It started with a scream.
Not the dreamlike sort of scream that trails off and fades into silence, but a real one—raw, sharp, and filled with something that cracked through bone. My body jolted upright before my mind could register it was even awake. The clock on the side table blinked red through the dark: 3:01 a.m.
I stayed frozen for a moment, heart ticking like a faulty watch. Another second passed. Nothing.
Then instinct, or something sharper, kicked in. I slid on my slippers and opened my door, squinting into the dim-lit corridor. No other doors opened. Was no one else awake?
The sound had come from the far left wing.
I followed it.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have. My footsteps were softer than I expected—cautious. Near the end of the corridor, something glinted.
Glass.
And blood.
I stepped closer. The scene unraveled in front of me.
A body—no, a girl—slumped forward, impaled on a jagged shard of broken decorative glass, the kind embedded in the modern art lining the walls. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth agape mid-scream, in a pool of blood.
Her name didn't come to me right away. But I remembered the white keycard she proudly wore around her neck yesterday. She'd said something casual, smiling at its shimmer like it meant little.
It meant a lot now.
My hands were trembling when someone stepped behind me.
"Hey—! What the hell…" a firm voice said.
I turned. A man stood in the hall, clearly alarmed but composed in a way that wasn't just emotional control—it was discipline. He looked like someone trained not to panic, and it was the man I saw on the stiars.
Another figure appeared a moment later, a woman clutching a notepad with a camera on her neck. Her eyes flicked from the body to me. "You were here first?"
I nodded, trying to find my voice. "I—I heard the scream. Just now."
"Name?" the woman asked. She wasn't panicking either.
"I—I'm…" I trailed off. Her gaze was intense. Too intense for just a normal civilian.
"Not important right now," the man interrupted. "She's dead. We need to seal this off."
"I'll document," the woman said, scribbling something fast. Then she looked at me again. "You saw no one else?"
"No. Just… just her. The glass."
And I didn't realize how cold it was until the silence returned.
The morning came slowly, and I barely slept.
By 7:45 a.m., a pale envelope had appeared under my door. I didn't hear it being slid there, didn't see anyone in the hall when I opened my door. Just the same quiet tension as last night, now stretched thin by fear.
The envelope simply read:
"Gather in the atrium. 8:00 a.m. sharp. All of you."
No signature.
The atrium was a large, circular space in the center of the Velvet Moon, with a glass dome above and a spiraling chandelier that looked like frozen rain.
People filtered in gradually. I counted them: twenty-three others.
Twenty-four including me.
Yesterday it was 25 now it's just 24 due to the incident last night. But it was too early to say anything so I just kept it in my mind.
Everyone looked uneasy. Maybe it was just the late hour. Maybe some of them already knew.
And then the doors—every door—slammed shut with a deep clang. Windows darkened. Even the ventilation let out a final hiss and stopped.
The silence was cut by a cold, mechanical voice overhead. Smooth, but wrong. Like an actor reading poetry without feeling.
"You have entered the game.
The roles are dealt.
The players move.
One has already fallen.
Know the killer…
Or die in ignorance.
The play has begun."
"The stage is set.By moon's rest, none shall wander beyond their veil.By sun's rise, gather when the hour strikes eight.Speak, doubt, and choose the one to fall.Unmask the shadow hiding among you,or let silence be your noose.Only truth opens the door."
And a large screen appeared and inside a number, stating 24/25.
No further explanation. No commands. No questions answered.
The crowd exploded into noise. Questions. Accusations. Fear. Some people laughed nervously. Others denied hearing anything strange.
But I didn't speak. I just watched.
A few people kept their cool. The woman with the notepad—she hadn't put it away. The man who found the body last night was scanning the room, eyes sharp. I noticed others too, silent but focused, standing just far enough from the noise to avoid it—but close enough to watch everything.
The crowd was a puzzle, and I had a feeling not everyone was playing the same game.
Someone murmured near me, "Why did the voice say 'roles'? What kind of sick prank is this?"
No one answered.
And I didn't say anything either.
Because the game had already started.
And I was going to survive it. I need to survive this crazy game I just got in.
Some were still blinking away sleep, clutching coffee mugs or wrapped in blankets. Others stood frozen, their bodies tense like waiting springs. I noticed a few whispering to each other, faces pale. The mechanical voice had silenced the room, but not their nerves.
Then someone scoffed from the back. "Tch. This is a joke, right? Some dumb prank?" A guy in a red hoodie stepped away from the crowd and marched toward the main entrance.
We all turned, watching.
He yanked at the door handle.
It didn't move.
He tried again—harder this time, both hands gripping the handle, pulling with his full weight.
Nothing.
He kicked the base of the door. Slammed his shoulder into it. Still nothing.
Then the panic set in.
"What the hell?! It won't open—why won't it open?!"
More people began to murmur, their voices rising, stacking over each other in uneven waves. A woman backed away from the door, clutching her hair. Someone else was trying the elevator panel, smacking buttons that refused to light up.
A chill crept down my spine. The silence from last night had shattered completely.
"Everyone, calm down!" a firm voice boomed.
It was the same man from the hallway—the one who saw the body. He stepped forward now, commanding without shouting, and lifted both hands slightly, like a barrier against chaos.
"Panicking won't get us anywhere," he said. "We're not hurt. We're still inside the building, and there's no immediate threat. We need to stay calm, think rationally."
He wasn't just talking to us.
He was leading.
I could guess who he was now. A role, not a name. One that didn't panic under pressure.
The Soldier I'm guessing.
He scanned the crowd. "We'll start by knowing who we're dealing with. Name, background, anything you're willing to share. If we're going to be stuck here, we need to trust each other."
A few people hesitated. Then a girl with a ponytail stepped forward.
"I'm Leah." Her voice was calm, but her hands were wringing her sweater sleeves.
A tall guy followed with lots of shiny necklace and earing and in a school uniform. "Jun." he said probably a gangster.
And another one followed "Cassidy."
Some stayed quiet, shifting awkwardly, clearly unwilling to offer anything up.
A man in a coat leaned back, arms crossed. "Pass."
Someone else muttered, "We don't even know if names matter."
But still—introductions trickled out, some sincere, others reluctant. I stayed silent, taking note of who gave too much detail… and who gave none at all.
I didn't speak up.
Not yet.
Because in a game like this, knowing who speaks and who doesn't says more than a name ever could.
And right now, we had twenty-four names.
But only twenty-four bodies standing here.
And one broken body cooling in the hallway upstairs.