The tension in the room was suffocating. It wasn’t just the sterile smell of bleach or the faint chemical tang clinging to the air, it was the weight of unspoken accusations. The five of them had gathered like strangers on opposite sides of a battlefield, each calculating the odds of survival while keeping one hand on their weapons, figurative or otherwise. No one trusted anyone, and the mistrust clung to the air like smoke.
Vincent leaned against the wall near the door, his arms crossed and his hand resting on the strap of his backpack. His eyes flicked to the others, lingering just long enough to gauge their expressions before returning to the floor. He wasn’t about to get involved. Not with these people. Not when the odds were stacked against all of them surviving the night.
The child, a boy, Vincent guessed, though the oversized hoodie swallowed him enough to keep his features obscured, stood a little apart, his small hands fidgeting with the frayed hem of his sleeve. He didn’t look at anyone, his wary eyes fixed on the tiles at his feet. Vincent didn’t miss the way the others glanced at the boy, suspicion flickering across their faces. It wasn’t overt, just lingering stares, the tightening of a jaw here, the narrowing of eyes there. It was enough to set Vincent’s teeth on edge. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of those looks.
The janitor, a wiry man with rough hands and a perpetually sour expression, broke the silence first. “Alright,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “We’ve been standing around long enough. We need to figure out what we’re doing.”
His gaze flicked to the counter in the center of the room. The three objects, mundane on the surface, were arranged with unsettling precision. A scalpel, its blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. A small vial filled with clear liquid, its label blank and unassuming. And a single key, tarnished and ancient, the kind that wouldn’t look out of place in a ghost story.
Vincent’s eyes lingered on the objects for a moment before darting to the corners of the room. He wasn’t about to get caught up in their debate. If this really was some kind of horror game, standing in a circle debating the mechanics was a surefire way to get blindsided. Monsters didn’t wait for you to finish your thought process. They didn’t respect the concept of timeouts.
“Got something to say, Backpack?” The pink-haired girl’s voice cut through the silence like a knife. She stood closest to the counter, her arms crossed and her expression sharp. She looked ready to pounce on anything Vincent said, ready to twist it into something she could use against him.
Vincent shook his head. “Just keeping an eye on the room,” he said, his tone neutral. “In case something decides to crash the party while we’re all staring at the table.”
The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Right. Because paranoia is super helpful right now.”
“Actually, it is,” Vincent shot back, though his tone remained even. He wasn’t interested in a fight. Not with her. Not with anyone. He just wanted to survive long enough to figure out what this place was, and how to get out.
The janitor nodded, giving Vincent a grudging look of approval. “He’s not wrong. These things are never as straightforward as they look.”
The suit, a tall, angular man with slicked-back hair and an air of smug detachment, cleared his throat. “If we’re going to solve this, we need to work together. The objects, there’s got to be a reason there are three. Maybe it’s about division. Three choices, three outcomes.”
“Or three deaths,” muttered the hoodie-clad guy near the back, his tone laced with dark humor. The suit shot him a glare.
The child spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not about who takes what? What if it’s about the choice itself? Like… a test to see what we value.”
The pink-haired girl snorted. “That’s a lot of guessing,” she snapped. “How do we know this isn’t some kind of trap? Pick the wrong thing, and boom, we’re dead.”
Vincent watched the exchange from his corner, his arms tightening across his chest. He didn’t like how they were talking. They were too quick to assign blame, too eager to argue over theories with no basis in fact. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
“Maybe we’re overthinking this,” the janitor grumbled, his tone sour. “Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe we just pick one and move on.”
“And if we’re wrong?” the suit asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. “What happens then?”
Vincent’s gaze shifted to the child. The boy seemed too calm, too composed, for someone in a situation like this. But then, what did Vincent know? He wasn’t a therapist. He wasn’t anything, really, just a guy with a backpack and three lives to burn. Three lives that weren’t infinite. Three lives that wouldn’t save everyone.
Vincent sighed softly, his fingers brushing the strap of his backpack. He wasn’t planning to stick around long enough to see these people unravel completely. They were already halfway there. The pink-haired girl’s snark, the suit’s superiority complex, the janitor’s gruffness, the hoodie guy’s grim humor, it was all a recipe for disaster. They didn’t trust each other. They didn’t trust him. And why should they?
He wasn’t planning to trust them, either.
They each hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on them. Vincent watched their faces, noting the flickers of doubt, fear, and resolve. The child lingered near the counter, her hand twitching as though she wanted to reach out but didn’t dare.
