Chapter 6: The Unchosen
The glowing message on their phones—
THE GAME HAS CHOSEN AGAIN.
NAME THE PERSON YOU DISLIKE THE MOST.
YOU MUST PLAY.
—hung in the air like a death sentence.
The sweet, decaying floral scent was overpowering, and the faint whispers seemed to press in on them, cold and accusing.
But this time, there were no jokes, no nervous laughter.
Only a profound, chilling dread.
"What do we do?" Yui whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes wide with terror as she stared at her phone.
Sakura, clutching Kaito's arm, shook her head frantically.
"We can't. We can't write another name. Not after Hiroshi, and... and what happened outside."
Her gaze flickered towards the front doors, where the horrifying images of Daiki, Emi, and Kenji were burned into their minds.
"But it says 'YOU MUST PLAY'," Akari pointed out, her voice tight with fear, though she tried to keep it steady.
"What if not playing is worse?"
"Worse than that?" Ren choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the shattered window on the third floor.
"Hiroshi was just... gone. And Daiki, Emi, Kenji... they're still out there, doing... whatever that was. I'm not putting anyone else's name on that list. No way."
His usual bravado was completely shattered.
Kaito, his mind racing, looked at his phone.
The app icon seemed to pulse faintly.
"He's right. We don't know what this thing is. But if we write a name, we're part of it. We're choosing someone. What if that's what it wants?"
He looked around at the pale, terrified faces of his friends.
"I say we don't play. No one writes a name. We just... don't write a name. We ignore it."
A tense silence fell over the group.
The idea of defying the game, of simply refusing to participate, felt both incredibly brave and incredibly foolish.
But the alternative—knowingly condemning another classmate—was unthinkable.
Slowly, one by one, students nodded.
They didn't put their phones away this time; they simply stared at the glowing message, a silent act of defiance.
But Ren felt a strange pull.
A flicker of his old mischief, mixed with a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, if someone played, the game would be satisfied and leave the rest of them alone.
He quickly, secretly, typed a name into his phone, his thumb hovering over the 'submit' button.
He didn't want anyone to know.
He chose the name of a quiet boy from the back of the class—Haruto—someone he barely knew.
Someone who wouldn't be missed as much, he reasoned with a sick twist in his stomach.
He hit submit, then quickly turned his phone face down, his heart pounding for a different reason now.
The grandfather clock at the end of the hallway continued its slow, deliberate tick-tock, counting down the minutes to an unknown fate.
The rest of the night was a blur of nervous energy.
With no working phones and Mr. Sato still missing, they knew they couldn't just sit there.
They had to find something.
"We need to eat some food we have not eaten anything since morning," Kaito declared, trying to sound like a leader."And water. And maybe... maybe an old landline phone? Something that doesn't need cell service."
They split into smaller groups, moving cautiously through the dimly lit hotel.
The sweet floral scent seemed to follow them everywhere, growing stronger in certain areas, making their skin crawl.
They found the hotel kitchen, a massive, old-fashioned space with huge, dormant stoves and rows of dusty pantries.
To their relief, they found some canned goods, dried pasta, and bottled water—supplies that seemed to have been left untouched for years.
In a dusty corner of the reception desk, behind a stack of old ledgers, Akari discovered an ancient rotary phone, its cord snaking into the wall.
Hope flickered.
Kaito immediately tried it.
He lifted the heavy receiver, listened for a dial tone. Nothing but static.
He tried again, dialing a random number, but the static remained.
"It's no good," he announced, his shoulders slumping."Completely dead. No outside lines."
The realization sank in: they were truly isolated.
Trapped.
They made a makeshift meal in the kitchen, heating some canned soup on a small, portable stove one of the students had brought for camping.
The act of eating, of doing something normal, offered a brief, fragile comfort.
They ate in silence, the only sounds the clinking of spoons and the distant, slow tick-tock of the grandfather clock.
As midnight approached again, a new wave of tension swept through the group.
They gathered in the lobby once more, their eyes fixed on the clock, then on their phones.
The "Midnight Game" app remained open on their screens, still displaying the chilling message, waiting for a name.
Tick.Tock.
The silence was deafening.
Every student held their breath.
Tick.Tock.
The minute hand on the grandfather clock slowly, agonizingly, crept toward the twelve.
Tick.
BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG.
Twelve strikes. Midnight.
They waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
The app screen remained unchanged.
No new name appeared. No new message.
The grandfather clock continued its steady tick-tock.
