Three or Die

"Let's go."

Right. Sure. Just like that. Meanwhile, my brain was still buffering from what the speaker had said. Apparently, the guy on the thirteenth floor was already circling the drain—hopefully the brain injury did its job—but the two lunatics on the thirtieth floor? Still very much breathing and, unfortunately, still very much knife-happy.

I still had no idea what we were supposed to do when we hit the first floor anyway. So far, I'd just been sprinting down stairwells like some post-apocalyptic Usain Bolt, minus the glory and plus the trauma.

"Stop."

Peanut's voice snapped me out of my head like a slap. I hadn't even noticed the massive steel door barricading the way between the ninth and tenth floors. 

As Peanut examined the door, my gaze landed on an obvious-looking camera staring straight at us.

"Congratulations, Ms. Cottontail," came the smug, nasal voice from the speaker.

I clenched my jaw so hard I swear I heard a tooth crack. Bird Freak.

I glared into the camera, and maybe his stupid face behind it, until Peanut gave me a nudge. "What's going on?"

"Oh, you know," I muttered. "Just being emotionally abused over the intercom."

"Come on, Cottontail, you look mad. That makes me sad," Bird Freak whined, clearly auditioning for the role of Most Punchable Voice Ever. "I was going to let you through. This is the safe zone checkpoint, after all! But where's the fun in that? Especially with 15 whole hours left on the timer!"

"Open the damn door!" I snapped. "This isn't fair!"

Bird Freak laughed. And not a normal laugh—no, this was a Saturday morning cartoon villain laugh, complete with the emotional stability of a wet sock. "Fair? Oh, sweet Cottontail… I told you from the start: the game was never fair."

I lunged for the doorknob in a last-ditch attempt to feel like I had any control over my life. That's when a jolt of electricity blasted through my arm, and I stumbled back, nearly choking on the scream I barely swallowed.

"Don't ever do that," Bird Freak chuckled, clearly enjoying himself like the sadistic game show host he was.

It burned like hell, but hey—at least I touched it before Peanut did. Gold star for me, I guess.

"New rule announcement!" Bird Freak's voice boomed from all the speakers. "Atmost three people should be alive in each skyscraper for the safety zone to open. The skyscraper will explode when the timer ends, and anyone not behind the 9th floor safe door—well, kaboom!" His laughter rang through the speakers, unhinged and delighted.

"We need to move—now," I barked at Peanut.

We sprinted up. On the thirteenth floor, we checked on the guy that attacked us with a knife earlier. He was still bleeding but was luckily dead. That left four of us in this vertical deathtrap. Which meant two more had to... exit the building. Preferably headfirst.

As we climbed, I caught a glimpse of the skybridges stretched between the skyscrapers—our potential way out. If we could reach one with fewer people, maybe even empty, we'd have a shot at entering the 9th floor without more blood on our hands.

But just as the thought formed, reality answered with violence.

A thunderous boom echoed through the skyscraper, and the floor beneath us trembled. I rushed to the nearest shattered window in time to see the bridges collapsing—steel warping, cables snapping like strings under pressure.

People on the bridges screamed as they fell, flailing silhouettes swallowed by the void below.

The fake sky erupted with the display of the Body count: 340… 355… 385/500. Time left: 15 hours.

I backed away from the glass, jaw clenched. Well. There went Plan B.

We made it to the fifteenth floor. Wind howled through the busted windows like a haunted house was breathing down our necks.

"So… what's the game plan, Ms. Cottontail?" Peanut asked.

"Don't call me that," I snapped. My nerves were fried bacon, thanks to Bird Freak.

Peanut raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by my tone. "Call me…" I paused, scanning the room until my eyes landed on a dangling ceiling light, swaying by a thread. "Call me Light?" I said, instantly regretting how unsure that sounded.

"Okay," they shrugged, like I hadn't just made the least intimidating rebrand of all time. "Then I'll be…"

We stood in silence for five actual minutes. No joke. I watched their face do gymnastics—confusion, determination, maybe even existential dread. It was like watching someone try to do calculus while constipated.

"Need help?" I offered. "How about... Peanut?"

"Peanut?" they repeated, like I'd just handed them a sacred title.

"Yeah."

Peanut blinked. Nodded slowly. A new identity was born.

"Why Peanut?" they asked.

"I like peanuts."

That was it. That was the whole reason.

"Are they that good?"

"Life-changing."

"I've never had one."

I froze. "Wait—what?"

"Never even seen one."

"Okay, no. If we survive this circus of death, I'm buying you peanuts. Salted. Roasted. The good kind."

"Promise?"

"Pinky promise." We hooked pinkies like kids in a playground. Well, it's more of a warzone.

"No offense, but... are you a girl or a boy?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Peanut's face twisted. "Do I look like a girl?"

I froze. Shit. Trick question? Or maybe not a trick, and he was a boy, and now I'd offended him. There was no winning.

Peanut sighed. "I'm a boy."

"Cool," I said, nodding like it hadn't been gnawing at me for the past five hours.

Peanut crossed his arms. "You could've just asked earlier, y'know."

"Yeah, but... timing felt kinda bad with the whole trying not to die situation."

He snorted. "Fair."

Before the silence could settle in, the stairwell speakers crackled to life, followed by that familiar, smug-as-hell voice.

"Attention, lovely contestants!" Bird Freak chirped, way too cheerful for someone orchestrating a bloodbath. "Current headcount update—two on the 15th floor, one on the 17th, and one on the 20th."

