"Rin—swap!" I shouted, sidestepping Kara's wild lunge as the pain in her voice still rang in my ears. I couldn't fight her. Not after everything she said. Not yet.
Rin didn't hesitate. She understood with just a glance. We passed each other like blades in the wind—her cloak sweeping behind her as she veered toward Kara, and I toward Leira.
Leira Vaughn's eyes narrowed the moment I turned to face her. She twirled her silver ringlets around one finger, masking her irritation behind a cold, amused smile.
"Finally," she said softly. "I get to return the favor for what you tried to pull back then."
Her tone was calm, but there was venom laced in every word. I said nothing, tightening my grip, taking one step forward. The flickering overhead lights reflected off her pale skin, casting her eyes in an unnatural shimmer. The eyes of someone who had killed without guilt.
She moved first.
Her hands raised, and I felt it—a chilling presence in the air, like a low hum of pressure crawling over my spine. The Illusion. It wasn't physical, not like Kara's brutal speed. It was mental, invasive, a constant pull on the edges of my mind, trying to slip inside and twist perception itself. Making me fall for a fake attack.
I dodged left, expecting the usual strike—but instead, I saw her standing still, smiling. Behind her… another Leira, rushing straight toward me with a dagger.
An illusion.
No—worse.
One real. One false.
I ducked, letting instinct guide me. The real blade grazed my cheek, a shallow sting, but enough to snap my thoughts into sharper focus. I backpedaled, analyzing every movement.
She was clever—too clever to use brute force. She wanted me to exhaust myself, to confuse reality until I struck at nothing.
"You're hesitating," she said. "You're supposed to be the Proxy, right? Judge, mastermind, the one everyone fears. But right now, you're just meat waiting to bleed."
I ignored her words, my eyes scanning her figure, her shadow. Her shadow didn't move when she moved—there. That was it.
The real Leira always had her feet planted slightly wider. She couldn't control her shadow perfectly. Not yet.
A fake lunged again. I stepped toward it, slashing upward—straight through air.
And then I spun around, bringing my elbow back hard. It collided with her ribs, and she let out a sharp gasp of air. Real.
She recovered quickly, stumbling but not falling. Her dagger came in low—straight to my gut. I parried, locking our wrists together. We were close now, breaths touching. Her eyes flickered, searching mine.
"Tell me," I said. "Was it worth it?"
Her smile faltered.
"All the lies. All the manipulation. That bar… the torture… the girl screaming…"
Her grin returned, colder than before. "She screamed beautifully."
I shoved her back.
Judge…
The moment I use this skill, she'd be marked.
But the Judge skill could only be used on someone truly guilty and it should be night.
The system wouldn't trigger unless I was right and in a perfect condition.
I quickly looked at the top to see the time it was 5:55pm.
I looked at her—calm, poised, bloody dagger in hand—and knew. This wasn't just a player.
This was a monster who hid behind lipstick and illusion.
She charged again. I waited—three steps, her right foot slightly wider, dagger up—
And Ding 6:00 pm…
Now.
My hand shot forward, not toward her weapon, but straight to her chest—low and angled. The blade in my grip pierced through fabric, flesh, and into the space beneath her ribs.
Right into her heart.
She gasped. Not a scream—more of a breath stolen too fast.
Her eyes widened in disbelief as she looked down, watching the blood begin to seep. Her dagger dropped from her hand, clattering to the floor.
"You—" she tried to speak, but I twisted the blade just enough to silence her.
My voice was low. Cold. "This is your judgment. For the lives you've ruined. For what you did to the reporter."
I let her slump forward. Her body crumpled slowly, collapsing to the side like a dying puppet finally cut from its strings.
No announcement followed. No system glow. Just silence.
Just the weight of what needed to be done.
Behind me, Rin's voice rang out through her heavy breathing. "She's down. Kara fled."
I nodded, still staring at the body before me—motionless, real.
Justice.
I didn't need permission.
I was the Proxy.
And now, only two remained.
Kara.
And Lucien Vale.
I turned toward Rin.
"We're ending this. Tonight."
POV Shift: The Mafia
I walked the hallways like I owned them. The lights flickered above me, pale and buzzing, casting brief shadows that slid along the corners like rats.
My shoes tapped against the floor. Measured. Calm.
Each step brought me closer.
