Vincent was cold, so cold that the sensation of his own body faded into an aching absence. It wasn’t the numbing chill of winter or the creeping freeze of ice, but a deep, primal cold that seemed to hollow him out from the inside. He existed somewhere, or maybe nowhere, adrift in a darkness so vast and consuming it could barely be called a space at all. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or closed. He wasn’t sure he even had eyes anymore.


    The absence stretched around him endlessly, a void without direction or depth, without boundaries or meaning. He tried to breathe, but there was no air. He should have panicked, his chest seizing for oxygen, his body thrashing instinctively for survival. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The absence denied him even that much of himself.


    Somewhere ahead, or was it behind?, a faint glimmer pulsed. It wasn’t light in the way he understood light. It didn’t illuminate the darkness; it simply was, its presence asserting itself against the void. At first, it felt far away, insignificant against the vast nothingness. But with each pulse, the glimmer grew sharper, closer, as though the darkness itself bent to accommodate its approach.


    The weight came next.


    It wasn’t a physical weight but a pressure, immense and suffocating, pressing against the edges of what Vincent still recognized as himself. It didn’t settle over him gradually; it descended all at once, crushing and relentless, like the vast shadow of a mountain shifting to blot out the sky. Whatever was approaching wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t a creature. It was something far greater, something unbound by form or logic.


    Vincent couldn’t see it. He couldn’t hear it. But he knew it was there, vast and overwhelming. It didn’t belong to the darkness, it was the darkness, coiling and twisting in ways his mind refused to comprehend. And it was aware of him.


    The realization struck with the force of a collapsing star. It knew him. Not just his presence, but him, the shape and thread of his existence. It was dissecting him, unraveling him, peeling away the boundaries that defined his thoughts and memories like a hunter stripping the skin from its prey. It wasn’t cruel, it was curious. And it was delighted.


    Something primal flared within Vincent, a small, flickering ember of resistance. He tried to think, to focus, to push back against the tide of unmaking. Who are you? he thought, or maybe pleaded. His thoughts trembled under the enormity of the thing. What is this? Where am I?


    The glimmer pulsed again, and the void rippled around him. Not sound, not sight, but something that burned against the edges of understanding brushed over him. It was laughter. Alien and terrible, not an expression of joy but a vibration of pure elation, raw and stripped of anything human. It revelled in him, savoring every fragment of confusion, every flicker of fear.


    Vincent’s thoughts fractured. He tried to look away, to pull back from the oppressive presence, but there was nowhere to go. No walls, no ground, no self to retreat into. He existed only because it allowed him to.


    A message came, not words, but something imposed into his being, an impression so vast it felt like the collapse of a universe.


    You play my game.


    The entity pressed closer, and Vincent’s sense of self buckled. It wasn’t a face he saw, there were no eyes, no mouth, no form. But the glimmer flared with a terrible intensity, a shifting mass of contradictions and impossibilities that wasn’t meant to be perceived. Every piece of it screamed at him to look away, but there was nowhere to direct his gaze.


    And already you fall.


    The pressure grew unbearable, grinding against the fragile ember of his awareness. Vincent wanted to scream, but he had no mouth. He wanted to run, but he had no legs. All he could do was endure as the void bent further, the entity twisting the nothingness into something unknowable, unfathomable.


    And then, just as he was sure it would devour him completely, something shifted.


    The glimmer paused. The weight of its elation, its suffocating hunger, lightened just enough for Vincent to feel the absence of pain. The void stilled, and for one terrible moment, all of existence seemed to hold its breath.


    The glimmer’s joy turned cold. Alien anger seeped into the void, slow and corrosive, like acid eating away at stone. It wasn’t anger at him. No, the entity’s attention was elsewhere now, its focus bending outward toward something that Vincent couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, but could sense. The entity’s rage was vast and infinite, but it was restrained, cold and calculating rather than explosive.


    Something had interrupted it.


