The halls of Velvet Moon were quieter than usual.
Not because there were fewer footsteps, but because those who remained no longer walked with confidence—only caution. Eleven had become ten. Then fewer. The tension that once came in waves now sat on everyone's shoulders like a constant weight.
I had a mission this afternoon.
Gather allies. Real ones. Not wavering opportunists or cowards chasing safety.
So far, only Iris Denholm and Rin Aclaire agreed to walk beside me.
Desmond, Kara, and Noel—each gave some variation of the same excuse: "I need more time," or "I don't trust anyone yet." Typical.
And Damien Cord? The Thief?
I watched him from a distance before we left the common hall—his fingers twitching, his eyes darting constantly like a man waiting for an ambush that would never come. Even when I approached, he didn't speak. Only nodded… once… and turned away.
Not worth pushing.
Which left me, Iris, and Rin.
We walked through the dim-lit hallway toward my room, our steps echoing softly beneath us. Despite everything, for a few brief minutes, the air was different.
It was… quieter.
Not peace. But something close.
I glanced at Iris, who was hugging herself with both arms like she was trying to contain her own heartbeat.
"Did you get any sleep?" I asked.
She scoffed gently. "Sleep? That's a myth at this point."
Rin giggled beside her. "We should add 'sleep' to the list of roles. Legendary rarity. Only one in the building allowed to rest."
That pulled a quiet chuckle from Iris. "I'd vote myself out just to get that."
A lightness hung in the air. Not joy—just enough shared exhaustion to make silence less heavy.
I tilted my head. "So. If we weren't stuck in a psychological death game, what would you two be doing right now?"
Rin twirled a loose strand of her hair around her finger, walking backwards. "Hmm… probably applying for my doctorate. Or traveling. Paris, maybe. I've always wanted to write a thesis while sitting at a grimy café with bad coffee and a cat that hates me."
Iris blinked. "Wait, you're a student?"
"I was," Rin said with a shrug. "Now I guess I'm a magician of fate."
"I knew you were too smart to just be background," I said.
She gave a mock bow. "Flattery noted."
I turned to Iris. "What about you?"
She paused, looking uncertain for a moment. Then:
"…Photography," she said. "Or maybe just… walking around the city. With someone."
"Romantic or platonic?" Rin asked with a mischievous eyebrow raise.
Iris gave a small smile. "Don't know. Just someone who wouldn't disappear the next day."
That silence came back. Not cold, this time.
We arrived outside my room. I unlocked the door slowly, scanning the hallway behind us out of instinct. Still quiet.
"Alright," I said, holding the door open. "No booby traps, no Mafia waiting with a knife under the table. Welcome to the safest room in the building… So far"
Rin walked in first, inspecting the space with exaggerating tone. "Wow. No bloodstains. Clean bedsheets. Are you sure you live here?"
I rolled my eyes and flicked the light on.
Iris stepped in after, scanning the space. Her gaze lingered on the closed window, then the door behind us as it clicked shut.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "For letting us stay."
"You're not just staying," I replied. "We're building something."
"A rebellion?" Rin asked, hands on her hips.
"A fortress," I corrected.
The room settled into a calm hum. Rin stretched her arms above her head. Iris sat at the edge of the bed, finally letting her shoulders drop.
For a second, just a second, none of us were players. Just people.
But I knew better.
This peace wouldn't last.
And with what I suspected was coming, we didn't have many nights left to enjoy it.
So I let them talk. Let them laugh—soft and tired, but real.
Because later this night…
The game would move again.
POV Shift: Desmond Rake – 6:45 PM
The knock came sharp. Three times.
Not frantic. Not casual.
Deliberate.
I froze mid-step, fingers brushing Kara's wrist as I pulled her toward the closet.
"Hide," I whispered. "Now."
She looked at me with wide eyes, confusion and fear clashing in her face. I didn't explain. There wasn't time.
I shoved the closet door shut just as another knock landed—this one louder, heavier.
No voice.
No warning.
I backed away from the door slowly, placing myself between it and Kara. My fingers brushed over the hilt tucked behind the dresser—an old trick blade I hadn't used since Act 1.
One second. That's all I need to react.
Then the doorknob turned.
And the door opened… slowly.
No voice. Still no voice.
The light outside bled in.
And then he moved.
A blur of shadow and silver. A slash aimed clean at my throat.
Instinct took over.
I twisted left, the blade singing past my neck with a whisper of wind. I didn't wait for a second swing—I slammed my shoulder into the attacker's chest, forcing him back.
But he didn't grunt. Didn't stumble.
Instead, he flowed with the movement like smoke and pivoted—bringing the dagger down at my ribs. I jumped back, barely missing the slash as it carved through the air with surgical precision.
Assassin.
I should've known.
No words. No wasted movement. Just clean execution.
"You should've knocked softer," I growled, gripping the handle of the knife I pulled free.
The man didn't answer. Just stood, motionless, silver blade in hand—expression blank beneath a plain black mask.
He lunged again.
I parried. He twisted. Our weapons clashed once, twice, again—each strike faster, tighter. He was good. Better than I expected. Every time I blocked, he adjusted his rhythm, finding new angles. I bled first—just a graze across the forearm.
He didn't bleed at all.
I struck low, aiming for his leg. He leapt. Countered. Slashed for my shoulder. I ducked, slammed an elbow into his gut, but it was like hitting brick. He didn't flinch—just sliced upward, catching my cheek.
Hot blood.
I staggered back. He advanced.
Dammit… he's reading me.
I could feel it. The way his body moved—he was studying me, learning every habit, every twitch, and every hesitation. And he was adjusting.
Another strike—this time for my chest.
I barely blocked it. But the impact knocked the breath from my lungs.
I won't win this like this…
I stumbled back, breath heaving. He kept coming. His steps were silent, precise—no wasted energy. One more hit, and I'd drop.
But I wasn't just Desmond Rake.
I was the Penance.
And this was my last confession.
"You want my card?" I hissed. "Then come take it."
His blade rose.
I closed my eyes…
And I could feel it—his soul now bound to mine. The Penance ability… to take a life with mine. A forced judgment.
I opened my eyes and smiled.
"See you in hell."
The Assassin lunged.
I didn't move.
His blade stabbed into my gut—deep, fatal.
But at the same time, a searing pulse erupted between us.
He froze.
Blood dripped from his mask.
He collapsed with me.
Both of us slamming into the floor in a tangled.