Arden Vale had written about death 347 times.
She had drowned characters in bathtubs. Buried them alive in shallow graves. Fed them to monsters that wore human faces. She had killed lovers mid kiss, children mid laugh, heroes mid victory speech. Death was her currency, her craft, the only thing she could control in a world that had taken everything else from her.
But she had never written about this.
The way betrayal tasted like copper and salt on the back of her tongue. The way it felt like someone had reached into her chest and torn out her lungs while her heart kept stupidly, stubbornly beating. The way the world could tilt sideways and suddenly nothing made sense anymore, not the apartment she paid for with royalties from her second novel, not the couch she had assembled herself one Sunday afternoon while listening to true crime podcasts, not the sister she had tried so hard to save nine years ago when the lake had swallowed her whole.
Arden stood in the doorway of her own apartment and watched her boyfriend fuck her sister on the red IKEA couch.
The couch was red. How fitting.
Marcus saw her first. He shoved Lira off his lap so hard she tumbled onto the floor, designer yoga pants tangled around her ankles, platinum blonde hair a mess of expensive extensions and lies. His face went white, then red, then some sickly shade in between that reminded Arden of the corpses she wrote about in her novels. The ones that had been dead for three days in summer heat.
"Arden," he said, and his voice cracked on her name like he was the victim here. Like she had done something wrong by coming home early from the bookstore signing that had been canceled because only six people showed up. "Fuck. This isn't what it looks like."
"What it looks like?" Arden heard herself say. Her voice came out flat and distant, like she was narrating her own life from somewhere far away. Like she had already left her body and was floating near the ceiling, watching this scene play out with detached curiosity. "That's the line you're going with? That's the best you can do?"
She should have been screaming. Should have been crying. Should have been throwing things or collapsing or doing any of the dramatic things her characters did when their worlds imploded. But Arden just stood there, keys dangling from her fingers, leather jacket still zipped up, combat boots leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor because it was raining outside and she had walked three blocks from the bus stop.
Lira sat up slowly. She pulled her yoga pants up with deliberate care, smoothing down her crop top like she was preparing for an Instagram photo. When she finally looked at Arden, there was something in her eyes that made Arden's stomach twist. Not shame. Not guilt. Not even embarrassment.
Satisfaction.
"Arden," Lira said softly, using that breathy voice she used in her YouTube videos, the one that made her two point three million followers think she was sweet and vulnerable and real. "We need to talk about this like adults."
"Adults," Arden repeated. The word felt strange in her mouth. Foreign. She was twenty one years old but she had never felt like an adult. She had felt like a ghost wearing a person suit, going through the motions of living while waiting for permission to disappear.
Marcus was pulling on his jeans now, hopping on one foot like an idiot, still trying to find words that would make this okay. "Look, it just happened. We didn't plan this. You've been so distant lately, always locked in your room writing, never wanting to go out or do anything fun. Lira understood me in a way you never did."
Arden laughed. It came out sharp and ugly, nothing like the laughs she had practiced in the mirror when she was fourteen and desperate to seem normal. "You fucked my sister because I was too busy writing? That's your excuse?"
"It's not an excuse," Lira said, standing up now, crossing her arms under her breasts in a way that pushed them up. Everything Lira did was calculated for maximum effect. Even betrayal. "It's the truth. You don't actually want Marcus. You don't want anyone. You just want to sit in the dark and write about dead people because you're too scared to actually live."
The words hit harder than Arden expected. Maybe because they were true. Maybe because they came from Lira, who Arden had watched drown when they were children, who Arden had frozen for forty seven seconds before screaming for help, who had every right to hate Arden but had never said it out loud until now.
"How long?" Arden asked. She was surprised her voice still worked.
Marcus and Lira exchanged a glance. A whole conversation happened in that look, the kind of intimate communication that comes from spending hours together, learning each other's rhythms and secrets. The kind of thing Arden had never had with Marcus despite dating him for eleven months.
"Three months," Marcus said finally.