    Vincent felt the tension between the entity and whatever had intruded, a clash of forces so immense it made his thoughts tremble like a brittle thread. Then, as if reality itself had shattered, he was yanked backward.


    It wasn’t a physical pull. It wasn’t something he could fight or resist. It was like the concept of himself, his very being, was caught and ripped away from the void. The pressure from the glimmer surged as the entity strained to hold him, but the force pulling him was stronger. It was inexorable, uncaring, and utterly neutral.


    The void unraveled. Time twisted backward, not in moments but in shattered glimpses. The nothingness folded inward, collapsing into itself as though retreating from the unseen force. The glimmer dimmed, fading into the background of existence, its anger like a fading echo.


    And then Vincent was thrust forward, thrust back, his lungs heaving as cold, sterile air filled them.


    Vincent gasped as his lungs filled with cold, sterile air, his body jolting upright as though pulled by an unseen force. The sensation of life flooding back into him was jarring, like being thrown into icy water without warning. Every nerve screamed as he came back to himself, the phantom echo of the scalpel’s bite still sharp and vivid in his mind.


    The sterile fluorescent lights above seared his retinas as he blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself. His chest ached as though it had been hollowed out, and his palm throbbed with the phantom memory of a wound that wasn’t there anymore. He stared down at his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally. No blood, no torn flesh, just pale, unbroken skin.


    For a moment, Vincent was paralyzed by the impossibility of it. He had died. He knew he had died. The memory of the nurse’s scalpel twisting between his ribs was too real to dismiss, too visceral to be a nightmare. And yet, here he was, sitting upright, whole, and very much alive.


    His gaze snapped to the watch on his wrist. The chibi version of himself stood frozen, its once-cheerful animation static and lifeless. Vincent’s stomach churned as he saw the hearts displayed on the screen: ?????.


    Two hearts left.


    The sound of voices brought him back to the present, their sharp tones cutting through the fog in his head. He turned toward the noise, his breath catching as he recognized the scene playing out before him. The others were huddled around the counter, their faces tense with frustration and unease. The three objects, the scalpel, the vial, and the key, sat in the center, untouched, their gleaming surfaces almost mocking.


    He had seen this before. Lived this before.


    “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, his small voice barely cutting through the tension. “It could be medicine. If someone gets hurt…”


    The boy’s words faltered as the others turned to glance at him, suspicion flickering in their eyes. Vincent felt the familiar shift in the air as he watched from the edge of the room. The group was beginning to fracture, their unspoken distrust deepening with every passing second.


    He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath his fingertips. This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination. Somehow, he had been pulled back, to this moment, this choice. But why? What had he done wrong? What was he supposed to change?


    The janitor’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “You’ve been quiet,” he said, turning his sharp gaze toward Vincent. “What’s your take, Backpack?”


    Vincent’s teeth clenched at the nickname, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He knew how this conversation played out, how they bickered, voted, and ultimately chose the vial. He could already feel the weight of their scrutiny, their suspicion. If he wasn’t careful, they would paint him as the enemy.


    “I think we’re overcomplicating this,” he said evenly, keeping his tone measured. “It doesn’t matter what we pick if we’re not ready for what happens after.”


    The pink-haired girl scoffed, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “That’s vague as hell. Care to elaborate?”


    Vincent shrugged, forcing his expression into something neutral. “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 frowned, 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 interjected, his voice tight with irritation. “Either way, we’re being manipulated.”


    “Exactly,” Vincent said, his eyes flicking to the hallway beyond the door. The shadows there seemed darker now, more oppressive, as if they were waiting for something. “And the sooner we stop playing into it, the better.”


    The room fell silent, tension thickening like a physical weight pressing down on them. Vincent studied the others, noting the subtle changes in their body language. The pink-haired girl’s defiance was sharper, her eyes darting to the counter as if willing the objects to give her answers. The janitor’s impatience was growing, his fingers drumming against his arm. The suit maintained his air of control, but the strain in his jaw betrayed his growing unease.