The air felt heavier as they each weighed their options. Vincent stayed near the door, his eyes darting between the group and the room beyond. Whatever they chose, he had a sinking feeling that this was just the beginning.
Vincent leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he studied the group, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. The others acted as though this were some elaborate team-building exercise, their casual debate over life-or-death decisions grating on his nerves. They didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of their situation. Or, perhaps worse, they didn’t care.
He glanced at his watch, the small chibi version of himself idly shifting between its animated idle poses. The carefree demeanor of the digital figure was a stark contrast to the tension he felt. His eyes lingered on the icon displaying the three hearts - ??????- a visual reminder of his fragile existence. If the watch was to be believed, he had three chances. Three lives. And he wasn’t eager to test what losing one would entail.
His fingers brushed over the watch, a habit he’d already picked up. The Sixth Sense talent he’d chosen wasn’t some omniscient power, it was subtle, nudging him toward unease in ways that were easy to miss if he didn’t pay attention. It wasn’t doing much for him now, though. Either there was no imminent danger, or the situation was so layered in uncertainty that the talent couldn’t lock onto a specific threat. The itch he’d felt earlier was gone, leaving behind only an unsettling ambiguity.
Vincent let out a quiet sigh, his gaze flicking back to the others. They were treating this like a game, and maybe that was their way of coping. Boredom, complacency, whatever had drawn them to this place had dulled their sense of danger. But Vincent knew better. Games had stakes, and here, the stakes were likely fatal.
He clenched his jaw, frustrated. He’d played enough survival horror games to know that being alone was a death sentence. Sure, the protagonists in those stories often ended up isolated, but it wasn’t because they wanted to be, it was because the circumstances forced them into it. Strength in numbers wasn’t just a cliché; it was a survival tactic.
Still, he couldn’t shake the unease curling in his gut. Trusting others in a situation like this was risky. But going it alone? That was suicide. He’d read enough stories, watched enough movies, to know how this could go. When you were alone, the world seemed to conspire against you. Doors locked just before you could reach them. Footsteps sounded in the dark, but no one was there. Shadows moved in ways they shouldn’t. Alone, you were vulnerable. With others, at least the odds were better, even if the danger came from within the group itself.
He rubbed a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus. This isn’t a game. This is real. The watch wasn’t some gimmick, and those three hearts weren’t a playful nod to retro gaming mechanics. They were a countdown, a warning. Every decision mattered.
Vincent’s eyes drifted back to the counter where the others stood, their voices blending into a low hum of speculation and debate. None of them seemed to share his sense of urgency. They weren’t asking the right questions. They were too busy trying to solve the “puzzle” to consider what might happen once they did.
The pink-haired girl leaned forward, tapping the scalpel with a manicured finger. “I still think it’s a weapon,” she said. “If we’re going to face anything dangerous, it makes sense to have something sharp.”
“Or it could be bait,” the janitor countered, his arms crossed. “Think about it. They want us to pick the obvious choice and then punish us for it.”
“What about the key?” the suit asked, his voice measured but strained. “If this is an escape scenario, a key might be what we need to move forward.”
“And the vial?” the child chimed in. “It could be medicine. If someone gets hurt...”
Her voice trailed off as the others turned to look at her. Suspicion flickered in their eyes, and Vincent felt the shift in the air. They’re starting to fracture.
Good, he thought. Suspicion kept you alive. But too much of it? That tore groups apart.
“You’ve been quiet,” the janitor said, turning his sharp gaze toward Vincent. “What’s your take, Backpack?”
Vincent bristled at the nickname but didn’t rise to the bait. “I think we’re overcomplicating this,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “It doesn’t matter what we pick if we’re not ready for what happens after.”
The pink-haired girl scoffed. “That’s vague as hell. Care to elaborate?”
Vincent shrugged, feigning indifference. “In games like this, the choice itself isn’t the real challenge. It’s what comes next. The objects could be tools, traps, or distractions. The only thing we know for sure is that we’re being tested.”
The janitor nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve got a point. The question is, are we being tested as individuals or as a group?”
“Does it matter?” the suit asked, his voice tight. “Either way, we’re being manipulated.”
“Exactly,” Vincent said. “And the sooner we stop playing into it, the better.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Vincent’s gaze shifted to the hallway beyond the door. It stretched into shadowy uncertainty, a reminder that this sterile room was only a small piece of a larger, more dangerous puzzle.