Three months. Arden did the math automatically, the way she always did, organizing information into neat timelines like chapter outlines. Three months ago was July. The month Marcus had suggested they take a break from sex because he was stressed about work. The month Lira had started coming over more often, always with some excuse about needing to film content in Arden's apartment because the lighting was better. The month Arden had been revising her third novel, the one her editor said was too dark, too violent, too honest about what grief really looked like.
"I see," Arden said.
She should say more. Should demand explanations or apologies or something. But what was the point? She had written this scene a dozen times in different variations. The cheating boyfriend. The treacherous friend. The betrayal that comes from the person you least expect. She knew how it ended. Someone always ended up dead in her stories.
"I'm leaving," she said instead.
"Wait," Marcus said, reaching for her. "We should talk about this. Figure out what happens next."
"What happens next?" Arden looked at his hand on her arm. She had described hands like this in her writing. Strong hands. Capable hands. Hands that could protect or destroy depending on the scene requirements. She had thought Marcus's hands were the protecting kind. She had been wrong about a lot of things. "What happens next is I leave. You stay here with my sister. You fuck on my couch and sleep in my bed and eat my food. I don't care. The lease is up in two months anyway."
"Where will you go?" Lira asked. There was something in her voice now, something that sounded almost like concern. But Arden knew better. Lira had been performing concern for nine years, ever since the drowning, ever since the brain damage that had stolen her words for two years and given them back different. Sharper. Meaner.
"I don't know," Arden said honestly. "Anywhere but here."
She turned and walked out of her apartment. She left her keys on the hall table. Left her laptop on her desk with three chapters of her work in progress unsaved. Left her entire life behind like it was a draft she could just delete and start over.
The rain had gotten heavier. It soaked through her jacket in seconds, plastered her dark hair to her skull, made her shiver in the October cold. She walked without direction, boots splashing through puddles, hands shoved deep in her pockets. She should have been crying but her eyes stayed stubbornly dry. Maybe she had used up all her tears years ago. Maybe she had cried them into her keyboard while writing about other people's grief because she could never quite access her own.
She thought about her mother. About the car accident when Arden was sixteen. About the way her mother's last words had been "Why are you always so slow?" Because Arden had been slow to swerve, slow to react, slow to save the one person who had ever made her feel like maybe she deserved to exist.
She thought about Kael Draven. About the way he had looked at her during that family dinner two years ago when Lira had introduced him as her boyfriend. About the way he had found Arden having a panic attack in the bathroom and had sat with her on the floor until she could breathe again. About the confession he had whispered three days before he died. "I love you, Arden. Not her. You." About the way Arden had kissed him once and then pushed him away because she destroyed everything she touched and she would not destroy him too.
Except she had destroyed him anyway. He had died in a training accident three days later. A grenade. A split second decision to push his squad mates to safety. And Arden had never told anyone about the confession, had gone to his funeral and stood next to Lira and watched her sister cry perfect tears for the cameras while Arden stayed dry eyed and empty and guilty.
She was always guilty. Guilty for the drowning. Guilty for the car crash. Guilty for Kael. Guilty for existing when everyone around her seemed to suffer for it.
The street was empty. It was after midnight and this part of the city was mostly warehouses and closed shops. The rain fell in sheets, distorting the streetlights into blurry halos. Arden kept walking. Her phone buzzed in her pocket but she ignored it. Probably Marcus with some pathetic apology. Probably Lira with another performance of concern. It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
That was the problem, wasn't it? She had spent her whole life trying to matter to someone. Trying to be good enough for her mother. Trying to save her sister. Trying to be worth loving. But she was just Arden Vale, mediocre horror writer, professional ghost, the girl who hesitated when it mattered most.
She should have saved Lira faster. Should have swerved faster. Should have told Kael yes instead of no. Should have been enough for Marcus. Should have been enough for anyone.
The bus stop appeared out of the rain like a stage set. Arden stopped walking and stared at it. She didn't remember this bus stop being here before. She walked this street sometimes when she needed to think, and she was sure the nearest stop was three blocks over.
But there it was. A simple shelter with plastic walls and a metal bench. No advertisements. No route numbers. Just a single flickering light and a sign that said "BUS 000."