    And the child…


    The boy stood apart from the group, his small figure dwarfed by the oversized hoodie he clutched around himself. His wide eyes darted between the adults, his face a mix of fear and uncertainty. Vincent felt a pang of guilt as he watched the boy shrink further into himself, the weight of the group’s tension pressing down on him.


    But there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite place. The boy’s presence felt… muted, almost like an afterthought. The others didn’t address him directly, their attention sliding past him as though he didn’t fully exist in their reality. Vincent’s stomach twisted as unease crept up his spine.


    “Alright,” the janitor said, breaking the silence with a sharp clap of his hands. “Let’s 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, earning himself another glare.


    The suit raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s keep this civil. The longer we stand here arguing, the more likely we’re going to run into something worse.”


    Vincent’s chest tightened as he listened to their bickering. He had been here before. He had watched them fracture and falter, and it had cost them all dearly. This time, he wouldn’t stand by and let history repeat itself.


    He glanced at the child again, his heart pounding as doubt crept into his mind. The boy didn’t belong here. He was too small, too vulnerable. If this was some kind of twisted trial, then why was a child part of it? None of it made sense.


    And yet, Vincent couldn’t shake the memory of the nurse’s scalpel flashing in the dim light, couldn’t forget the boy’s terrified scream as he stood frozen in the face of death. Whether the child belonged or not didn’t matter, not yet. What mattered was making sure he didn’t die again.


    Vincent’s hand brushed against the crowbar at his side as he forced himself to focus. This time would be different. He would make sure of it.


    Vincent stood at the edge of the room, letting the tension swirl around him like a storm as the others’ voices rose and fell, sharp and brittle. He didn’t need to contribute; he’d already played this scene before. The arguments, the votes, the way the decision tore at the group, it all felt like a grotesque play, the actors unwittingly repeating their lines.


    The pink-haired girl jabbed her finger at the counter, her frustration palpable. “It’s obvious. We’re here looking for medication. The vial is the only thing that makes sense.”


    The hoodie guy leaned back lazily against the wall, his arms crossed. “Yeah, and what happens when it’s poison or something? You ever think about that?”


    “Oh, because the scalpel or the creepy old key are so much better options,” she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm.


    The suit stepped in, his tone measured but tight. “Let’s focus. We don’t have all night, and the longer we sit here debating, the worse this is going to get. The vial makes the most logical sense.”


    Vincent watched as the group’s fragile unity frayed further with every passing moment. Their fear was palpable, bleeding into the air like a toxin, clouding their judgment. His gaze drifted to the janitor, who stood slightly apart from the others, his sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity.


    “I’m telling you, the key’s the way out,” the janitor said, his voice steady but firm. “We don’t need to overthink this. We grab the key and move. It’s the only thing that doesn’t scream trap.”


    The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Right, because the creepy antique key definitely doesn’t scream trap. Get real.”


    The child’s small voice broke through the argument, hesitant but clear. “The vial… it might help if someone gets hurt…”


    The others turned to glance at him, their gazes sliding over him with a strange sort of detachment. Vincent’s stomach twisted as he observed the dynamic. They weren’t ignoring the boy entirely, but their acknowledgment of him felt superficial, almost perfunctory, like he was an afterthought in their collective anxiety.


    This time, Vincent stayed silent, his jaw tight as he watched the scene unfold. He didn’t need to say anything. He already knew how this would end. They’d pick the vial, the nurse would appear, and the others would freeze like rabbits in headlights as death came for them.


    The janitor’s gaze shifted to Vincent, narrowing slightly. “What about you, Backpack? Got anything useful to say?”


    Vincent met his eyes, his expression unreadable. “I’m not voting,” he said flatly.


    The pink-haired girl threw up her hands in exasperation. “Of course you’re not. Why am I not surprised?”


