Silent Scope

What the Hell.

Sweat dripped from my brow as my brain scrambled to catch up. Then—

Pew. Pew.

Two more shots, two more bodies.

The first to fall was the average guy—he crumpled instantly near the entrance of the bridge. The second was the skinny one with the butcher knife. He clutched his blood-soaked arm, the knife slipping from his grasp as a howl of pain escaped him. His gaze darted to the skyscraper behind me, the one Eyebags and I were sprinting toward—the one my friend would never reach.

I whispered a silent prayer for him, promising a proper funeral if I survived. Skinny guy was still looking, his eyes locked on something in one of the jagged, glassless windows of the skyscraper. Then I caught it—a glint, a sharp metallic reflection. Is That a freaking sniper!?

Before I could even finish the thought, the universe decided to confirm it for me. Another shot rang out, and the skinny guy went down like a badly assembled Ikea chair.

For a brief, idiotic second, I almost thought—Did they just save me? 

But then the next bullet screamed past my ear, close enough to make the air itself flinch. Yeah, no. They intended to kill everyone on this bridge including me. 

Panic surged, and I bolted. The end of the bridge, the skyscraper's safety, was only 35 meters away. I made a sprint for it.

The sharp zing of bullets echoed behind me, one grazing my right hand, the sting hot and searing. I stumbled but didn't stop. Adrenaline pushed me forward, feet pounding against the bridge's wooden slats, every step fueled by pure, undiluted survival instinct.

I dove through the skyscraper's entrance, throwing my chainsaw in first and doing an impromptu front roll into the building. 

My knee was scraped, my arm bleeding, but considering I was still breathing, I'd call that a win. My arm was hurting a bit but since medical supplies were obviously too much to ask for in this hellhole, I went with the next best thing.

I revved up my chainsaw, tore off a strip of my own damn sleeve, and fashioned myself a makeshift tourniquet. DIY medical care at its finest.

After bandaging myself up, I finally took in my surroundings—and wow.

Unlike the decayed husk I'd just escaped from, this skyscraper was…different. The interior wasn't an abandoned office but an abandoned casino. Does every skyscraper have a theme?

Neon lights flickered weakly, casting eerie glows over shattered poker tables and overturned slot machines. A massive chandelier hung above, swaying slightly, waiting to fall on some unexpecting bystander.

Fantastic. I survived a sniper, only to end up in some gambler's fever dream. Just my luck.

I took a slow breath, forcing myself to think. Analyze. Process.

Alright. I was on the 53rd—maybe 54th—floor. Hard to tell with a directory sign that was covered in grime. There were supposed to be five people per skyscraper, but thanks to the bridges linking them all together, that number was probably about as accurate as my life expectancy.

I took a cautious step forward, my boots crunching against broken glass and discarded poker chips. The air was stale, thick with the scent of dust and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe? Hard to tell.

The place must've been grand once. Or it was just a grand set made by the bird freak. Rows of slot machines stood like forgotten sentinels, their screens long dead, their promise of fortune reduced to nothing but dust-covered plastic. Tables for blackjack and roulette were overturned, cards scattered across the floor like a losing gambler's final curse.

I needed to find the stairs—or, if the universe felt particularly generous, a working elevator.

The main hallway stretched ahead, completely deserted. Not creepy at all. On the bright side, no murderous lunatics in sight. Yet. The sniper was at least ten floors up, which meant I had to head down. 

I spotted an elevator and, because my luck is absolute garbage, it was—shockingly—out of order. Yep I guess it's safe to say that all elevators of all skyscrapers are not working and serve only aesthetic purposes.

Circling the floor, I found the usual layout—two staircases on opposite ends. Before committing, I glanced up at the fake sky for an update:

Body count: 200/500

Time left: 30 hours (1 day 6 hours 09 mins 46 secs).

Fantastic. Two out of five people were already dead. Glad to see this death trap was right on schedule.

I made my way to the stairs—only to stop dead in my tracks. A thin, nearly invisible string stretched across the bottom of the door. Huh. A trap. How original.

Just to be sure, I gave it a little nudge with my chainsaw. The second I did, a knife came screaming down from the ceiling, aimed directly at what would have been my chest if I had decided to walk through the door.

Well. That would've been embarrassing. 

Now, not only do I have to dodge maniac killers, but I also have to play detective with booby traps.

Fantastic. Just what I signed up for.

