Misty's Tale and Doubt
650 Words
The group remained silent, waiting.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice trembling. “My name’s Misty. I’m, uh… a ‘technical worker.’ We earn an honest living, and I don’t think it’s shameful.”
It was then that everyone noticed how scantily clad she was. Her low-cut, grimy dress barely covered what it needed to, yet she seemed unfazed by her appearance.
“I have plenty of stories, but none of them are suitable for this setting… Let’s just say I was working. I met this *weird* customer at the club. We had private rooms available, but he insisted on taking me to his car. Said it was more… exciting.”
She rolled her eyes and continued, “I figured, whatever, money’s money. So I went with him. Never worked in a car before, but it turned out to be cramped and sweaty. Not ‘exciting’ at all. To make things worse, his phone kept ringing, and he wouldn’t answer it. I was so annoyed I wanted to scream.”
Misty’s expression twisted in irritation, but her eyes flicked to the mutilated corpse on the table. She shuddered, then took a steadying breath.
“Anyway, I guess I chose this life, so I can’t complain. But then—out of nowhere—there was an earthquake. At first, I thought it was the car shaking from… well, you know. But then I saw the giant billboard above us. It snapped and came crashing down on the car. That’s the last thing I remember.”
She pointed upward, her hands trembling. “When I woke up, I was here. And I’m *still* terrified.”
The word “earthquake” sent a ripple of unease through the group. Adrian noticed several faces twitch in recognition, as if they, too, recalled something similar.
Misty’s story ended, and she exhaled deeply. Silence filled the room as everyone processed her words.
Misty’s face turned red with indignation, though her expression remained carefully practiced—a calculated look of innocence designed to disarm suspicion, one that seemed rehearsed to perfection.
Seated beside her, Jonathan Gale (the tattooed man) froze for a moment before speaking. “Do we really need to continue this storytelling? I think the liar’s already revealed themselves.”
The man in the lab coat raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“This lady is lying,” Jonathan said confidently. “We can go straight to the vote.”
“What?!” Misty exclaimed, her wide eyes darting between him and the others. “How am I lying?!”
Jonathan’s gaze was cold as he replied, “Your name. You introduced yourself as Misty, but everyone knows escorts use fake names. Names like Misty, Candy, or Ruby are common pseudonyms. By hiding your real name, you’ve already lied.”
Misty’s face flushed deeper, a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “You’re spouting nonsense! My name really is Misty! I haven’t used my real name in years!” She looked around desperately, searching for support. “At my workplace, nobody knows my real name. Only ‘Misty’ works there! If you call me by my real name, no one would even know who you’re talking about!”
The group fell silent, each person lost in thought. Locke (the thoughtful strategist) furrowed his brow, observing the exchange.
From Misty’s earlier storytelling, Adrian hadn’t detected any signs of deceit. Her tone was calm, her delivery steady—a casual narrative style that only left two possibilities: either she had fabricated the story long ago and repeated it enough times to perfect it, or she was telling the truth.
Now, however, Jonathan had introduced a new perspective: **name-based deception**.
Deceiving through a name required neither logic nor consistency, making it nearly impossible to identify. Everyone in the room was a stranger; their names were unverifiable except through their own words.
- Writer