    “Because I’m not playing your game,” Vincent replied, his tone calm but laced with steel. He stepped back toward the doorway, his fingers brushing the strap of his backpack. “You want to make a choice? Go ahead. Just don’t blame me when it goes wrong.”


    The janitor snorted. “Coward.”


    “Practical,” Vincent shot back. He let the insult roll off him, his focus already elsewhere. He didn’t care what they thought of him. All that mattered was being ready when the time came.


    The votes came quickly after that. The pink-haired girl was the first to cast hers, her voice sharp and decisive. “Vial. Obviously.”


    The hoodie guy shrugged, his indifference palpable. “Fine, vial. Whatever.”


    The suit nodded, his expression tight. “I agree. The vial makes the most sense.”


    The janitor crossed his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Key.”Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Three to one. The decision was made. Vincent’s chest tightened as he watched the suit reach for the vial, his hand hovering above it for a brief moment before closing around it.


    “Here we go,” the pink-haired girl muttered under her breath.


    The air shifted immediately. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights deepened, resonating in Vincent’s chest like a low, ominous vibration. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, a chill settling over them like an unwelcome shroud. Vincent’s muscles coiled instinctively as he felt the weight of impending doom press down on him.


    “What the hell was that?” the janitor muttered, his eyes darting toward the corridor.


    “Nothing good,” Vincent said under his breath, his gaze fixed on the hallway. He took a slow, deliberate step back, his hand tightening on the crowbar at his side.


    And then she appeared.


    The nurse emerged from the shadows like a grotesque puppet, her jerky, unnatural movements sending a ripple of unease through the group. Her uniform was filthy, stained with grime and dried blood, and her scalpel glinted in the dim light as she dragged it against the wall with a sickening metallic whine.


    The group froze, their eyes widening as they took in the horrific sight. The pink-haired girl let out a strangled gasp, her bravado crumbling in an instant. “What the hell is that?”


    The janitor cursed under his breath, his hands balling into fists. The hoodie guy shrank back against the wall, his earlier nonchalance evaporating. The suit’s carefully composed facade cracked, his eyes darting between the nurse and the others as panic set in.


    And the child…


    The boy stepped forward, his small figure silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent light. He clutched his stuffed animal tightly, his wide eyes fixed on the nurse as though drawn to her by some invisible force. Vincent’s breath hitched as he saw the boy’s lips part, a scream building in his throat.


    Not this time.


    Vincent moved before he could think, his body acting on instinct. He reached the boy in a single, fluid motion, his hand clamping over the child’s mouth to stifle the scream. The boy’s muffled cry vibrated against his palm as Vincent hauled him backward, his movements swift and deliberate.


    The others turned at the sound, their eyes narrowing as they saw Vincent dragging the boy toward the door. “What the hell are you doing?” the pink-haired girl demanded, her voice sharp and accusatory.


    Vincent didn’t answer. He didn’t have time to explain, didn’t have the energy to waste on their misplaced outrage. The nurse’s movements were growing more deliberate, her jerky strides closing the distance with terrifying speed.


    “Stop!” the suit shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “You can’t just, ”


    Then they saw her.


    The nurse stepped fully into the room, her scalpel gleaming as she tilted her head unnaturally to one side. Her sewn-shut eyes strained against the black threads, her movements precise and mechanical as she sniffed the air like a predator catching a scent.


    The group’s protests died in their throats as terror overtook them. They stood rooted to the spot, their earlier anger at Vincent forgotten as they stared at the nurse in horrified silence.


    Vincent didn’t stop. He tightened his grip on the boy, dragging him out of the room and into the corridor. The child struggled against him, his small fists beating weakly against Vincent’s arm, but Vincent held firm.


    “Stay quiet,” he hissed, his voice low and urgent. “Do not scream.”


    The boy whimpered but stopped struggling, his body trembling as Vincent continued to pull him away from the others. The hallway stretched out before them, sterile and cold, the shadows pooling in the corners like silent observers. Vincent’s breath came in short, shallow bursts as he moved further from the room, his ears straining for the sound of the nurse’s scalpel.