Arden's heart skipped. Professional hazard. She saw story potential in everything. A mysterious bus stop that appeared out of nowhere. A bus with an ominous number. It was horror novel gold. She should take a photo for reference. Should write it down before she forgot.
But she didn't have her phone. Or maybe she did but it didn't matter because she was so tired. So fucking tired of being Arden Vale.
She sat down on the bench. Water dripped from her hair, ran down her neck, soaked into her jeans. She should find a hotel. Should call someone. Should do any number of practical things that a functional adult would do after catching their boyfriend cheating with their sister.
Instead she sat there and waited for a bus that probably didn't exist.
Time passed strangely. Maybe five minutes. Maybe an hour. The rain kept falling. The streetlight kept flickering. Arden's thoughts drifted like fog, shapeless and cold.
She thought about her books. About the characters she had killed. Did they know they were going to die? Did they fight it or accept it? She always tried to make their deaths mean something. Tried to give them purpose in the narrative. But real death wasn't like that. Real death was her mother's neck snapping on impact. Real death was Kael's body torn apart by shrapnel. Real death was meaningless and stupid and unfair.
She thought about dying. Not in the romantic way she used to when she was a teenager and everything hurt too much to bear. Just factually. Clinically. What would happen if she walked into the street right now? Would it hurt? Would there be a flash of pain and then nothing? Would anyone care?
Marcus wouldn't. He was probably still in her apartment with Lira, maybe feeling guilty for thirty seconds before deciding he deserved happiness too. Lira definitely wouldn't care. Lira had been waiting for Arden to disappear since the drowning. Since before that, probably. Sisters were supposed to love each other but Arden had learned early that biology didn't guarantee affection.
Her editor might be annoyed about the unfinished manuscript. Her landlord would be relieved to rent the apartment to someone who paid on time and didn't blast sad music at three in the morning. Her readers would forget her after a few months. Most of them probably didn't even know she existed. Horror writers weren't like romance authors or thriller writers. They lurked in the shadows of the publishing world, writing for the freaks and the outcasts and the people who understood that sometimes the monster was just you.
Headlights cut through the rain.
Arden looked up. A bus was approaching. Not a city bus with colorful ads and route numbers. This bus was black. Sleek. Old fashioned in a way that reminded Arden of vintage movies. The kind of bus that might have existed in the 1940s if buses had been designed by someone with a gothic sensibility and a dark sense of humor.
The number on the front glowed white in the darkness. 000.
The bus stopped directly in front of the shelter. The doors hissed open. Warm light spilled out, impossibly inviting after the cold rain. Arden could see red velvet seats inside. Could hear soft music playing, something classical and melancholy.
A figure appeared at the top of the steps. The driver. He wore a vintage conductor's uniform, all black with silver buttons. His face was hidden in shadow under his peaked cap.
"Last bus of the night," he said. His voice was smooth and ageless, neither young nor old. "You coming or not?"
Arden knew this was wrong. Knew that buses didn't look like this or appear out of nowhere or have drivers who spoke like they were characters in a gothic novel. She had written enough horror to recognize the setup. Girl alone at night. Mysterious vehicle. Ominous invitation.
This was how people disappeared.
This was how stories ended.
"Where does it go?" she heard herself ask.
The driver tilted his head. She still couldn't see his face but she felt him smile. "Where do you think?"
Arden should walk away. Should run. Should pull out her phone and call someone even though there was no one left to call. But her legs were already moving. Her boots were already climbing the steps. Her hand was already gripping the metal rail, wet and cold and real.
She stepped onto the bus.
The doors closed behind her with a sound like a coffin lid.
The interior was beautiful in a funeral parlor kind of way. Red velvet seats lined both sides, each one empty. The lighting was warm and soft, coming from vintage sconces on the walls. The music was louder now and Arden recognized it. Chopin. Marche Funèbre. The funeral march.
Of course.
"Take any seat," the driver said without turning around. "We'll be departing shortly."
Arden walked down the aisle on autopilot. Her boots left wet prints on the burgundy carpet. She chose a seat near the back, by the window, the same seat she always chose on public transportation. The seat where she could watch everyone without being watched.
