The walls of the study were silent, thick with velvet shadows. Books lined every inch of the old shelves, and yet none seemed to hold the answers I needed—none except the one standing across from me. Rin Aclaire, the Prestidigitator, leaned lightly against the window frame, her reflection flickering like a ghost in the dark glass. She didn't speak first. She never did.
I did.
"So... who's left," I asked, my voice level. "After all this madness. The final survivors of Act 1."
She looked up at me. The girl was clever—clever enough to know I wasn't asking out of idle curiosity. There was a loaded tone beneath my words. A test.
"A handful," she said. "Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Hard to keep count when the dead disappear and the bodies don't always drop."
I took a step closer.
"And the rules?"
She nodded. "Simple. If the Mafia wipes out the civilian team before the end of Act 1, they move on. If even one civilian survives and they win the vote... the civilians proceed. But only those still breathing."
Only those still breathing. I filed that away.
"So what happens then?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Act 2. Act 3. And if—by some miracle—someone finishes all of them. Wins the game. What do they get?"
She blinked at me, honest confusion flickering in her gaze. "I... I don't know. I think I used to, but it's like it's been scraped from my mind. There's a gap there. Like I'm not supposed to remember."
I stared at her, hard.
"You don't forget something like that."
"I didn't forget," she said quietly. "It was taken."
I let the silence hang between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Then I tilted my head slightly and asked the one thing that had haunted me since this began.
"Why do you think people join?"
Rin shrugged. "Desperation. Thrill. Maybe they were forced. Maybe they didn't know what they were signing up for."
"That's all?"
She frowned. "You're the smart one. You tell me."
A smile pulled at my lips, humorless and sharp. I turned from her and stepped toward the center of the room, letting the pale light from the caged ceiling bulb cast half my face in shadow.
"If I had to guess," I said, "the reward isn't money. Not fame. Not even freedom."
She straightened, listening.
"It's the one thing all humans crave but never receive on their own terms."
She blinked. "Which is?"
"Control."
She flinched, like the word had weight.
I paced slowly, deliberate. "This game forces you to confront death. Over and over. In silence. In violence. In betrayal. And yet, the prize waiting at the end—it has to be worth it. It has to be something that makes it all... justifiable."
"Control of what?" she asked, almost whispering.
"Your life," I said. "And everyone else's."
She stared at me, uncertain if I was serious. I was.
"A seat above the gameboard. A throne above the chaos. The one who survives all the acts... doesn't just win. They become the next Architect."
She froze. "What?"
I looked back at her. "Someone built this system. Someone controls the game. What if winning gives you that seat?"
"But that's just—"
I cut her off. "It's not a guess. It's a design. Every structure this precise has a creator. Every creator needs a successor."
Rin's eyes narrowed. "And what if no one wins?"
"Then the cycle repeats. Another generation. Another stage. Another game."
A beat passed. Then she asked the real question:
"Do you want to win this?"
I turned to face her fully. The faint light glinted against my eyes.
"No," I said coldly. "I intend to."
Morning light filtered through the grand salon's high windows, illuminating the faces of the remaining survivors—twenty or so hollowed eyes, each reflecting fatigue, fear, and rising panic. The voice of the announcer was cold and businesslike:
"Three died overnight: the Reporter and two Civilians. Proceed immediately to the central area for discussion and voting."
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
Soldier Luther Hale stepped forward first, fists clenched. "Not again! We lose people nightly. We're supposed to be fighting back, not shrinking!" His voice cracked, and he glared at the rest of us. "If we don't pick someone now… we'll all die."
My heart thudded — not for fear, but for the knowledge that one of us had already broken the rules of this fragile system. I made my choice.
"Stop," I said sharply, stepping into the circle. My voice was cold and unshakable. It cut through the tension. Everyone looked at me.
And I felt a quick sensation that something or someone is watching me thoroughly.
"One of us is the Mafia team. And I know who."
There was a stunned silence.
"Who?" a voice whispered from the back. Waiting.
My gaze found Selene. "Selene Montgomery—the Hostess."
It hit them all like a thunderclap. Selene froze, her eyes starting to blink, her composure cracking.
Luther's voice thrummed. "You're insane. That's ridiculous. She's been with us. She's helping us."
Another survivor, a civilian named Leira, covered her mouth. "Does that role even include killing?"
Selene's lips quivered. With forced emotion, she said, "I don't… I don't know what he's saying! I'm just the Hostess—serving, comforting. I wouldn't—"
Her voice stuttered, her posture went rigid. A few nodded sympathetically; others stared suspiciously.
I held up a hand, commanding silence.
Then I began again, voice low, precise:
"A Hostess is allowed across all rooms. Before the 2nd night happen the hostess died on the bar, we heard glasses breaking in the bar. Someone went in despite the guards. Who? Only the person with the Hostess card."
I stepped closer to Selene. The room's atmosphere thickened, like breathing underwater.
"You were there. They left that carved message—'Fake Hostess'—scrawled in her blood. No one else walked freely inside that room while it was sealed. Except you."
Selene's face went pale. She took a step back. Her voice trembled. "That's… that's not real… I was delivering drinks…"
I nodded as if confirming her lie. My tone remained unflinching:
"You were delivering poison to the girl, and removing evidence. When I mentioned poison, your fingers froze. It wasn't a flinch. It was recognition."
Luther's face tightened. "If that's true…" he said quietly, "if she's a killer…"
The group shifted uneasily. There was a moment of collective doubt that hovered in the air.
Some voices questioned: "But how do you know it's her? What if you're wrong?"
I paused—then laid out the final strike. "If I'm wrong." I confidently said. "Vote me out without a thought."
Everyone was shocked. But my fear disappear only domination remains.
Their eyes shifted to Selene—fear turning into disbelief, and disbelief into panic.
Selene turned on me, tears in her eyes. "You're lying—this is a trick!"
Her hand darted out, knocking the paper aside.
I tilted my head, my tone calm: "Or you'll lie to survive."
Her voice wavered. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
I locked eyes with her. The weight of that moment pressed the entire group into silence.
"Everyone's scared," I said, softer now. "They want to believe we're insane. They want to believe this is a joke we can't lose."
I gestured around the circle. "But we've lost too much and especially the reporter Selene, you are the one standing between us and the edge of the abyss."
Her breath hitched. The panic was real now, undeniable. She began sobbing, her composure shredded.
The room had shifted. Shattered trust. The seed of doubt had sprouted roots.
Luther stepped closer. "I… I can't—I don't want to—but we have to vote."
I nodded slightly to the group. "Vote. Use your instincts. But know: this ends tonight."
Selene crumpled onto her knees. "Please—please—nobody… I'm innocent!"
But her voice was drowned beneath murmurs of fear, confusion, and suspicion.
I turned my back—my expression impassive.
Inside, I felt something cold pinch tight.
And I was smiling…
I had built this moment. I had orchestrated the chaos. The next steps would define who survived Act II—if we even got that far.
Her panic was real.
With a single accusation,
I'd tilted the board.
The rest was up to them.