    Behind him, the first scream erupted.


    Vincent didn’t turn back. He didn’t need to see what was happening to know. The others had made their choice, and now they were paying the price. They hadn’t moved to protect the boy before. They wouldn’t have moved this time either. They were dead weight. Scum.


    Vincent’s grip on the boy’s arm tightened as he rounded the corner, his pace quickening. The screams behind him grew louder, more desperate, before they were abruptly cut off. Silence fell over the corridor, thick and suffocating.


    He glanced down at the boy, whose wide eyes were brimming with tears. The child clung to his hoodie, his small body shaking like a leaf in a storm. Vincent felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut but shoved it aside. There was no time for that. Not now.


    “Keep moving,” he muttered, his voice rough. “We’re not safe yet.”


    The boy nodded, his small hand slipping into Vincent’s as they hurried down the endless hallway. Vincent’s mind raced, his thoughts a tangled web of questions and doubts. This time, he had saved the boy. But at what cost?


    Vincent''s boots echoed against the sterile tiles, the sound sharp and hollow in the vast emptiness of the corridor. His grip on the boy’s hand was firm, almost too tight, but he didn’t loosen it. He needed to feel that connection, that grounding reminder of what he’d just done. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts as his thoughts raced, fraying at the edges.


    The boy stumbled, his smaller legs struggling to keep up, but Vincent didn’t slow. The screams had been cut off too abruptly. That wasn’t how terror should end, it wasn’t how anything should end. The silence in their place was worse, heavier, as if the corridor itself was holding its breath.


    His mind spun, trying to process the fragments of information he had. This wasn’t just a game. It wasn’t even a test in the way he’d first thought. It was something far more sinister. The patterns, the choices, the entity that had swallowed him when he died, it all pointed to rules he didn’t yet understand.


    And then there was the boy.


    The child’s soft breaths, punctuated by an occasional sniffle, were the only other sounds in the corridor. Vincent glanced down at him, his small figure hunched in the oversized hoodie, his free hand clutching the edge like a security blanket. The boy’s wide, watery eyes darted around nervously, his expression a mixture of fear and exhaustion.


    Something about him didn’t fit.


    Vincent’s jaw tightened as he replayed the events of the last cycle in his mind. He’d acted on instinct then, driven by guilt and the overwhelming need to save the boy. He’d failed, died, and been thrown back into this moment. But why? What was so important about this exact scene that he’d been forced to relive it?


    And why did the boy always seem to be at the center of it?


    Vincent slowed his pace, his grip on the boy’s hand loosening slightly. The child stumbled again, and this time Vincent stopped entirely, pulling him to a halt. The silence pressed down on them, the sterile hum of the lights overhead the only constant in this place.


    “Are we safe now?” the boy asked softly, his voice trembling. He looked up at Vincent, his eyes wide and pleading.


    Vincent didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the boy’s face, studying the tiny details, the freckles scattered across his nose, the way his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. He looked so normal, so human. But his presence gnawed at the edges of Vincent’s mind, an itch he couldn’t scratch.


    Were they safe? The question lingered in the air between them, heavy and unanswered. Vincent’s instincts screamed at him that safety was an illusion here, that nothing in this place could be trusted. Least of all the things that seemed harmless.


    His grip on the boy’s hand tightened again, his mind flashing to the moment in the room when the others had cast their votes. The child’s voice had been so quiet, so hesitant, when he’d said “the vial.” But had anyone truly heard him? Had they truly acknowledged his choice? Vincent thought back to the pink-haired girl’s sharp tone, the janitor’s gruff dismissal. They’d argued, voted, and acted as though the boy’s opinion didn’t matter.


    Or maybe they hadn’t heard him at all.