He stepped closer to the doorway, leaning slightly to peer down the corridor. His Sixth Sense didn’t flare, but that only meant there was no immediate danger. It didn’t mean the area was safe. He could feel the others watching him, their suspicion palpable. Let them watch. Let them wonder. The less they trusted him, the less likely they’d rely on him, and the safer he’d be when things inevitably went south.
The janitor broke the silence first. "We’re getting nowhere just talking in circles." He folded his arms across his chest, his fingers tapping impatiently against his bicep. “Let’s just vote. Majority rules.”
"Great idea," the pink-haired girl snapped. "That way, when this inevitably goes sideways, we can all just blame each other instead of figuring out what the hell we’re supposed to do."
"Isn’t that what you’re doing already?" Vincent muttered, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. He didn’t miss the glare she shot him.
“Alright,” the suit interjected, raising his hands as if to restore order. “Let’s keep this civil. We need to make a decision. The longer we stand here bickering, the more likely we’re going to run into something worse.”
The pink-haired girl scoffed but didn’t argue. Vincent could feel the group fracturing further, each of them retreating into their own defensive postures. Their faces were masks of irritation, fear, and thinly veiled contempt, each one trying to appear in control but failing miserably.
The hoodie guy leaned back against the counter, his arms draped loosely at his sides. “Fine. Let’s vote. But don’t come crying to me when this turns out to be a trap.”
Vincent uncrossed his arms and stepped forward slightly, drawing their attention. “I’m not voting.”
The declaration hung in the air, a flat refusal that carried a weight he hadn’t expected. The group stared at him, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright annoyance.
“Excuse me?” the pink-haired girl said, her tone sharp enough to cut.
“I’m out,” Vincent said firmly, gesturing toward the counter. “You want to pick something? Go for it. But I’m not getting blamed when it all goes wrong.”
The janitor let out a derisive snort. “Real helpful, Backpack. Thanks for nothing.”
“Better than pretending to know what I’m doing,” Vincent shot back, his voice calm but edged with steel. “You all seem eager to gamble. I’m not.”
The child, who had been silent for most of the discussion, looked at Vincent with wide, questioning eyes. The boy didn’t say anything, but the way he clutched the hem of his hoodie tighter made Vincent’s stomach twist. He ignored it. He couldn’t afford to feel guilty about this. Not when the stakes were so high.
“Coward,” the pink-haired girl muttered under her breath, but Vincent let it slide. He didn’t need to justify himself to her. They were all strangers here, thrown into a nightmare with no map and no guide. If they thought this would end with everyone holding hands and skipping out together, they were delusional.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
The suit cleared his throat again, clearly trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Alright, let’s just… focus. Everyone gets a say. Let’s hear it.”
The votes came quickly after that, though the tension in the room didn’t ease. The pink-haired girl voted for the vial almost immediately, her reasoning curt and dismissive. “We’re here for medication, right? Seems obvious.”
The hoodie guy shrugged and pointed to the vial as well. “Yeah, sure. Let’s pick the thing that might save our asses later. Not that it matters.”
The janitor hesitated, his gaze flicking between the objects before landing on the key. “We don’t even know if the vial does anything. The key might get us out of here. That’s what we really need.”
The suit nodded toward the vial. “I’m with her,” he said, gesturing to the pink-haired girl. “If we’re here for medicine, that’s our best bet.”
All eyes turned to the child. The boy looked nervous, his gaze darting between the faces staring at him. His fingers twisted the hem of his hoodie as he mumbled, “The vial, I guess…”
It was done. The majority had spoken, and the vial was the clear winner. Vincent didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, as the group turned back to the counter.
“Well,” the janitor said with a bitter laugh, “looks like I’m outvoted.”
“Democracy in action,” the hoodie guy muttered sarcastically.
The pink-haired girl reached for the vial, her hand hovering just above it. “Here goes nothing.”
Vincent froze, his body tensing as the shift in the air turned the atmosphere heavy and oppressive. The faint hum he hadn’t noticed before seemed to deepen, resonating in his chest like the vibration of a plucked string. His eyes flicked back to the group, who were crowded around the counter, the chosen object clutched in the suit’s hand, a small vial of amber liquid.
“What the hell was that?” the janitor muttered, his voice a little too loud in the newly charged air.
“Nothing good,” Vincent said under his breath, his gaze already snapping back to the hallway. He hadn’t voted, hadn’t even bothered to weigh in on their choice. And now he was glad. It meant he could stay detached, uninvolved with whatever consequences were about to unfold.
