7TH ROUND

POV- MIA CARTER

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We stood in front of the rotted door, its wood pulsing as if it had a heartbeat. Blood leaked in thick droplets from the gap at the bottom, curling around our shoes like fingers.

Ethan gripped the rusted handle.

Behind us, Claire sat slumped against the wall, pale but conscious. Her eyes were half-lidded, her breaths shallow, but she had stopped shaking.

Too still.

Too quiet.

“Claire,” I called softly, “stay right there. We’ll be back soon, okay?”

She blinked slowly. Then… she smiled.

A strange, empty smile.

Ethan paused. “That doesn’t look like her smile.”

I turned fully toward her.

“Claire?” I took a step closer. “Claire, talk to me.”

She tilted her head—but her expression remained unnaturally blank. Her lips moved, whispering words I couldn’t hear.

Then she said it—not with her voice, but with Lillian’s.

> “Not everyone finishes the game.”

A cold chill crawled up my spine.

Ethan rushed forward. “Claire, snap out of it—!”

But she was already gone.

Vanished.

No scream. No sound.

Just an empty space where she sat, and a single item left behind:

Her necklace.

The one Jason gave her in freshman year—the silver star she never took off.

It was now twisted, charred black. The star melted into a crooked spiral, like a branding mark.

I picked it up, but it seared my fingers. I dropped it instantly.

“She’s not dead,” Ethan said, backing away. “She’s not—she can’t be.”

I couldn’t speak.

Because I knew what had happened.

The game had taken her.

Not to kill her.

Not yet.

But to hold her hostage.

A reminder of what we stood to lose if we failed.

The walls began to groan again. The nooses swayed violently, like they were laughing.

A new message carved itself onto the wall above the bloody door.

“ROUND SEVEN: BRING HER BACK.”

Ethan looked at me. “You think that means—”

“Yes,” I breathed. “The next round is about Claire.”

The door creaked open slowly on its own. Beyond it was blackness, deep and thick and endless.

But now we had no choice.

If we wanted to finish the game…

We had to rescue Claire.

Or die trying.

We stepped through the rotted door.

The world blinked.

Gone was the attic, the nooses, the blood-soaked floors.

Instead, we stood in the middle of a long hallway—narrow, windowless, its walls lined with dozens of mirrors.

But none reflected us.

The air was heavy with perfume. Claire’s perfume. That sweet vanilla she always wore, the one Jason used to tease her about. It clung to the air like a ghost.

We walked slowly, breath tight in our lungs, each step echoing like we were trespassing in someone else’s nightmare.

Then we saw it.

At the end of the corridor, beneath a single flickering bulb—

Claire.

She sat with her back against the wall.

Her head lolled to the side, blonde hair falling like a curtain over her face.

One hand rested on her stomach.

The other dangled, fingers gently brushing the floor.

“Claire?” I whispered, hope sparking—and dying all at once.

Because she didn’t move.

Not even a twitch.

We rushed to her.