    Vincent’s chest tightened as realization began to settle over him like a cold, suffocating fog. He’d noticed it before, in fragments, the way the others had seemed to gloss over the boy’s presence, the way their gazes had slid past him as though he were just part of the scenery. Even now, his memories of the boy felt... fractured. As if his mind was trying to piece together something that didn’t entirely belong.


    And the watches. The watches strapped to their wrists, marking their lives, tracking their progress. He glanced down at his own, the chibi version of himself still frozen in its idle animation. Two hearts. Two lives left. He’d been so consumed by his own survival, his own mistakes, that he hadn’t questioned why the boy didn’t have one.


    His eyes drifted to the boy’s wrist. The hoodie sleeve obscured it, but Vincent knew what he’d see if he pulled it back, nothing. No watch. No tracking device. No acknowledgment that this child was part of the same game.


    His chest ached as he fought to keep his expression neutral. The boy was watching him closely now, his head tilted slightly as if sensing the shift in Vincent’s demeanor.


    “What’s wrong?” the boy asked, his voice small and uncertain.


    “Nothing,” Vincent lied, his tone flat. He released the boy’s hand, crouching slightly to look him in the eyes. “You okay? Can you keep going?”


    The boy nodded quickly, almost too quickly, his movements jerky and eager to please. “I’m okay. I can keep up.”


    Vincent forced a small smile, though it felt hollow. “Good. Stay close.”


    As they began walking again, Vincent’s mind raced with questions. If the boy wasn’t real, if he wasn’t part of the same ruleset as the rest of them, then what was he? A trap? A distraction? The memory of the entity he’d encountered in the void crept into his thoughts, its vast, unknowable presence pressing down on him. It had been delighted by his failure, by his death. Was the boy its creation? Its tool?


    His Sixth Sense flared faintly, a whisper of unease that settled in his gut. It wasn’t the kind of danger that came with immediate threats. It was subtler, quieter, the kind that made his instincts coil like a spring. He glanced down at the boy again, his small figure trudging along beside him.


    What if this game was never about saving anyone? What if it was about proving he couldn’t?


    The thought chilled him. He’d acted on instinct in the last cycle, driven by the need to protect, to be the hero. It had cost him a life. This time, he’d acted deliberately, planning every step, every move, to change the outcome. But what if that was exactly what the game wanted?


    Vincent’s breath hitched as a new thought crept into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. What if the boy wasn’t meant to be saved at all? What if saving him was the mistake?


    He forced the thought aside, his jaw tightening as he quickened his pace. Now wasn’t the time for doubt. He needed to keep moving, to put as much distance between them and the room as possible. Whatever the boy was, whatever his purpose in this twisted game, Vincent couldn’t afford to let his guard down.


    The boy’s voice broke the silence, hesitant and soft. “Do you think... they’ll be okay?”


    Vincent’s heart clenched, but he didn’t look down. He kept his eyes on the corridor ahead, the endless stretch of sterile tiles and flickering lights. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice low and even.


    He didn’t know if the others would survive the nurse’s attack. He didn’t know if they deserved to. But one thing was certain, they hadn’t moved to save the boy before. They’d left him to die without a second thought.


    And now, Vincent had left them.


    His footsteps slowed as the weight of that choice pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. The boy glanced up at him, his wide eyes filled with quiet confusion. Vincent forced himself to keep walking, his mind churning with questions he couldn’t yet answer.


    As Vincent pressed forward, the boy’s small hand slipping occasionally from his grasp only for him to reflexively tighten his grip, the silence around them grew thicker. The sterile hum of the lights above seemed distant now, a backdrop to the chaos in his own head. His thoughts had become a cacophony, each one louder and more demanding than the last, vying for attention as he tried to make sense of the puzzle in front of him.


    And then, it hit him.


    The watch on his wrist let out a faint, almost imperceptible chime. He froze mid-step, his entire body tensing as the display flickered. For a heartbeat, he thought he’d imagined it, but then the chibi avatar of himself blinked, shifting slightly as text scrolled across the screen:


    Sixth Sense has leveled.


