “We need to stick together. Figure out what’s going on before we start pointing fingers.” She looked around at the others, her gaze landing briefly on Vincent. “Agreed?”


    A murmur of assent rippled through the group, though the hoodie-clad guy looked like he was about to bolt at any moment.


    Vincent exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking once more to the chibi avatar on his watch. Its cheerful expression felt out of place, almost mocking in its optimism.


    “Let the game begin,” he muttered under his breath, echoing the words on the screen.


    With a resigned sigh, he took a step forward, his crowbar at the ready, and led the way toward the darkened door at the end of the hall.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    The tension in the hallway thickened as Vincent lingered near the group, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation. His gaze swept across the others, each of them preoccupied in their own way, either fiddling with their devices, adjusting their belongings, or simply standing in wary silence. The thought nagged at him: Why us? Why now?


    He adjusted the crowbar in his grip, his fingers slick with sweat, and decided to take a gamble. Something about the setup felt too familiar, too intentional, like the kind of scenarios he’d seen dissected on horror forums late at night. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention.


    “You ever see SAW?” he asked casually, letting his tone carry a mixture of curiosity and nonchalance.


    The question hung in the air, the word itself almost alien in the sterile hallway. The pink-haired girl raised an eyebrow, her arms tightening across her chest. The hoodie-clad guy gave a confused shrug, glancing around as if someone else might answer for him. The man in the suit frowned deeply, his face unreadable, while the janitor narrowed her eyes but said nothing. The boy simply looked at Vincent, his wide-eyed expression one of pure confusion.


    “You know, SAW?” Vincent continued, his voice deliberate. “Group of strangers wake up in a messed-up place. Have to figure out how to survive. And there’s a twist.” He leaned slightly forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Turns out, one of the group was working with the killer all along.”


    The pink-haired girl snorted, her expression shifting to one of amused skepticism. “What the hell are you talking about? Is that a book or something?”


    “No,” Vincent replied, masking his disappointment. “It’s an old horror movie. From before the ban.”


    At that, several pairs of eyes sharpened on him. The suit adjusted his tie, his posture stiffening. “Horror movie?” he said, his voice low and cautious. “Why would you bring that up now?”


    Vincent shrugged, forcing an air of nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Just thinking out loud. This whole setup… feels a little too on the nose, doesn’t it? Strangers thrown together, no explanation, just a cryptic ‘game’ to survive. Makes you wonder if someone here knows more than they’re letting on.”


    The accusation wasn’t direct, but it might as well have been. The air in the hallway crackled with unspoken tension, each person now eyeing the others with fresh suspicion.


    The janitor, who had been quietly observing the group, spoke up, her voice firm and steady. “That’s enough,” she said, stepping forward slightly, her body angled protectively toward the boy. “We don’t need to start turning on each other. If this is some kind of sick game, then whoever’s behind it wants us to think like that. They want us paranoid, fighting amongst ourselves.”


    The pink-haired girl tilted her head, her expression still skeptical but less overtly hostile. “Yeah, or maybe you’re the one trying to keep us calm so we don’t look at you too closely.”


    “Enough!” the janitor barked, her tone sharp enough to make everyone flinch. She sighed, rubbing a hand across her face before continuing in a quieter voice. “Look, I don’t know what this is. But pointing fingers at each other without proof is a waste of time. We need to focus on finding a way out of here.”


    The suit nodded reluctantly, his frown deepening. “She’s right. Whoever or whatever is behind this clearly has the upper hand. We can’t afford to waste energy on baseless accusations.”


    Vincent said nothing, studying their reactions carefully. None of them seemed to recognize the movie reference, which didn’t surprise him given the bans on horror media. But what struck him more was the complete lack of guilt or unease in their expressions. If someone here was a plant, a traitor working with whoever set this up, they were either very good at hiding it or didn’t know it themselves.


    The hoodie-clad guy broke the silence, his voice cracking slightly. “So… what do we do now? Just… wait for something else to happen?”


    “No,” the janitor said firmly. “We keep moving. There’s no point standing around here. Whatever’s ahead, we’ll deal with it when we get there.”


    The group began to shuffle uneasily, casting wary glances at one another but ultimately falling into line. Vincent lingered for a moment longer, his eyes drifting to the chibi avatar on his watch. It waved cheerfully at him, its expression a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere around him.


    The hallway seemed endless, its sterile white walls reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The faint hum of the lights buzzed in Vincent’s ears as he fell into step behind the others, his crowbar slung over one shoulder. His grip on the cold metal was firm, but his mind was elsewhere, focused on the watch strapped to his wrist.