With a sigh, I stepped back from the doorway, side-eyeing the deadly string contraption which had personally offended me. The knife was still suspended midair, quivering slightly, as if mocking me for almost walking straight into my untimely demise.

Alright, stairs are a death trap. Noted.

I glanced back at the busted elevator. No power, no luck. Maybe I could pry it open and climb down the shaft? Yeah, no. That was a great way to plummet to my death and add to the ever-growing body count flashing on the fake sky above me.

I needed a way to go down. Sticking to the wall, I scanned the hallway for another way down. Maybe a maintenance ladder? A fire escape? An air vent big enough to squeeze through? 

Just as I was about to start ripping open walls in desperation, something caught my eye—a trapdoor near the far end of the hallway. A service hatch? A garbage chute? A bottomless pit designed specifically to ruin my day? Only one way to find out.

I made my way over, stepping carefully over shattered glass and the occasional ominous-looking stain. The hatch was rusted shut but after some aggressive persuasion with my boot (and a few choice insults), it groaned open, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel leading downward.

Oh great. A mystery hole. Because those always end well.

I peeked inside. No ladder. No handholds. Just a steep drop into the great unknown. Perfect. Just absolutely perfect.

My gaze dropped to the stained blue carpet I was standing on, its ancient Egyptian-style patterns looking way too fancy for a place that smelled like dust and bad decisions. That's when inspiration—or desperation—struck. I grabbed a torn section of the carpet and wrapped it around one of the massive coin slot's handles which was mounted to the wall, hoping that centuries-old gambling decor could double as life-saving equipment.

Taking a deep breath, I tied the other end around my waist, fingers tightening around the edges of the hatch. "Alright, universe," I muttered. "If this dumps me straight into a nest of sewer mutants, just know—I totally called it."

With one last tug to make sure my glorified rug-rope wouldn't betray me immediately, I swung myself over the edge.

For a glorious half-second, everything seemed fine. Then, reality—and gravity—reminded me of my terrible life choices.

The carpet gave a worrying creak. Then a rip. Then an oh-no kind of snap. And just like that, I was in freefall. 

The air whooshed past me, my stomach doing that fun little drop that only happens when you realize you've made a massive mistake. I braced myself for the worst—broken bones, instant death, maybe landing in a giant pit of spikes just for dramatic effect.

Instead, I crashed onto something surprisingly…soft?

I groaned, blinking up at the hole I'd just fallen through, the shredded remains of my so-called safety line fluttering down after me like confetti at my own funeral.

I pushed myself up, my hands sinking into whatever had just broken my fall. It took my brain a second to catch up. Then another second to wish it hadn't.

Oh. Oh no.

Not pillows. Not trash bags. Not a conveniently placed mattress.

Bodies.

A whole pile of them.

"Well, that's just fantastic," I grumbled, rolling off the lovely corpse collection like I was some kind of VIP guest at the worst hotel imaginable.

I stumbled to my feet, grimacing as I wiped off whatever unholy substances had latched onto me. The stench hit me like a personal attack, and I spent the next ten minutes engaged in the hardest —try-not-to-puke challenge.

Once I finally managed to breathe without gagging, I did a quick body count—five. Five dismembered bodies, all dumped in this already small space like someone's leftovers. How? Why? Who knows. Either way, it wasn't my problem. Well, except for the part where I was in the pile.

I expected gunshot wounds—maybe the psycho sniper from earlier—but no. These poor souls had been hacked apart. Jagged, uneven cuts, with some good old-fashioned blunt force trauma mixed in. An axe, most likely. And whoever swung it? They weren't just killing. They were having fun.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps. Close. Steady. Getting closer. Shit. Whoever did this was coming back to admire their work.

I ducked behind a coin slot machine, my boots squelching against the blood-soaked floor. The sound made my stomach churn, but I made sure to hide my boot tracks in the blood, praying they wouldn't notice. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped.

From my hiding spot, I saw him. A man, holding an axe. I'd been right—that's what killed them. He looked so... ordinary. The kind of guy you'd pass on the street without a second glance, never guessing he'd just dismembered five people.

His gaze then fell on my makeshift carpet. Shit. In my defense, I really didn't have time to hide—let alone hide an eight-meter carpet.

He scanned the room slowly, his eyes sharp, calculating.

"Come out," he said, his voice calm but chilling. "I know you're here somewhere."

I held my breath, every muscle in my body tense. I wasn't about to be his next masterpiece.