    The words burned themselves into his mind, stark and undeniable. His breath hitched, and his hand trembled slightly as he stared at the watch. The leveling wasn’t just a number or a notification, it was a wave of something intangible, something alive. It surged through him like a tidal force, unbidden and unrelenting, crashing into every corner of his mind.


    And with it came the whispers.


    They started softly, like faint echoes at the edges of his thoughts. But they grew louder, more insistent, until they reverberated in his skull, each one carving into his consciousness with surgical precision.


    "Protect him."


    "He’s innocent. He needs you."


    "You’re a hero, Vincent. You can save him."


    He staggered, nearly recoiling as the whispers twisted his name, wrapping around it with a familiarity that made his stomach churn. He’d never told anyone his name, not the others, not the boy. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating and undeniable. These weren’t just thoughts. They were intrusions, something external pressing into the very fabric of his mind.


    The boy turned to him, his wide eyes full of concern. “Vincent? Are you okay?”


    Vincent flinched as the boy spoke his name, his chest tightening with a mix of unease and realization. How does he know? He’d been so careful, so deliberate in keeping his distance, in staying detached. But here the boy was, saying his name as naturally as if it had always been part of their conversations.


    The whispers surged again, their tone shifting from soothing to urgent.


    "Don’t question it. Focus on saving him. That’s all that matters."


    "He’s a child. He’s helpless. He needs you."


    "You can do this. You have to do this."


    Vincent clenched his teeth, his free hand clamping over his watch as though he could physically block out the voices. His Sixth Sense had always been a subtle nudge, a quiet instinct that guided him away from danger. But now, it was something else entirely, something intrusive, demanding, almost predatory in its insistence.


    He glanced down at the boy, his small frame still clutching at the hem of his hoodie. The child looked so fragile, so perfectly crafted in his fear and vulnerability. And that was the problem. The perfection of it. The whispers urged him to act, to protect, to save, but they felt wrong now, like a song played just out of tune.


    He thought back to the last cycle, to the way he’d moved without thinking, compelled by those same whispers. They had pushed him to be the hero, to sacrifice himself for the boy without question, and he had. He’d died for it, a life snuffed out for a child who wasn’t wearing a watch, who the others hadn’t even truly acknowledged.


    "Don’t overthink this. Keep him safe. It’s what you’re supposed to do."


    Vincent’s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. His chest tightened as the realization crept over him, slow and suffocating. The whispers hadn’t been instinct. They hadn’t been his conscience. They had been something else entirely, something planted, external, designed to push him into a specific role.


    "Save him. Be the hero."


    The words repeated like a drumbeat in his head, each one louder and more insistent than the last. But this time, they didn’t feel like encouragement. They felt like orders.


    And then the wall broke.


    It was sudden, a sensation like glass shattering in his mind. The whispers didn’t stop, but their source became painfully clear. They weren’t his thoughts. They weren’t his instincts. They were the system, the game, bending his will to its design. It had been there all along, a quiet puppeteer pulling his strings, whispering promises of heroism and purpose to keep him moving, keep him playing. No this wasn’t the Sixth Sense, it was just taking down the curtain allowing him to hear what was already there, the subtle little messages that pushed at his subconscious influencing him.


    Vincent recoiled, his hand jerking away from the boy as though he’d been burned. The child stumbled slightly, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes.


    “Vincent?” the boy asked, his voice small and uncertain. “What’s wrong?”


    Vincent couldn’t answer. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the boy, his mind unraveling every moment they’d shared. The way the others had ignored him, the way his voice barely registered in their arguments, the absence of a watch on his wrist. The whispers had led him to save the boy, to protect him at all costs. But why?


    "Don’t question it. Just do your part. Be the hero."


    The words grated against his mind now, their urgency a sharp contrast to the clarity he’d just gained. He took a step back, his gaze narrowing as he studied the boy. The child’s face was perfect, too perfect, each detail crafted to evoke pity, to inspire action. But the pieces didn’t fit. They never had.