    The display flickered faintly as the chibi avatar mimicked his steps, its exaggerated movements oddly jaunty. Vincent tapped the interface cautiously, scrolling through the options once more. His finger hovered over Sixth Sense, and after a brief moment of deliberation, he selected it.


    The watch screen shimmered, and a brief animation played of the chibi avatar closing its eyes, then opening them wide in mock surprise. A line of text scrolled across the screen in an old-fashioned font:


    Sixth Sense Activated: Trust your instincts. Observe the cracks.


    The vagueness was both maddening and exactly what he expected. There was no instruction manual, no guidance on what to look for or how to interpret this supposed edge. Vincent sighed, rubbing his temples. If this was meant to help, it was off to a cryptic start.


    As he walked, he became acutely aware of a strange itching sensation in his eyes. It wasn’t painful, but it was distracting, like the faint tingle of looking into a too-bright light. He blinked hard, trying to clear the feeling, but it passed quickly, leaving him with no immediate answers.


    “What are we even looking for?” the hoodie-clad guy muttered ahead of him, echoing Vincent’s unspoken thoughts. The group had begun cautiously checking the small medical supply cabinets along the walls, but their searches had yielded little more than dusty gauze and empty plastic containers.


    The janitor, who seemed to have taken the role of unofficial leader, shot him a sharp look. “Medication,” she said curtly. “Or at least something useful.”


    “Yeah, but what kind of medication?” the pink-haired girl cut in, her tone laced with impatience. She kicked at a small rolling cart, sending it clattering against the wall. “There’s nothing here but junk.”


    Vincent tuned out their bickering, his focus shifting to the hallway around them. He scanned the area slowly, deliberately, letting his gaze linger on the edges of the fluorescent glow where shadows clung stubbornly to the corners. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he trusted the watch’s cryptic promise: observe the cracks.


    Something felt… off. It wasn’t the obvious wrongness of waking up in a sterile nightmare or the unsettling strangers around him. It was subtler, like a faint static crawling along the edges of his perception.


    He noticed it as they passed a particular door. It looked identical to the others, plain, white, with a simple push handle, but the shadows around it seemed wrong. Too sharp, too deep, as though they didn’t belong to the fluorescent lights at all. His eyes itched again, briefly, as he focused on the door.


    “Wait,” Vincent said, his voice low but firm.


    The others stopped, turning to look at him. He pointed toward the door, his hand gripping the crowbar tightly. “This one. Something’s… different about it.”


    The suit frowned, stepping closer to the door and squinting at it skeptically. “It looks the same as the others.”


    “Does it?” Vincent asked, his voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at him. He gestured toward the shadows pooling around the base of the door. “Look at the way the light hits it. It’s not right.”


    The janitor stepped forward, her expression cautious but curious. She crouched slightly, inspecting the doorframe. “He’s not wrong,” she murmured. “The shadows shouldn’t look like that. Not with this kind of lighting.”


    The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Great. So now we’re scared of shadows?”


    “Better than ignoring them,” Vincent shot back, his patience wearing thin. He glanced down at his watch, but the chibi avatar offered no additional guidance, only swaying slightly as if encouraging him to make the next move.


    The hoodie-clad guy shuffled uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Vincent and the door. “If it’s different, maybe it’s important. Should we check it out?”


    Vincent hesitated, his grip tightening on the crowbar. “I’ll go first.”


    Before anyone could argue, he stepped forward, raising the crowbar slightly as he reached for the handle. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of anticipation pressing down on him. The shadows around the door seemed to ripple faintly, but when he blinked, they were still.


    He pressed down on the handle and pushed the door open.


    The room beyond was starkly different from the sterile hallway. It was dimly lit, the walls painted a deep, oppressive gray. The air was heavy with a faint metallic tang, like rusted iron. Vincent stepped inside cautiously, his eyes scanning every corner. The others followed hesitantly, their footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor.


    In the center of the room stood a single table, its surface cluttered with various objects: vials of strange, unlabeled liquids, a rusted scalpel, and a set of ancient-looking medical tools that looked more suited to a museum than a functioning hospital.


    Vincent’s eyes darted to a small, handwritten note propped against one of the vials. The ink was smudged, but the message was legible:


    Choose wisely.


    His stomach turned. “It’s a test,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.


    The suit stepped closer, his face pale. “What kind of test?”


    “I don’t know,” Vincent admitted. He glanced at the others, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear. The air in the room felt thicker now, heavier, as if it were pressing against his chest.