Down the shadowy corridor, a figure emerged, her body jerking into view with the unsettling precision of a marionette pulled by invisible strings. Her steps were too deliberate, too controlled, as though each movement were dictated by some unseen force. The pale green of her nurse’s uniform was smeared with grime and dark, crusted stains that flaked off with her motions, and the sharp tang of rust and decay seemed to follow her like a shadow. Her head tilted unnaturally to one side, the dirty strands of her hair veiling her face, swaying slightly with each stuttering step.
Something about her movement made Vincent’s stomach churn. She wasn’t shuffling like a zombie or staggering like someone injured. She reminded him of stop motion movies that were on the forum that he looked over from time to time. Her feet moved, yes, but her steps seemed to blur together, as though the act of walking was more an afterthought than a necessity.
The air seemed to thicken with her presence, the sterile smell of the hallway giving way to a sickly-sweet stench that clung to the back of Vincent’s throat. The temperature dropped, the coolness biting at his skin, and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights grew louder, more insistent, as though the room itself were trembling in anticipation. Shadows bled from the corners, pooling unnaturally around her feet, and with every step she took, the hallway seemed to stretch, the walls bending slightly inward as if recoiling from her.
The group huddled near the counter, still caught in their debate over the vial. Their voices were little more than static in Vincent’s ears as he stared down the hallway. The nurse had emerged fully now, her figure a grotesque silhouette against the dim glow of the overhead lights.
Her scalpel dragged against the wall with a faint, grating sound, the blade catching faint glints of light with each stuttered step. She moved like an unbalanced pendulum, her limbs jerking forward with unnerving precision. The way her body twitched and jittered made Vincent’s skin crawl, as though the laws of motion themselves had been corrupted.
When her head snapped sideways, her hair shifted just enough to reveal her face. Vincent’s stomach clenched. Her eyes, no, her sockets, were sealed shut with thick black thread, the skin around them raw and puckered. She shouldn’t have been able to see him. But the way she moved, the intent behind each motion, told him she didn’t need sight.
Vincent instinctively began to retreat, his footsteps measured and silent. Blind. Okay, she’s blind. His thoughts raced as his pulse thundered in his ears. But the scalpel in her hand told him she didn’t need to see to kill.
But that meant she relied on something else. Sound. Smell. Maybe even both. Vincent pressed his lips together, forcing his breathing to slow. Panic would only make him louder, more noticeable. He had to stay calm.
The group behind him was still oblivious. He wanted to yell at them, to tell them to shut up, but that would draw her attention. Instead, he edged further down the hallway, his back brushing against the wall. Every step was painstakingly slow, his weight carefully distributed to keep his shoes from squeaking against the tile floor.
As he moved, he kept his eyes locked on the nurse. He couldn’t look away, not for a second. In games, it was always the moment you blinked, the moment you turned your back, that the monster moved faster than it should.
The woman came to a stop in the middle of the hallway, her head tilting sharply to one side as if listening. Vincent froze mid-step, his muscles screaming in protest as he held perfectly still. The faint rustling sound of her breath reached his ears, a rasping, uneven noise that sent shivers crawling up his spine.
She raised her head slightly, her sewn-shut eyes turned toward the ceiling, and sniffed the air. The sound was wet, almost animalistic, and it made Vincent’s stomach twist. She tilted her head the other way, then took a single step forward.
He cursed silently, his mind racing. Move quietly. Stay out of her path. Don’t draw attention.
The scalpel in her hand dragged lightly against the wall, carving shallow scratches into the paint with a sound that grated against the ears, a metallic whine that seemed to vibrate in Vincent’s teeth. The sound wasn’t constant, it stopped and started in fits and bursts, making it impossible to predict her rhythm.
A loud clink behind him shattered the silence, and his blood ran cold.
“Shit!” one of the group whispered harshly, probably the pink-haired girl, based on the tone. Someone had bumped into the counter, knocking something over.
The nurse’s head snapped toward the noise, her body stiffening. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, a noise that made Vincent’s skin crawl. She turned sharply and began gliding toward the room where the group was gathered, her scalpel clutched tighter now, her movements faster, more purposeful.
Vincent’s heart pounded as he made a snap decision. Staying in the hallway was no longer an option, it was too exposed. The group was the nurse’s target now, and their noise was a perfect distraction.
Carefully, he sidestepped into the shadowed alcove of a doorway further down the hall, pressing himself against the cool wall. From his new vantage point, he could see the nurse clearly as she approached the room. Her head swiveled slightly as she moved, as if scanning for more sounds.