I stiffened. My eyes snapped to Peanut, whose hand was already reaching toward the hilt of his slingshot.

"That's us on fifteen," I muttered. "And the other two..."

"Ding ding ding!" Bird Freak's voice rang through again. "Remember the rules, my little murder muffins—most companions per building is THREE. Tick tock!"

The speaker cut off with a low bzzt, and silence dropped like a curtain. It was the kind of silence that pressed on your ears, heavier than the concrete around us.

I exhaled slowly. "Let's lay a trap for the one on the seventeenth floor," I said, even though I had absolutely no plan. But saying something felt better than standing around waiting to die.

We stepped out onto what looked like a gutted casino floor—once probably glitzy, now just sad and surreal. Faux velvet carpets were torn up, poker chips scattered like shrapnel, and a plastic chandelier hung crookedly above us, swaying like it knew something we didn't.

Peanut eyed the layout. "Two staircases," he muttered, pointing to the left and right exits. "Means he could come from either side."

"Exactly," I said, scanning the room for anything useful. "We'll need to split his attention—or bottleneck him."

I grabbed a broken roulette wheel and wedged it near the right staircase. Useless for stopping anyone, but it might slow them down a second. Or at least trip them up.

"That'll do."

We took cover—Peanut behind a rusted blackjack table, me crouched near a toppled vending machine still blinking "out of order."

Every creak in the floorboards, every whisper of movement, made my pulse jump.

Then, faint footsteps. Floor seventeen creaked above us.

He was coming.

Please take the right stairs, please take the right stairs—

Of course not.

The heavier steps echoed from the left stairwell. Deliberate. Limping.

Manchild.

I motioned to Peanut and bolted to the left. I hid behind a pillar; Peanut slid under a casino table across from me. The plan: I distract. He takes the shot.

But then I heard it—the limp, the metal clink of something dragging. Axe. The axe. The one that turned people into art installations.

My breath hitched. Nausea twisted in my gut. I was about to hurl, or scream, or both.

Peanut looked at me, concern written all over his face.

He signed, "Are you okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

Even though I wasn't. Not really. My lungs still burned, every breath reminding me just how close I'd come to dying in the past 8 hours. My heart was thudding like it wanted to escape my chest, and my arms ached from gripping the chainsaw so tightly it felt fused to my palms.

The footsteps came to a stop as I watched the door creak open like a bad horror movie cliché. And then there he was. Manchild.

He looked normal. Again. That same creepy, kindergarten-teacher face. Round glasses. Neatly buttoned shirt. Soft eyes. A gentle smile that did nothing to hide the carnage behind it.

I'd seen what he did. I'd seen the bodies. And yet here he was, walking in like he was about to lead a parent-teacher conference.

He walked perfectly, shoulders squared, and smiled like he hadn't noticed us.

But I wasn't waiting for him to.

And just as he stepped past the crooked chandelier, I charged.

I roared—more from terror than bravery—and lunged with the chainsaw, revving it to life. It screamed as it tore toward him, a blur of steel and desperation. He turned just in time, eyes widening—but not from fear. No, from excitement.

Our weapons clashed with a metallic shriek. His axe slammed against the spinning teeth of my chainsaw, sparks flying like fireworks on a death wish. My arms trembled under the weight of the impact, but I held firm.

"You again," he said, almost fondly, like we were exes running into each other at a supermarket. "Missed you."

"Eat shit," I spat, pushing forward.

We grappled—blades clashing, slipping, teeth grinding. His strength was unreal, and now I could see he was no longer limping. His broken shoulder? Popped back into place. His face was calm, cold, like he was watching an animal struggle beneath his boot. My muscles burned as I tried to force the chainsaw into his side. He pushed back like I weighed nothing.

Then—thwip!A sharp whistle cut through the chaos, and a projectile zipped through the air—crack! It landed squarely in his left shoulder.

He winced. Staggered just a bit.

"Nice shot, Peanut!" I shouted.

But then—he moved.

Like he snapped into a different version of himself. Gone was the slow, stalking man. He lunged forward, and I was too slow.

The chainsaw was torn from my grip. I hit the ground hard, air punched out of my lungs, the back of my head cracking against the wall.

And then he was over me.

I saw his eyes—dull, dead, but smiling.

He raised his axe. I tried to scramble, but my limbs didn't answer. I was a trapped animal. My hands scrambled against the floor, fingertips raw, breath hitching into panicked gasps. The room spun. The edge of the axe caught the light.

I felt death. Not in some poetic way. No, I felt it—its cold breath licking the back of my neck.

My mouth opened but no words came out. Only one thought screamed in my head: Please don't let this be it.

He brought the axe down.

BANG.

A thunderous explosion ripped through the room. A sound that swallowed each other. For a second I thought I had been shot. I thought I was dead.

Blood sprayed across my chest. Warm. Wet.

But the pain never came.

His scream did.

I looked up—his arm was gone. His axe and hand lay across the room, still clenched together. He stumbled, howling, gripping the stump where his arm used to be.

I blinked, dazed. "Peanut…?"

But Peanut wasn't looking at me.

He was staring past me, wide-eyed, frozen.

I turned—slowly, dizzy, blood in my mouth.

Someone was standing in the doorway.

Sniper rifle still raised. The silence after the shot was louder than any scream.