The sweet floral scent seemed to lessen, just a fraction.
A collective, shaky sigh of relief swept through the group.
They had done it.
They had refused to play, and nothing had happened.
Maybe they were safe.
Maybe the game couldn't force them.
Five minutes crawled by.
Five minutes of tense silence, then growing, fragile hope.
Ren even let out a small, weak chuckle.
"See? Told you! It's just a dumb app. It can't do anything if we don't play along."
But just as a fragile sense of hope began to bloom, a new notification buzzed on every phone.
The app screen, which had been dormant, now glowed with a single, stark name in bold, white letters:
HARUTO
A collective gasp went through the group.
They all looked up from their phones, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.
"Haruto?" Sakura whispered, her voice trembling."But... but no one played! We all agreed not to!"
Ren's heart hammered against his ribs.
He knew.He knew who had played.
His face went even paler.
He avoided eye contact, trying to blend into the terrified crowd.
"Someone did!" Yui exclaimed, her voice rising in panic."Someone wrote a name! Who was it?!"
Her gaze swept frantically across the faces around her, desperate to find the culprit.
Murmurs erupted.
Accusations hung in the air, unspoken but felt.
Just as the frantic questions began to escalate, all eyes suddenly snapped to Haruto, who had been standing near the kitchen entrance.
He was a quiet boy, known for his calm demeanor, and he hadn't moved since the notification.
He just stood there, staring blankly ahead.
"Haruto?" Kaito called out, his voice laced with a sudden, cold dread."Are you okay? What's going on?"
Sakura stepped forward hesitantly.
"Haruto? Did you... did you write a name?"
Haruto didn't speak.
He didn't even look at them.
His body slowly, deliberately, began to stand up straight.
His movements were stiff, unnatural—almost like a puppet on strings.
He didn't walk; he shuffled, his feet dragging slightly on the polished floor, making a faint, unsettling scraping sound.
His head remained perfectly still, his dark hair falling over his face, hiding his expression.
He moved with a scary, steady purpose toward the kitchen, his blank stare fixed on something unseen.
"Haruto? What are you doing?" Kaito called out again, his voice now a desperate plea.
The sweet floral scent intensified, pressing in on them.
Haruto ignored him.
He walked into the kitchen, his movements eerily silent.
A moment later, they heard the distinct clink of metal against metal.
He emerged from the kitchen, holding a large, gleaming butcher knife, its blade reflecting the dim lobby lights.
His blank eyes swept over the group.
Then fixed on his own stomach.
"Haruto! No!" Sakura screamed, her voice a raw cry of terror.
Before anyone could react, two boys—Taro and Jiro, both strong and quick—lunged forward.
"Stop him!" Kaito yelled.
Taro grabbed Haruto's arm, trying to wrestle the knife away.
Jiro tackled him from the side, aiming for his legs.
But Haruto, despite his quiet nature, was impossibly strong.
He pushed Taro away with a violent shove, sending him stumbling backward.
Then kicked Jiro with surprising force, sending him sprawling.
Haruto didn't even look at them.
His blank eyes remained fixed on his own stomach.
With a horrifying, sickening grunt, he plunged the knife deep into his abdomen.
A collective scream of pure horror erupted from the remaining students.
Blood, thick and dark, immediately gushed from the wound, soaking his shirt.
But Haruto didn't stop.
His face showed no pain, no emotion.
Only that terrifying emptiness in his eyes.
He pulled the knife out with a wet squelch and plunged it in again.
And again.And again.
His guts began to spill out, a grotesque, writhing mass, as blood flowed freely, forming a dark, spreading pool on the polished floor.
Each stab was deliberate. Rhythmic.
Accompanied by a low, guttural moan from Haruto—a sound of profound, unseen torment.
Taro and Jiro, stunned and horrified, could only watch, their faces pale, as Haruto continued his gruesome self-destruction.
The sweet, decaying floral scent was now mixed with the overpowering, metallic smell of fresh blood, making them gag and choke.
Haruto kept stabbing.
His movements slowly becoming weaker.
Slower.
The knife clattered to the floor.
His hand fell limp.
His eyes remained wide and blank for another moment.
Then slowly, mercifully, rolled back.
He dropped to the floor with a soft thump, landing in the growing pool of his own blood.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Broken only by the ragged gasps and choked sobs of the horrified students.
Haruto lay motionless, his body a twisted, bloody mess.
The game had not chosen a name.
But it had chosen a victim.