Chapter 3: First Blood

Chapter 3: First Blood

The silence that followed the swoosh of Rupert’s life-ending text was heavier than the concrete that had replaced the door. It was a suffocating blanket woven from betrayal, shock, and the chilling understanding of our powerlessness. Rupert sat slumped in his chair, a man hollowed out, his eyes fixed on the blank screen of his phone as if he could will the message to un-send itself. Across from him, Nadia wept. They weren't loud, racking sobs, but a quiet, continuous stream of tears that traced paths through the dust on her cheeks. She was mourning the death of her marriage and her closest friendship simultaneously, all while trapped in a cage with one of the architects of her pain.

Tod stared at the game box, his usual boisterous energy collapsed into a dense knot of guilt. His hands were clenched so tightly on his knees that his knuckles were white. He had unleashed this. His hunger for novelty, for a new thrill, had led us here. He looked up and his eyes met mine, and in them, I saw a desperate plea for me to fix this, to find a logical way out. But my mind, usually a safe haven of blueprints and right angles, was a chaotic mess of impossible realities.

The game, however, was a master of pacing. It didn't allow the silence to fester for long. The low hum returned, and the wooden token on Nadia’s starting square began to pulse with that same sickly green light. It was her turn.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, her gaze not leaving the floor. “I can’t.”

“Nadia, you have to,” Tod said, his voice a ragged plea. “Remember what happened to Rupert. Just… just roll the die. Whatever it is, we’ll face it.”

His words were meant to be comforting, but they were a lie. We wouldn't face it together. Rupert had faced the shock alone. Nadia had faced her heartbreak alone. The game was designed to isolate, to atomize our friendships until we were nothing but four terrified individuals in a room.

I knelt in front of her. "Nadia. Look at me." Her eyes, when she finally raised them, were vacant, lost in a sea of trauma. "It's okay. Just a game. Just a roll." I placed the heavy, unnatural-feeling die in her trembling hand and closed her fingers around it.

With a shuddering breath, she let it fall. It clattered onto the board with a sound that was too loud in the tense silence. A three. Her token, a simple wooden peg, seemed to vibrate with anticipation as she moved it three spaces. It landed on a square with the simple illustration of a pair of scissors. She drew a card from the deck, her hand shaking so badly she almost dropped it.

She read it, and a fresh wave of horror washed over her face, so profound it seemed to steal the very breath from her lungs. She didn't say a word, just held the card out for me to take.

I read the cheerful, looping script. ‘Your long hair has always been your pride. It is an attachment to a life that is over. Cut it off.’

“What is it?” Tod demanded, his voice tight.

I couldn’t speak. I just handed him the card. His face went pale as he read it.

“No. Absolutely not,” he snarled, throwing the card down. “This has gone too far. It’s one thing to tell secrets, but this…”

“It’s not a negotiation, Tod,” Rupert croaked from his chair, a bitter, broken laugh escaping his lips. “Don’t you get it yet? You do what it says, or it makes you.” He gestured to his chest, where the memory of the electric arc still seemed to flicker.

This was a new kind of cruelty. The game hadn't just identified a secret; it had identified a part of Nadia's identity, something she cherished, and demanded its ritualistic destruction.

“We don’t even have scissors,” I said, the statement sounding absurdly practical in the face of such malevolent insanity.

But the game was always one step ahead. From the corner of the basement, a scraping sound. An old, forgotten toolbox that had sat against the wall for years slid forward a few inches on its own. The rusted latch clicked open. Inside, nestled amongst old wrenches and screwdrivers, lay a single object: a utility knife with a grimy yellow handle and a cold, silver blade.

Nadia stared at it, a choked sob catching in her throat. The game was providing the instrument of her own violation.

She stumbled over to the toolbox and picked up the knife as if it were a venomous snake. For a moment, she held it, her knuckles white, and I thought she might refuse, that she might choose the searing pain of the electricity over this. But then, with a look of utter defeat, she turned back to us.

“I can’t…” she whispered, her resolve crumbling.

She held her long, dark hair, a thick handful of it, away from her head. She raised the knife. The first cut was clumsy, a sawing, tearing sound that made my stomach churn. The blade was dull in places. Hacking was the only word for it. A thick lock of dark hair, the hair she had spent years growing, fell to the dusty concrete floor like a dead thing.

Tears streamed down her face as she continued, silent and methodical. Hack, saw, tear. Another chunk fell. And another. We could only watch, horrified and helpless, as she sheared away her own identity. When she was done, she looked like a victim of some brutal attack. Her hair was a jagged, uneven mess, sticking out in ragged tufts. She dropped the knife, which clattered loudly on the floor. She looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the basement window, and the person staring back was a stranger, her eyes wide and permanently etched with terror.

The green light on her token faded. Her turn was over.

The hum shifted, and my token began to glow. My turn. My hand felt leaden as I picked up the die. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to stop, to let the electricity take me. But survival is a deeply ingrained, irrational instinct. I rolled a five. I moved my piece. I drew my card.

The text was short. 'Messy hands make for a messy life. Draw your own blood.'

My breath hitched. Beside me, the utility knife lay where Nadia had dropped it. Its blade glinted under the light of the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I picked it up. The plastic handle was warm from her hand. I extended my left forearm, took a deep breath, and pressed the tip of the blade into my skin.

The pain was sharp, clean, and shockingly real. It was a focal point in the swirling chaos of fear. A thin line of red appeared, and a single, perfect crimson bead welled up and trickled down my arm. It felt like a sacrifice, a pathetic offering to an evil, unknowable god.

I thought it was over. But as I watched the blood run, new words seemed to bleed into existence on the card below the first line.

‘Again.’

A cold dread, worse than the initial fear, seeped into my bones. This wasn't about a tribute. This was about submission. Gritting my teeth, I drew a second line parallel to the first, deeper this time. The pain was no longer clean; it was a hot, tearing sensation.

Then, the final command appeared, the sentence that would shatter what little remained of our humanity.

‘Now, make a friend messy, too.’

I stared at the words, my blood running cold. Draw blood from someone else. It was the one line we hadn't crossed. The game had forced us into self-mutilation and psychological torture. Now, it was demanding we become its willing instruments, to turn on one another.

I looked up, the knife still in my hand. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on me. Nadia, a broken doll in the corner. Rupert, whose face was a mask of furious terror, already calculating the odds. And Tod, who met my gaze with an expression of profound, soul-crushing guilt.

“No way, Ethan,” Tod whispered. “Don’t.”

“He has to,” Rupert spat. “Or we all pay. Do it to her,” he jabbed a finger toward Nadia. “She’s barely even here anymore. She won’t feel it.”

The sheer cruelty of the suggestion snapped something in Tod. With a roar, he launched himself at Rupert, tackling him out of his chair. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Tod’s fists raining down on Rupert’s head and shoulders. It was clumsy, desperate violence, fueled by fear and self-loathing.

“Stop!” I yelled, my voice raw.

Tod scrambled off Rupert, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, not to Rupert, but to me, to Nadia, to the room. He slowly got to his feet and faced me, his expression one of grim finality.

“Do it to me, Ethan,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his forearm. “I brought this curse into our lives. I insisted we play. Let it be me.”

It wasn't a choice. It was a sentence he was passing on himself. I looked from his outstretched arm to the bloody knife in my hand, then to the game board, which seemed to gleam with a dark, predatory satisfaction under the dim light. We were no longer friends. We were victim and tormentor, pieces in a game where the only rule was to hurt each other to survive.

With a hand that felt like it belonged to a stranger, I stepped forward and pressed the blade against my friend’s skin. The final barrier was broken. Blood, no longer just my own, tainted the air.