    The janitor frowned, crossing her arms. “If it’s a test, there’s a right answer and a wrong one.”


    Vincent nodded, his gaze falling on the vials again. The chibi avatar on his watch twitched slightly, its movement catching his attention. He glanced down to see the screen flicker faintly, the small character pointing toward the table with a subtle nod.


    No hints, huh? Vincent thought grimly. Figures.


    The room’s oppressive stillness settled heavily over the group as they stood around the table. Vincent could feel the weight of their collective unease, the tension palpable as they stared at the strange assortment of objects before them. His mind was racing, each possibility branching into a labyrinth of uncertainty. If this was a test, they needed to approach it strategically, which meant understanding each other’s strengths.


    “Before we do anything,” Vincent began, keeping his tone even, “I think we should figure out what we’re all working with here.”


    The group turned to look at him, their expressions wary. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m not saying we need to trust each other completely, but if we’re going to get through this, we need to know who’s got what skills, or talents.”


    “Talents?” the pink-haired girl echoed, her eyebrow arching skeptically. “Like… what? Singing and dancing?”


    Vincent shook his head and gestured toward his watch. “No, I mean the things that showed up on these. You all got one too, right?”


    For a moment, no one spoke. The janitor, her arms still crossed, glanced at her own wrist, her lips pressed into a thin line. The suit adjusted his tie nervously, his eyes darting between the others. Finally, the hoodie-clad guy shrugged and muttered, “Fine. I’ll start.”


    He held up his watch, the display faintly glowing. “It gave me something called Silent Steps. Makes it easier to move without making noise. Guess it’s, uh… fitting.” His voice trailed off, and he glanced at the group awkwardly, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie’s pockets.


    “That’s useful,” the janitor said, her voice brisk. “I’ve got Structural Insight, lets me notice weak spots in, well, structures. Walls, doors, stuff like that.”


    “Convenient,” Vincent murmured, filing the information away. He glanced at the pink-haired girl, who had been fiddling with her watch but now looked up with a faint smirk.


    “Mine’s called Vocal Decoy,” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Apparently, I can throw my voice or mimic sounds to draw things away. Pretty cool, huh?”


    “That could come in handy,” the suit said, stepping forward slightly. “I’ve got Persuasive Charm, makes people more likely to listen to me. Not sure how useful it’ll be here, but it’s what I’ve got.”


    Vincent’s gaze turned to the last member of the group, a wiry man with thinning hair and a nervous energy. He had been standing slightly apart from the others, his watch held close to his chest as if shielding it from view.


    The group’s attention shifted to him, and he flinched slightly under the weight of their stares. “I… I don’t think it matters,” he said quickly, his voice cracking. “Mine’s not… it’s not helpful.”


    “Come on,” the janitor said, her tone firm. “We’re all sharing here.”


    He hesitated, his knuckles white against the strap of his watch. “It’s embarrassing.”


    The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. “We’re stuck in a nightmare game, dude. Who cares if it’s embarrassing?”


    The man let out a defeated sigh and held up his watch, his hand trembling slightly. “It’s called Panic Response,” he mumbled. “Apparently, I get a speed boost when I’m… scared.”


    The silence that followed was almost cruel. The pink-haired girl let out a snort, quickly stifled by a glare from the janitor. Vincent, sensing the man’s discomfort, decided not to press further.


    “Well,” Vincent said, breaking the tension, “it’s better to have something than nothing.”


    “Yeah, sure,” the man muttered, looking away.


    All eyes turned to Vincent. He nodded slightly, lifting his watch so they could see the display. The chibi avatar bounced into view, and he gestured toward it. “Mine’s called Sixth Sense. It’s supposed to help me notice when things aren’t right.”


    “Like that door earlier?” the janitor asked, her tone neutral.


    “Exactly,” Vincent confirmed.


    No one commented on the small icon of the three hearts or the talent labeled 1/3rd a Cat. Vincent couldn’t tell if they had noticed it or simply didn’t care, but he didn’t feel the need to bring it up. He wasn’t sure what it meant himself, and explaining it would only raise more questions.


    The group exchanged uneasy glances, the initial round of sharing doing little to ease the underlying tension. If anything, it heightened it. None of them had overlapping talents, which only served to emphasize how different their specialties were, and how little they knew about what lay ahead.


    Vincent ran a hand through his hair, glancing back at the table. “Okay. Now we know what we’re working with. Let’s figure out this test.”


    The pink-haired girl crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. “And if we fail?”