The group was finally noticing her now. The janitor cursed under his breath. The child whimpered.
Stay quiet, Vincent thought furiously, willing them to understand the danger they were in.
But the suit, in a panicked voice, asked, “What is that thing?”
The nurse stopped mid-step, her body twisting unnaturally toward the sound. The rasping breath grew louder as she took a jerky step forward, then another, closing the distance.
Vincent clenched his teeth, his mind racing. Don’t run. Running only makes noise. Let her pass. Let her focus on them.
He tightened his grip on the crowbar, though he wasn’t sure what he’d even do with it. The thought of using it on her, of risking the noise and attention it would bring, was almost more terrifying than the nurse herself.
She entered the room, the group retreating further inside. Vincent couldn’t see what was happening now, but the sounds painted a vivid picture, whispers of panic, the scraping of feet against the floor, and the steady drag of the scalpel as it scratched against tile.
His Sixth Sense didn’t activate, and he realized with chilling clarity that this wasn’t a moment of imminent death, it was a test. One meant to see how they’d react under pressure.
Vincent’s stomach churned. He didn’t have time to play games with whoever had designed this twisted scenario, but he also didn’t have a choice.
Survive first, understand later.
Vincent’s world slowed to a crawl, every second stretching out into an eternity as adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of it drowning out the whispers of panic and the distant hum of his own Sixth Sense. Time had become syrupy, thick and cloying, each heartbeat a heavy thud reverberating in his ears.
The child stepped out of the room, his small figure backlit by the faint glow of the overhead lights. For a moment, he just stood there, clutching the stuffed animal to his chest. His wide, uncomprehending eyes darted between the group and the nurse, as if his brain couldn’t fully process what was happening.
Then the scream came.
The scream stretched out, reverberating through Vincent’s chest in slow motion. Every second felt impossibly long, each heartbeat a thunderclap in his ears. He could see it all, too clearly, the nurse’s jerky, mechanical movements; the scalpel’s glint as it rose with inhuman precision. The boy stumbled back a half step, his face twisted in terror, but he didn’t run. He didn’t even move.
Around them, the others shrank against the walls, their faces masks of fear and indecision. The janitor’s eyes darted to the doorway like he was calculating the odds of escape. Pink Hair pressed her back into the counter, her hands clutching the edge as though it might pull her away from this nightmare. None of them stepped forward. None of them even breathed.
Vincent clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. The sharp pressure radiated through his jaw, a searing counterpoint to the icy numbness spreading through the rest of his body. His legs felt like they were encased in concrete, every muscle locked in a battle between instinct and intention. Don’t move. Stay still. Let it happen. It’s not your problem.
But his chest burned. A hollow, gnawing ache spread from the center of his ribs, deeper than any fear he’d ever felt. It wasn’t the thrum of adrenaline or the chill of terror coursing through his veins, it was something worse. It was guilt.
His heart slammed against his ribcage, each beat so loud it felt like it might shatter him from the inside. The world around him seemed to slow, the edges of his vision dimming as if time itself were thickening, dragging everything into an unbearable stillness. The nurse’s movements became jerky, disjointed, like a grotesque puppet pulled by unseen strings. Her scalpel glinted faintly in the sterile light, catching the reflection of the boy’s stuffed animal as it dangled from his small, white-knuckled fist.
Do nothing, Vincent’s mind screamed. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Let someone else handle it.
But no one else was moving.
Vincent’s breath hitched. His lungs felt too tight, his throat dry and raw as though he’d been screaming himself. Time dragged even slower, each second an eternity as his thoughts spiraled, faster and louder, like a storm raging in his head. He imagined the nurse’s scalpel descending, slicing through the boy’s fragile skin, his small body crumpling to the floor like a discarded rag doll. He imagined the others watching in stunned silence, their horror turning into relief that it wasn’t them, that they were safe for one more moment.
And he imagined the boy’s eyes, wide and pleading, staring up at him with a question that burned hotter than any flame: Why didn’t you help me?
Vincent’s pulse roared in his ears. His hand tightened on the crowbar, the metal slick with sweat. He felt the weight of the backpack pulling on his shoulders, the watch on his wrist digging into his skin. The chibi version of himself stared back at him, frozen in its idle pose, the three tiny hearts taunting him.
Three lives. You have three lives. He has one.
The nurse’s head snapped to the side, the motion so sharp and sudden it made Vincent flinch. For a moment, she froze, her sewn-shut eyes straining against the black threads as though they might tear open. Then she sniffed, the wet, guttural sound cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. Her chest rose and fell in short, erratic bursts, and the scalpel in her hand twitched with each sharp exhale, as if responding to her growing agitation.
