That Night

Chapter 7

Chapter 6: The Game Begins

A large envelope, its edges yellowed with age, was placed on the center table. The room, already heavy with tension, grew still as the guests gathered around. The silver-masked man remained standing a few steps back, watching with amusement as one of the guests hesitated before lifting the envelope’s flap.

The parchment inside was brittle, its ink dark and unyielding against the aged paper. The words, written in an old-fashioned script, sent a fresh wave of unease through the group:

Find the traitor among you before the clock strikes one, or none shall leave.

A suffocating silence followed.

Mia’s fingers curled into fists. She could hear the uneasy shifting of the other guests, could feel their glances darting toward one another behind the elaborate masks.

A game.

A deadly one.

The stag-masked man exhaled sharply. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

The woman in crimson crossed her arms, her posture rigid. “You’re expecting us to turn on each other?” she demanded, her voice laced with anger.

The silver-masked man chuckled.

“No,” he said, his voice smooth. “I expect you to play.”

Mia's stomach churned.

A distant chime rang through the house—quarter past midnight. Forty-five minutes until the deadline.

A new kind of fear settled over the group.

The young woman beside Mia shifted uncomfortably.

“They won’t let us leave,” she whispered. “Not until someone is named.”

Mia felt the weight of the parchment in her hands. “And if we refuse?”

The gold-masked figure spoke from the staircase, their voice calm, deliberate.

“Then the house will decide for you.”

The words sent a chill down Mia’s spine.

The guests looked at one another now—not just in suspicion, but in dread.

Mia took a slow breath, trying to steady herself. If this was a game, there had to be a way to beat it.

“We need to think,” she said, her voice breaking the tense silence. “There has to be a reason for this.”

The woman in crimson scoffed. “Oh, you think? We’re trapped in a house full of lunatics playing some twisted murder mystery, and you want to think?”

The stag-masked man cut in. “She’s right. There has to be a pattern. A reason.”

The silver-masked man clapped his hands together once, the sound crisp in the otherwise silent room.

“Now you’re catching on,” he said.

Mia turned sharply toward him. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps.”

She gritted her teeth. “Then tell us.”

He smiled beneath the mask.

“That wouldn’t be fun.”

Mia resisted the urge to hurl something at him.

Instead, she looked at the parchment again.

Find the traitor.

The word traitor stuck in her mind.

“Does anyone here actually know each other?” she asked. “Before tonight?”

The guests exchanged uncertain glances.

“No,” said the woman in crimson. “I don’t.”

“Same,” the stag-masked man muttered.

Others nodded in agreement.

Mia frowned.

Then how could there be a traitor if none of them had any connections?

Unless—

She turned back to the masked hosts at the staircase.

“You’re playing with words,” she said slowly.

The gold-masked figure inclined their head slightly. “Are we?”

“The traitor isn’t one of us.” Mia’s heartbeat thundered in her chest. “It’s one of you.”

The silver-masked man let out a soft, amused laugh.

The gold-masked figure was silent.

And then—

Another knock.

This time, from the mirror.

Mia turned sharply toward it.

The glass—once smoky and still—was shifting.

Something moved within.

Something watching.

Waiting.

A whisper slid through the air, just above a breath:

Time is running