The bus lurched forward. Smooth. Silent. Nothing like the jerky city buses she was used to. Arden looked out the window but the rain had turned the glass opaque. She couldn't see the street. Couldn't see the city. Couldn't see anything but her own reflection staring back at her.
She looked terrible. Hair plastered to her skull. Mascara running. Eyes too wide. Like a drowned girl. Like Lira nine years ago, pale and lifeless in the hospital bed.
"First time?" a voice asked.
Arden's head snapped to the left. A man was sitting across the aisle from her. She was absolutely certain he hadn't been there thirty seconds ago. The seats had all been empty. She had checked.
He was young, maybe mid twenties, with dark hair and darker eyes. He wore a worn military jacket over a black shirt, dog tags glinting at his throat. There was a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He looked solid. Real. More real than anything else on this bus.
He looked like Kael.
But that was impossible because Kael was dead. Had been dead for two years. Arden had gone to his funeral. Had watched them lower his casket into the ground. Had kept his confession secret even in death because that's what you did when you were Arden Vale. You kept secrets. You carried guilt. You survived while everyone else died.
"I'm sorry," Arden said, her voice hoarse. "Do I know you?"
The man studied her with an intensity that made her want to look away. "Not yet," he said finally. "But you will."
The bus picked up speed. The funeral march swelled in the speakers. Arden's hands started shaking and she couldn't stop them. She pressed them between her knees and tried to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way her therapist had taught her before she stopped going to therapy because talking about her feelings felt like pulling teeth.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
The man smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. "You really don't know?"
"No."
"Then you're going to figure it out the hard way." He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "Word of advice. When we get to the first station, run. Don't stop. Don't look back. Don't try to save anyone. Just run."
"What are you talking about?"
"You'll see."
The bus began to slow. Arden looked out the window again and this time she could see something through the rain. Lights. A building. A structure that looked like a train station but wrong somehow. Too big. Too gothic. Too much like something out of one of her novels.
The bus stopped. The doors hissed open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of copper and rot.
The driver's voice crackled over an intercom. "Welcome to Terminal One. Please exit the vehicle in an orderly fashion. And remember." A pause. A soft chuckle. "This is the Deadline Game. Survival is optional. Entertainment is mandatory."
Arden's blood went cold. She looked at the man across the aisle. "What did he just say?"
"You heard him." The man stood up, stretching like he was preparing for a workout. "Welcome to hell, Arden Vale. Hope you're ready."
"How do you know my name?"
But he was already walking toward the exit. Arden scrambled to follow him, her legs weak, her heart hammering. She stumbled down the steps and onto a platform that shouldn't exist.
The terminal stretched out before her like a nightmare made real. Gothic architecture mixed with industrial metal. Flickering lights. Shadows that moved wrong. And people. Dozens of people standing on the platform, all of them looking as confused and terrified as Arden felt.
A screen flickered to life on the far wall. Massive. Impossible to miss. Numbers scrolled across it. Names. Statistics.
PLAYERS: 47 SURVIVORS: 47 AUDIENCE: 10,847,293 ENTERTAINMENT VALUE: PENDING
Arden stared at the screen. This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream. A hallucination. A psychotic break brought on by betrayal and rain and too many years of writing horror.
But it felt real. The cold felt real. The fear felt real. The certainty that she had made a terrible mistake felt real.
"Listen up!" A voice boomed across the platform. Arden turned and saw a woman standing on a raised dais, dressed in elegant black. "Welcome to the Deadline Game. You're all dead. Well, mostly dead. The rules are simple. Survive the stations. Entertain the audience. Earn your resurrection." She smiled. It was beautiful and terrifying. "Or die trying. Either way, we get a show."
Someone screamed. Then everyone was screaming. People ran in different directions. Some toward the exits. Some toward the woman. Some just ran in circles like panicked animals.
Arden stood frozen. Always frozen when it mattered most.
A hand grabbed her arm. The man from the bus. Kael's face. Dead Kael's face.
"I told you to run," he said. "So run."
He pulled her forward and Arden ran. She ran away from the bus and the platform and the screaming. She ran into the nightmare that had been waiting for her all along.
And somewhere in the darkness, something laughed.