TERROR & MADNESS

POV- MIA CARTER

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We buried Claire in silence.

Not in soil.

There was none.

Only darkness.

The hallway had twisted again—walls bending inward like ribs of some great beast, creaking with breathless tension. It wasn’t a place anymore. It was a mouth. A trap. A game board rigged with grief.

We laid her beneath a shattered mirror, its jagged teeth catching the flickering light. Claire’s body was too still, too quiet. In death, she looked peaceful—almost like she belonged here. Which made it worse.

She never belonged here. Not in this hell. Not with us.

I wanted to say something. A goodbye. A prayer. A sorry.

But my voice… it had cracked somewhere in that bloody corridor, torn apart along with everything else. I could feel it lodged deep in my throat, a scream I hadn't let out. Maybe never would.

Ethan hadn’t spoken since we found her.

He stood like a statue a few feet away, back straight, but broken in every line of his silhouette. His fists were clenched so tightly I saw the skin split—thin ribbons of red seeping down his wrists like ink on paper.

“She’s dead,” he finally said. Voice flat. Hollow. “Because of us.”

I swallowed. “Because of this place,” I murmured.

But he didn’t hear me.

Or he didn’t want to.

He dropped to his knees and started to laugh.

Not loud. Not wild.

It was worse than that—low, guttural, and raw. Like his soul was trying to crawl out through his teeth.

“She was the good one, Mia. The innocent one.”

I took a step toward him, cautious. “Ethan, don’t—”

He looked up.

That’s when I saw it.

Not grief.

Not guilt.

But madness.

His eyes twitched, mouth curved in something that didn’t belong on his face. I felt the temperature drop. The shadows grew teeth.

“Maybe if we stop the game,” I said carefully, “we can still get out. Maybe—”

“We don’t stop it!” he snapped. “We finish it. And maybe—”

He stood slowly, twitching like a puppet on frayed strings.

“Maybe that means finishing you.”

My blood ran cold.

“Ethan,” I whispered, taking a step back. “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you.”

But it was too late.

He lunged—too fast, too sudden. His hands slammed into my shoulders, driving me into the wall. The mirror behind me shattered, and shards rained like falling stars—sharp, slicing, real.

I kicked. I struggled. I screamed.

His face hovered inches from mine, contorted.

Anger. Rage. And underneath it all—something else.

Possession.

It wasn’t him. Not anymore.

The game had him.

I shoved him with all I had, my arms bleeding, my breath ragged. I stumbled through a doorway half-eaten by rot and shadow. My vision blurred red. He came after me, laughing like a marionette jerked by invisible strings.

“You said we’d survive together!” he shouted. “You LIED! You always lie—like you lied to Claire! You left her—like you left Jason—like you left ME—”

“ETHAN, STOP!”

But he didn’t.

Not until—

He did.

Mid-step, his body stiffened. The corridor’s light behind him flickered—once, twice.

And then…

He was gone.

No sound.

No warning.

Just—gone.

Like the game had blinked and erased him.

No scream. No shadow. No trace.

Just silence.

Just the cracked hallway behind me.

And above the mirror shards, written in jagged scratches across the glass:

“PLAYER REMOVED.”

My knees gave out.

I crumpled, breath wheezing from my lungs like smoke from dying coals.

I was alone.

Claire—dead.

Jason—dead.

Ethan—taken.

And me?

Still here.

Still standing.

Still playing.

Still hunted.

I raised my eyes to the mirror.

This time, I did see my reflection.

Bloodied.

Bruised.

Broken.

But not defeated.

And beneath it, glowing faintly in smeared crimson letters as if painted in pain itself:

“FINAL ROUND.”

# To be continued

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