    “Then we’ll deal with that when it happens,” the janitor said sharply. Her gaze locked onto Vincent’s. “You seem to have a knack for spotting things. Any ideas?”


    The pink-haired girl tapped her finger impatiently on the table, her expression a mix of skepticism and frustration. “Hey, Backpack,” she said, jerking her chin toward Vincent. “You’re the one with the mystical danger radar or whatever. Can you, like, use it? See if there’s something off about this?”


    Vincent blinked at her, his grip tightening briefly on the strap of his pack. He hadn’t expected to be singled out so quickly, though he supposed it made sense. He glanced at his watch, the chibi avatar bouncing in its idle animation, as if taunting him with its cheerful detachment from the situation.


    “I’ve already tried,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing’s… jumping out at me.”


    “Convenient,” the suit muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from the janitor.


    “Look,” Vincent said, his voice firm but tired, “this isn’t some magic solution. It’s not telling me what to do or what’s dangerous. It’s just… there. If something feels wrong, I’ll know. That’s it.”


    The pink-haired girl sighed, leaning back against the table. “So basically, we’re still on our own.”


    “Looks like it,” Vincent replied, though his voice lacked any real conviction.


    The group continued to debate the purpose of the objects on the table. The suit speculated that it might be a choice where only one of them could succeed, “like one of those moral dilemma games,” he suggested, earning a chorus of dubious expressions. The hoodie-clad guy, on the other hand, thought the objects might be tools or aids, something to help them later on.


    Vincent listened half-heartedly, his attention drifting toward the doorway. The sterile room felt confining, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh, artificial glow that made his skin crawl. Standing in the center of the room with everyone’s focus turned inward wasn’t helping him think. He needed space.


    “I’ll be back in a second,” he muttered, already moving toward the door.


    The janitor shot him a sharp look. “You sure it’s a good idea to wander off?”


    “I’m not wandering,” he replied, stepping into the hallway. “I just… need to check something.”


    He could feel their eyes on his back as he left, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead following him into the corridor. The hallway felt wider now that he was alone, the rolling beds lining the walls casting faint shadows that shifted uneasily under the flickering lights. He walked slowly, his boots scuffing against the tile floor, his gaze sweeping the length of the corridor.


    His hand drifted to the strap of his pack as he reached the spot where they had first gathered. He paused, glancing back toward the room. From here, he could see the group still huddled around the table, their voices a faint murmur of debate. He let out a breath and turned his attention back to the hallway.


    If his Sixth Sense was going to trigger, it would be here, away from the noise and tension of the group. He let his gaze roam, his eyes lingering on the beds, the walls, the ceiling. The itch began slowly, behind his eyes, a faint pressure that built steadily. It wasn’t painful, but it was distracting, as if his body were trying to tell him something just out of reach.


    The watch didn’t buzz, no alarms or warnings appeared, but the sense of unease was growing. He took a step toward the end of the hall, his breaths shallow, his ears straining for sounds that didn’t belong. The air felt heavier here, almost tangible in its stillness. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the room, then let his eyes sweep back toward the corridor.


    Something was wrong.


    He didn’t know what it was, there was no shadow lurking at the edge of his vision, no ominous noise echoing through the space, but the feeling was undeniable. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to rejoin the others where the light was brighter, the voices louder. But his curiosity held him in place.


    His eyes darted between the rolling beds, each one neatly positioned against the wall, their sheets pristine and undisturbed. For a moment, he thought he saw movement, a faint flicker of something just beyond his peripheral vision. He spun toward it, his heart pounding, but the hallway remained empty.


    The itch behind his eyes faded slowly, the sense of wrongness receding but not disappearing entirely. He tightened his grip on the crowbar strapped to his pack, his fingers brushing against the cool metal as he took a cautious step back toward the room. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the group again, not when the air felt so charged.


    As he stepped back into the doorway, the janitor glanced up from the table. “Find anything?”


    Vincent hesitated, his gaze drifting between the group and the hallway. “Not sure,” he said finally. “But something’s… off.”


    The hoodie-clad guy gave him a skeptical look. “What kind of ‘off’ are we talking about? Creepy shadow? Weird smell? Ghostly whispers?”


    “None of that,” Vincent replied, his voice steady despite the lingering unease. “It’s hard to explain. Just… keep your eyes open.”


    The pink-haired girl snorted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Oh, good. Vague warnings. Super helpful.”


    Vincent ignored her, stepping back into the room fully and leaning against the wall. His eyes flicked toward the objects on the table, then back toward the hallway. The unease hadn’t left him, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Whatever choice they were supposed to make, he had a feeling it would be the first of many.