Splash.
Another wave of icy water slaps me straight in the face—because clearly, being half-drowned wasn't enough of a vibe. My clothes cling to my skin, my boots squelch with every step, and my teeth won't stop chattering. Just one more floor. That's all we need. One more level down, and maybe—just maybe—we'll be safe. Or, if not safe, then slightly less doomed.
Peanuts stumbles beside me, slipping on the slick stairwell—but somehow manages to land in a dramatic half-crouch, like an action-movie sidekick who just dodged an explosion with style.
"I swear," he pants between gulps of air, "this building's personally out to kill us."
I don't answer. Too focused on surviving these last few steps without cracking my skull open. Every footfall is a gamble. Will I trip on a stair? Slide into the railing? Go down in history as the idiot who face-planted ten seconds before freedom?
Above us, something slams—metallic, sharp, intentional.
Mask Guy?
No time to check. No time to confirm. Just keep moving.
"Five minutes remaining," a voice blasts from the overhead speakers. It's mechanical and flat, with the warmth of a refrigerator warning alarm.
We hit the ninth-floor landing. And there it is—the door. Ugly, dented, rust-streaked metal. But at this point, it might as well be the gates of heaven.
"Welcome backkkkkkk," sings that grating, too-cheerful voice.
Bird Freak. Of course he's still here.
I glance around, scanning for the final piece of this miserable puzzle. Something's missing.
Where's Mask Guy?
He took the other stairwell—
Right then, he bursts through from the other side, stepping in calmly like the rising tide of death behind us is just light background noise. Unbothered. Unrushed.
"Good job there, you guys," Bird Freak says, voice buzzing through the speaker like he's a camp counselor congratulating us for surviving a scavenger hunt. Vaguely impressed. Or maybe condescending. Hard to tell with masked birds who like torturing people for fun.
"But before I open the door," he continues with fake customer service perkiness, "I'd love to offer you a quick rating survey!"
Peanuts and I lock eyes.
He's serious. Oh god, he's serious.
"Did you enjoy your experience in the first game?" Bird Freak chirps. "Was the murder fun? Would you recommend our bloodbath to friends and family? Your feedback helps make future seasons more deadly and delightful for both players and audience!"
Audience?
That word hits me like a punch to the gut. My stomach clenches.
Before I can even begin to process it, Mask Guy steps forward like he's clocking out of a job.
"Three out of ten," he says flatly, brushing past us like he's critiquing a movie he barely stayed awake for.
Bird Freak hums in mock disappointment.
"Ouch. Rough score. But fair, I guess."
I blink, still trying to catch up.
Three out of ten? What even was the rating scale? Kill count? Ambience? Murderer charisma?
A camera mounted in the corner whirs to life. Its lens tilts until it's staring directly at me. The red light blinks like a heartbeat. It wants input.
Are we really doing this?
I glare back at the lens, soaked, shaking, and so over it I could scream.
"Zero stars," I mutter. "Would not kill aga—"
Mask Guy cuts me off mid-sentence. He doesn't even look back. Just reaches out and pushes the door open.
No suspense. No hesitation. No final trap or dramatic confrontation. Just click.
That's it.
Fine. Sure. Why not.
While Peanuts and I are still frozen, trying to process the sudden anticlimax, Mask Guy casually walks through like he's punching out for the night at some nightmarish retail job.
I glance at Peanuts. He meets my eyes, and then, like two reluctant sheep heading toward the world's worst mystery prize, we follow. Because honestly, this building was about to explode and we didn't have much time.
We step into darkness.
Not just dim lighting or moody shadows.
No. We're talking can't-see-your-own-hand black. Complete void.
And that's when we hear it.
A deafening SNAP.
The floor disappears beneath us.
Trapdoor.
Peanuts screams. I scream. Together we make a whole horror movie soundtrack as we're flung into what can only be described as a water slide designed by a sadist.
Freezing water rushes around us, slamming us into smooth walls and tighter turns. Like we weren't already soaked enough—now we're being wrung out like old dish towels.
And it keeps going.
The minutes stretch. My body aches. My brain short-circuits. I think I left my sanity somewhere back at the third curve.
Then—finally—light.
Blinding. Artificial. Too bright. Like a stage spotlight snapping on mid-breakdown.
Peanuts yells something, but between the water, the wind, and the sheer emotional whiplash, I don't hear a word.
We're launched out the end like limp, waterlogged rag dolls, skidding across smooth tiles in a giant echoing hall. My ribs protest. My head spins.
I groan, flopping onto my back like a dead fish. "Still not a spa."
Peanuts coughs beside me, spitting out water. "Ten out of ten landing," he wheezes, voice raspy.
I sit up, every inch of me soaked, sore, and completely done with life.
That's when I spotted him—Mask Guy, standing perfectly still like he just teleported down here. Of course he stuck the landing.
But then I noticed them.
People.
Not monsters. Not dead bodies. Just… people. Sitting. Standing. Staring.
But they don't look relieved. Or kind. Or even human, really.
They look blank. Hollow. Like someone unplugged their thoughts and left them buffering.
Then my eyes drift upward.
A screen. Massive. Flickering like it knows it's important. On it, a cityscape unfolds—tall glass buildings, endless rows of lights. One of them is ours. The building we just fled like rats from a sinking ship.
In the corner, a countdown ticks down.
10 seconds.
Onscreen, people claw at doors that refuse to budge. Their screams echo through the feed, fists slamming against steel barriers deep inside their own skyscrapers. Each building is different—some with their safety zone on the first floor, others sealing off escape on the sixtieth. I picture it—racing up sixty flights in under ten minutes while water rushes down like a tidal wave. Just like we did. Only worse. Panic climbing every step with you. Desperation twists their faces—raw, frantic, utterly human. And I just sit there, too drained to even feel shocked.
This… this is exactly what Bird Freak said would happen.
Boom.
The buildings explode in a spectacular burst of flame, lighting up the screen like it's celebrating. The sound echoes through the hall like a punch to the lungs.
Peanuts and I flinch, ducking on instinct.
But the people around us?
They cheer.
Not quiet, nervous claps. Not relieved applause.
Real cheering. Loud, wild, fist-pumping jubilation. Like they just won the finals. Like vaporized strangers are just another scoreboard win.
Seriously?
I look around. They're laughing. Smiling. Elated.
And that's when everything clicks into place.
These people aren't survivors.
They're players.
They're competitors.
Before I can even begin to process that horror, the screen changes again.
Now there's a live chat.
Scrolling so fast I can barely catch the words, but what I do see is enough:
"LMAOOO did u see that guy fall??"
"My bet made it!!! EZ MONEY"
"rip floor 8 😂😂😂"
"that chick should've died lol"
"ZERO STARS GIRL IS A MOOD 💀"
My mouth goes dry.
We weren't even people to them.
We were content.
We were bets.
At the top of the screen, a viewer count ticks upward:
78,500 watching.
All live. All cheering.
All waiting for the next round of deaths.
I stare up at the glowing letters, my skin crawling, my stomach curling in on itself.
And all I can think is:
How many people had money riding on my life?