    The whispers shifted, their tone growing desperate.


    "Stop this. Protect him. Save him. That’s your role."


    Vincent’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to look away from the boy, his thoughts racing. This wasn’t just a test of survival. It was a test of manipulation, of control. The game wanted him to be the hero, to act without question, to sacrifice himself for a goal he didn’t even understand.


    Not this time.


    “Let’s keep moving,” he said finally, his voice steady but cold. He didn’t look at the boy as he spoke, didn’t reach for his hand. Instead, he turned and started down the corridor, his steps slow and deliberate.


    The boy hesitated, his small frame trembling slightly. “But... where are we going?”


    Vincent didn’t answer right away. He kept walking, his gaze fixed on the shadows ahead, his mind already calculating his next move. He didn’t need to understand everything yet. He just needed to see what would happen if he didn’t play along.


    “I don’t know,” he said finally, his tone distant. “But we’ll figure it out.”


    Vincent trudged forward, the boy trailing behind him like a shadow, his mind reeling with the weight of his revelations. He hadn’t spoken again since deciding to keep moving, the oppressive silence of the corridor matching the storm raging inside him.


    The hero.


    The voices had made it clear, hadn’t they? That’s what they wanted him to be. They weren’t nudging him toward survival, they were carving him into a role, shaping him into something more palatable to their narrative. The realization sat in his gut like a lead weight, pulling at every fragile thread of his identity.


    He scoffed under his breath, the sound humorless and bitter. The hero. What a joke. He didn’t even look like one. In horror games, in movies, the hero was someone you could root for, someone with charm, grit, maybe even a tragic backstory. They weren’t… average. And Vincent? He’d always been painfully average.


    A reflective surface caught his eye as they passed an old, cracked mirror set awkwardly into the wall. He paused for a moment, glancing at the boy to ensure he wasn’t going to dart off before stepping toward it. The distorted glass showed his face in jagged pieces, each one a reminder of just how ordinary he looked. His messy, unkempt hair was neither dark enough to brood nor light enough to shine. His features weren’t sharp or striking, his nose was slightly crooked from a long-forgotten childhood accident, his lips too thin, his eyes an unremarkable shade of pink.


    Vincent stared at himself, almost daring the mirror to offer some hidden revelation, something deeper beneath the surface. But there was nothing. He was just… Vincent.


    “If this were a horror movie,” he muttered to himself, “what would I even be?”


    The question lingered in his mind, dragging his thoughts further into the archetypes he’d studied and loved in fiction. The jock? Definitely not. The final girl? Not unless there was some major rebranding involved. The loner? That had seemed right before, but now… the whispers had shattered that illusion.


    "The hero," they insisted.


    He thought about what heroes in stories like this usually faced. Sacrifice. Martyrdom. They didn’t get the girl, or boy. They didn’t get the happy ending. Hell, they usually didn’t even make it to the end at all. They saved others, sure, but at the cost of their own lives, their own futures.


    And if they looked like him? Average, forgettable, disposable? Then it was almost guaranteed. The world wasn’t kind to “heroes” who weren’t easy to root for.


    Vincent leaned closer to the mirror, studying the dark circles under his eyes, the faint stubble on his jawline. This was the face of someone you forgot five minutes after meeting. Not someone who inspired trust or hope or anything remotely heroic. But here he was, being shaped, pushed, forced into that role.


    For what?


    The boy tugged at his sleeve, breaking his reverie. “Why are we stopping?”


    Vincent pulled back from the mirror, straightening as he turned to look at the child. The boy’s wide eyes reflected the same innocence and vulnerability that had drawn him in before. But now, Vincent couldn’t look at him without hearing the whispers, without feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him.


    “We’re not,” Vincent said, his tone sharper than he intended. He turned away from the mirror and started walking again, faster this time. The boy scurried to keep up, his small footsteps barely audible against the tiled floor.