The rain had been falling for hours, turning the streets of Westbridge into glistening black mirrors. Neon signs flickered across the puddles, distorting their colors into bleeding streaks. Detective Aaron Cade sat in his unmarked sedan, engine idling, watching the city breathe. His shift had ended two hours ago, but the silence in his apartment had become unbearable. At least here, with the rain drumming against the windshield, the city felt alive.
The first buzz came at 9:17 PM.
Aaron frowned at the phone on his dashboard. The number was unfamiliar—no name, no area code he recognized. He picked it up anyway.
Unknown: You have been chosen. Survive 72 hours and your deepest desire will be granted. Fail, and you disappear forever.
He let out a dry laugh, assuming it was a scam, until the second buzz came—this time with an image. It was his apartment door… photographed from inside his building.
His stomach tightened.
Before he could type a response, the phone lit up again. A map appeared, a red dot blinking two blocks away.
Aaron hesitated only a second before starting the car.
---
Two streets over, the city felt different—quieter, like the rain was muffled. The red dot on his phone pulsed brighter the closer he got. Then he saw it: an alley, dimly lit, where ten men and women stood under a single flickering streetlamp. All strangers. All looking at their phones with the same pale-faced confusion.
The last two arrived seconds after him—a man in a tailored gray suit and a woman in running gear dripping with rainwater. Twelve in total.
No one spoke at first, as though words would make this real. Then the woman in running gear whispered, "Did… did you all get the same message?"
The man in the suit nodded once. "Seventy-two hours." His voice was smooth, controlled, but there was something predatory in his eyes.
Before anyone could speak again, the phones buzzed a fourth time.
Unknown: Challenge 1 begins. Eliminate one player in the next 30 minutes. Failure = elimination for all.
The group froze. Rain hissed in the silence.
"What the hell is this?" a younger man barked, stepping forward. "Some sick joke?!"
Aaron's instincts screamed don't talk, observe. He scanned the faces: fear in some, calculation in others. Someone was already thinking about pulling the trigger—metaphorically or otherwise.
Then came the sound—a low whump from somewhere high above, followed by the shattering of glass. A small metal object hit the ground between them. Smoke erupted, burning his throat.
The alley exploded into chaos.
---
Aaron coughed violently, trying to push through the haze. Shapes blurred in the smoke—people shoving, scrambling, disappearing into the shadows. Somewhere to his left, a scream cut through the noise, followed by a dull thud.
When the smoke cleared, one man was on the ground. His lifeless eyes stared up at the rain. Aaron didn't know his name. Maybe none of them had.
Eleven left.
The phones buzzed again.
Unknown: Challenge 1 complete. Proceed to the mansion at Blackridge Hill. 2 hours. Do not be late.
The man in the suit stepped forward, unbothered by the corpse at his feet. "Looks like we're just getting started," he said, his voice carrying in the rain.
Aaron looked up, following the man's gaze. In a lit window three floors above, a silhouette stood perfectly still—watching.
---
The drive to Blackridge Hill was silent for most of them. Aaron followed the taillights of a black SUV carrying four of the others, his mind replaying the moment in the alley. He'd seen enough death to know when someone wanted to kill and when someone had to. This… was neither. This was staged.
When the hill appeared, the mansion loomed like something from another century. Four stories of weathered stone, black iron gates, and windows that glowed faintly through the rain. It looked abandoned from a distance, but up close the grounds were pristine—grass trimmed, hedges shaped, the driveway glistening like polished obsidian.
A tall, well-dressed man stood at the front steps, an umbrella shielding him from the rain. His suit looked expensive enough to pay off Aaron's mortgage twice over.
"You're late," the man said flatly, checking a gold pocket watch. His voice carried a quiet authority that made everyone instinctively stop. "But since it's the first night, I'll allow it."
"Who are you?" Aaron asked.
The man smiled faintly. "Your host. Think of me as… the facilitator." His gaze swept the group like he was inspecting merchandise. "Inside, there are rules. Break them, and you'll wish you hadn't. Follow them, and you might just leave here alive."
"Alive?" the woman in running gear snapped. "People are already dead!"
The host's smile widened. "Then you understand the stakes."
---
The interior of the mansion was a study in wealth and restraint. Marble floors, velvet drapes, chandeliers dripping with crystal. But the air was cold, and every shadow felt heavy.
In the main hall, twelve chairs had been arranged in a perfect circle around a black marble table. Except now there were only eleven.
"Sit," the host ordered.
When they had, he leaned against the table. "Every twelve years, the game is played. You are here because you've all taken something you shouldn't have—money, lives, secrets. Consider this your chance at redemption. Or ruin."
The man in the suit finally spoke. "And if we win?"
The host's eyes glimmered. "Anything you want. Power. Freedom. Revenge. The world will give it to you. But first—" He tapped the table, and a hidden panel slid open, revealing a sleek black pistol resting inside. "—you'll need to decide who among you is worth keeping around."
The tension snapped taut. Aaron could feel the group splintering already.
The host straightened, walking toward the grand staircase. "Your next challenge will arrive at midnight. Until then, get to know each other. Alliances… can be useful."
And just like that, he vanished upstairs.
Aaron sat back in his chair, watching the others. Rain battered the windows, and somewhere far above, a floorboard creaked.
The game had begun.
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