I wasn't worried. The Proxy was cornered. The Fiend was broken. The Thief was dead. The Assassin failed.
And Iris?
I let a small smile curl across my lips.
"Iris Denholm," I said into the silence, like a lover's whisper. "Where are you hiding? That was your last life, wasn't it? The brave little Survivor with a mouth too loud for her own good."
I turned the corner, dragging the blade against the wall beside me, leaving a faint metal screech. "What happened to all that fire? No more running. No more escaping. Face me."
Silence.
But I could feel it. The tension in the air.
She was here.
Watching. Listening.
Cornered.
Perfect.
I turned the next hallway near the east wing—a dead-end corridor filled with storage carts and a vending machine humming with static. Empty.
I stepped forward—
Click.
The floor under me jerked, and I immediately knew: a trap.
A thick puff of powder erupted from the ceiling vent, blinding white. My eyes stung. I stumbled back.
Something slammed into my chest. A chair? No—a piece of a broken table.
I staggered.
Another strike. This time to my shoulder. Sharp.
Shit.
A blade?
No—glass.
She shattered a bottle and used the jagged end. Smart. Desperate. Resourceful.
I stepped back into the wall, blinking furiously as my vision started to clear—and there she was.
Iris. Sweating, breath ragged, a bloodied piece of mirror clutched in her hand.
"Fuck you," she spat, defiant. "I'm not running anymore."
I grinned.
"There she is," I said with amusement, blood trailing down my chin. "The brave little mouse."
I rushed her.
She swung wildly, catching my cheek—just a graze. I caught her wrist and twisted. She gasped, but kicked forward, hitting my leg and throwing me slightly off balance.
She drove past me, sprinting.
I followed—calm. Methodical. The adrenaline sharpened everything. The pain was fuel.
She slipped into the cinema room, and I knew her plan immediately. Darkness. Tight aisles. One entrance, one exit. Use the shadows.
I stepped in.
The automatic door sealed behind me.
Silence.
Only the faint hum of a paused projector screen.
And the shadows.
Rows of seats. A faint light from the ceiling panels flickering in pulses.
I drew my second knife.
"Iris," I called out, turning slowly. "This isn't going to end well for you."
No response.
I walked down the center aisle—slow, patient. My footsteps echoed.
Suddenly—movement from the left.
She lunged from a row, using the seats as leverage, aiming to stab my side. I twisted, caught her hand mid-air, and slammed her into the carpeted floor.
She groaned, but rolled and kicked up—catching me in the ribs.
I stumbled, swiped forward—missed.
She vanished into the darkness again.
A pause. Breathing.
I moved between the rows.
"I could kill you slowly, Iris. Like I did the others," I said flatly. "But I'll give you credit. You made it far. You even made me bleed."
I stepped closer to the projector booth, listening.
Faint shuffle behind me—
I ducked.
Her strike went over my head, and I twisted, elbowed her ribs, then slammed her into a wall of velvet-padded speakers.
She gasped, almost crumpled—but she didn't drop the broken shard.
Her arm trembled.
And her eyes burned with something I didn't expect.
Determination.
She lunged again, catching my arm—cutting deep.
Blood spilled.
I hissed, gritted my teeth—and threw her back.
I looked at my arm. Bleeding. Bad.
I looked up.
She was limping, backing away. Toward the front row.
I stepped forward—and she lit a flare.
A bright, blinding red. She'd ripped it from the emergency kit behind the screen.
I shielded my eyes. She rushed forward with a scream, the glass pointed.
This time, I didn't block.
I let her come closer—then side-stepped and slammed her down hard onto the velvet armrest.
The flare rolled to the floor.
And I pressed my hand to her throat.
"You're clever," I whispered.
She clawed at me, choking.
"But not clever enough."
I tightened my grip.
But her hand shot to her boot and pulled something—
A syringe.
She jammed it into my side.
I screamed and threw her off.
My vision swam. It wasn't lethal—but it burned like fire in my veins.
I fell to my knees.
And she crawled away, bloody and coughing, but alive.
The emergency light flickered on, bathing the room in red.
I staggered back up.
We locked eyes.
Both bleeding.
Both standing.
One knife. One broken shard.
I smiled.
"This is getting fun, you are able to counter attack me because of your passive isn't" I said.
She didn't answer.
But I knew.
Next round... one of us dies.