Chapter 6 - "Why?"
1400 Words
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All of them had gathered at Talon’s house, though the word “together” felt wrong. The air was fractured, torn into shards of unease. Chloe sat curled on the couch like a broken doll, rocking back and forth, her eyes hollow, whispering words that only she could hear—words like prayers, or curses, or both. Her trembling hands clawed at the couch fabric as though she might anchor herself to something real.
“What happened?” Draven’s voice cut through the silence as he surged forward, dropping to his knees in front of Chloe. His usually steady tone quivered, eyes brimming with worry, scanning her face for answers.
Silas scoffed from the corner, arms crossed, though his voice betrayed a thin film of fear. “You infected her, didn’t you?” His gaze snapped toward Talon. “You’re the one who started this… this syndrome. First you. Then Chloe. And now…” Agatha's eyes flicked wide with sudden realization. “Dorian.”
Her head whipped toward the door. “Where is he?”
She staggered to her feet, heart racing, and sprinted to the door. She grabbed the knob, twisted hard, and flung it open—only to be met with a brick wall. Not the night air, not the familiar street outside, but a rough, suffocating wall of stone sealing them in.
She stumbled backward, laughter bubbling out of her in cracked hysteria. “No… no, this can’t—this isn’t—guys, what is this?” She turned around for reassurance—
but the room was empty.
Everyone was gone.
Her throat tightened. Her heart pounded like war drums. Fear wrapped around her soul, coiling like barbed wire. She spun in circles, desperate for a voice, a touch, something.
“Oh no…” she whispered, fumbling for her phone. Her fingers plunged into her pocket—but it wasn’t there.
The silence broke with a c***k. Skinny, wretched arms—gray and jointed like broken marionettes—shot through the bricks behind her. Long fingers hooked her shoulders and yanked her back with bone-snapping force. The wall felt like fire pressing into her spine as she screamed in raw agony.
“No! No no no!” She writhed, clawing at the skeletal grip, finally tearing herself free and crashing to the ground.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She scrambled across the floor, eyes darting, searching—the phone, the phone, where is the phone? Every corner, every shadow. She needed proof she wasn’t insane.
But the arms were already stretching toward her again, spidering across the floor, nails screeching against the wood.
“It’s not real,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “It’s only my mind. You’re not crazy, Agatha, you’re not—”
Her words froze in her throat.
A sickening thrust speared through her body. She gasped, staring down at the impossible sight of a grotesque arm bursting through her back and out of her stomach. Her lips trembled as hot liquid welled in her throat. Blood poured from her mouth in scarlet rivers.
The hand—her tormentor—opened a mouth in its palm. Jagged teeth snapped hungrily, and it drank down her blood in wet gulps.
Her scream broke into wet coughs. “N…no…” She staggered back, but the other arms seized her, holding her in a prison of bone and sinew.
“It’s not real, it’s not real…” she repeated, but her voice grew faint. She could feel her soul, her very life, draining into the ravenous mouths. Her memories splintered—faces she loved, moments that defined her—falling like shattered glass into darkness.
And then he appeared.
The man. The figure. His presence bent the darkness into obedience. She blinked through her blurred vision, eyes straining to make out the writing across his back. Her stomach lurched as the words came into focus:
CHECK POINT ZERO.
“You…” she croaked, blood bubbling at her lips.
The figure stepped closer. His voice rang in the void, deep and resonant, piercing every shadow.
“Hello there. I’m C P Z.”
She froze. The arms still gnawed at her body, but her eyes locked on his. He turned, and her heart twisted in betrayal.
It was Dorian.
Or… not Dorian. This one was taller, carved like some divine being, his features too perfect, his eyes too radiant, his smirk too cruel.
Her tears burned trails down her blood-streaked face. “Dorian… you…”
He bent closer. For a moment, her agony broke. She smiled weakly, reaching toward him.
“You’re beautiful…” she whispered. “Help me…”
The warmth of his hands cupped her face, soothing, calming—
until his thumb pierced her eye.
Her scream shattered the void. Agony split her skull, her body convulsing as her eye was ripped from its socket.
The arm in her stomach screeched in delight as the figure dropped the eye into its waiting mouth. It chewed, growing larger, veins of black bile spreading across its surface.
“Dorian!” she wailed.
The second eye was torn from her head. White-hot pain detonated through her skull. Her body convulsed violently. Blood streamed from her nose, ears, lips—every opening became a fountain.
“Next is your tongue,” the figure whispered, smiling with Dorian’s face.
“No! No, if it’s the game—” she begged, choking. “I’ll play! I’ll play, please!”
But her plea was silenced as her tongue was torn from her mouth.
She collapsed. The arms writhed, gorging themselves. Her life bled away.
Then—blinding light.
Her body jolted violently. She gasped awake, coughing, clutching her face. Her eyes were intact. Her tongue still there. No wounds. Just the couch beneath her, the room around her.
Her friends were there, staring. Chloe wept beside her, curled up and rocking just as she had been.
“You were screaming for twenty-five minutes,” Silas whispered, trembling. “Agatha, you—your eyes—you— you were there?”
She pressed her palms against her face, her stomach, her mouth—searching for proof of her mutilation. Nothing. Nothing but terror.
She sank back into the couch, hollow and shaking. Her whispers joined Chloe’s, two voices mumbling in a broken chorus.
The others stood frozen, confused.
“What the hell is going on?” Silas demanded, fear cracking through his bravado.
“Where’s Dorian?” Talon muttered sharply.
The silence thickened. Then Draven’s voice cut through it all, raw and shaking.
“Why?” His words trembled. His fists shook at his sides. He turned to Talon, rage flooding his tone. “Why is this happening?!”
His scream echoed—then faded strangely, as if the room itself swallowed the sound.
The world blinked out.
He was no longer in Talon’s house, but a vast, empty void. His breath fogged in front of him. The others were gone.
“You have to play.”
The voice came from behind. Talon’s voice. Or something wearing it.
Draven turned.
A man stood cloaked in black. His body bore Talon’s face, Talon’s build—but the words CHECK POINT ZERO were etched into his clothes, burned into his skin like tattoos, scrawled even across his eyelids.
Draven’s tears carved paths down his cheeks. His chest heaved. His voice cracked into a final, broken plea.
“Why?”
The figure smiled, stepping forward into the dim. His shadow swallowed Draven whole.
And in the silence that followed, Draven knew.
It was his turn.
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- Writer