Then, like a spring uncoiling, she moved. Her body jerked forward in a series of inhumanly fast, jittery motions, each step a blur of stop-motion horror. The scalpel glinted in her hand, catching the pale fluorescent light as she closed the distance with terrifying precision.
The others had already pressed themselves against the walls, their fear palpable, their silence deafening. Vincent’s mind raced, his thoughts an incoherent tangle of instincts and memories. He wasn’t even aware of making the decision, it was as if his body moved before his brain caught up.
The boy was going to die.
His legs refused to move, anchored by a deep, primal fear. He knew the rules, never play the hero. He repeated the mantra in his head, a futile attempt to quiet the gnawing guilt rising in his chest. But the boy’s scream pierced through everything, drowning out reason. The sound was raw, helpless, and it clawed at something deep within him that refused to let him stay still.
The world seemed to grind to a halt. Each second dragged out, impossibly long, as Vincent’s mind raced. The nurse took another jerky step forward, the scalpel rising in her hand, and time seemed to splinter into fragments. His gaze flicked to the boy, to the wide, pleading eyes that looked for someone, anyone to help. Don’t move. Stay still, his instincts screamed. But his chest burned with an ache so fierce it felt like it would tear him apart. Move. His legs twitched. Don’t. The scalpel gleamed. Move. And then, before he could think better of it, he did.
Get him out of the way. Rule one of horror: Don’t be the hero. Don’t be…
Vincent didn’t stop to explain. He didn’t stop to think. He reached the boy in a single, desperate motion, his hands gripping the child’s shoulders and shoving him back with all the force he could muster. The boy stumbled, falling to the floor with a small cry as his stuffed animal rolled away.
The nurse’s scalpel flashed.
Vincent didn’t feel the pain at first. There was only a sharp, jarring pressure as the blade drove through his palm, slicing through muscle and bone with sickening ease. His breath hitched, his body freezing as his mind tried to catch up with the reality of what had just happened.
And then the pain hit.
Vincent’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as pain exploded in his palm. The blade slid effortlessly through flesh and bone, the nurse’s hand steady despite her jittery movements. Blood welled up, warm and slick, coating his skin in a rush of crimson.
He barely had time to process the injury before the scalpel continued its path, driving into his chest. The sensation was surreal, almost detached at first, a sharp pressure that quickly gave way to searing, white-hot pain. Vincent staggered, his knees buckling as he gasped for air.
The nurse didn’t stop. Her movements were precise, methodical, as though she were performing a macabre surgical procedure. The blade twisted slightly, and Vincent felt it puncture deeper, sliding between his ribs and into his lung. The wet, sucking sound it made was almost drowned out by his own ragged breaths.
His vision blurred, dark spots creeping in at the edges as the air around him seemed to thicken. He could hear the others shouting now, their voices distant and distorted, as if they were underwater. Someone called his name, but it barely registered. The only thing that mattered was the boy, safe now, pushed further down the hallway and out of the nurse’s immediate reach.
Vincent’s legs gave out, and he crumpled to the floor, his back hitting the cold tile with a dull thud. The scalpel remained embedded in his chest, its hilt jutting out obscenely, a grotesque marker of his failure. He tried to breathe, but each inhale came wet and gurgling, blood flooding his lung and choking him from the inside.
His mind scrambled for clarity, for some semblance of control. This couldn’t be how it ended. Not like this. His hand twitched toward the watch on his wrist, the display dim and unresponsive. The chibi version of himself, once so lively, was now eerily still, its pixelated expression blank.
His body felt heavy, his limbs leaden and unresponsive. The pain was fading now, replaced by a numbness that spread outward from his chest. He tried to move, to sit up, but his muscles refused to obey. His vision darkened further, the edges of the world collapsing in on him like a closing curtain.
As his consciousness ebbed, a bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat, escaping as little more than a choked gasp. Rule one of horror, Vincent. Don’t be a damn hero.
Vincent’s lips twitched into a bitter, bloodied smile.
As the world darkened around him, Vincent’s gaze fell to the watch on his wrist. The chibi version of himself flickered, its wide-eyed expression distorting for a split second before the animation froze entirely, two X’s replacing its eyes. The three hearts on the display dimmed, one of them fading to black with an audible chime. A cold dread gripped him, heavier than the scalpel still buried in his chest.
And then, there was nothing.