Flickering Lights

Nine men woke up in an apartment lobby, including Flynn and Liam's father.

Liam's father stirred groggily, disoriented and dazed.

Flynn, already blinking into clarity, looked down in horror at what he was holding.

A sword.

Not a knife. Not a stick. A full-length, sharpened blade gripped tightly in his sweaty hands.

The fluorescent lights above began to flicker violently. Liam's father flinched, but before he could process what was happening, a calm, synthetic female voice echoed from the ceiling speakers:

"Due to the small number of players who chose Kill, each must eliminate three players who chose Be Killed in order to survive the night. Thank you, and good luck."

"Huh?" Flynn breathed, panic rising in his throat. He had only agreed to choose Kill because Connor offered himself up—but now, one life wasn't going to be enough.

He gasped for air, his hands trembling. Around him, the others were reacting as well. Silent dread. Nervous pacing. One man cursed under his breath, slamming the sword against his thigh in frustration.

Liam's father stood clueless.

"The hell is happening?" he asked aloud, voice quivering.

No one answered. It was easier to believe he'd snapped under pressure than to explain.

"WHAT the hell is happening?!" he roared, loud and scared and angry all at once.

The flickering lights, the bloodlust in the air, the strange lobby, the heavy blade in his hand—it all unsettled him deeply. He'd lived a carefree life. This was not his world.

"You new?" one man asked, resting his sword on his shoulder.

"Huh?"

"This is the Would You Rather game," the man said. "Kill three and live. Fail and die." Then he walked off, heading toward the elevator lobby, other players following.

Flynn followed slowly, with Liam's father trailing behind.

"I don't get it. What?!" Liam's father snapped.

"Kill or be killed," the man replied, pressing the elevator button. "You answered that today, didn't you?"

Liam's father paused—then remembered.

It was his own damn son.

He'd answered Liam's question. Casually. Carelessly.

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!"

"I told you already. Kill three and live. Fail and die."

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. The lights inside flickered even worse than the ones in the lobby.

Seven players stepped in, each with a different look—some resolute, some terrified, some numb.

The man held the door. "You coming?"

Liam's father clenched his jaw. "Fuck it. Who am I killing?"

"Players without swords. Wherever they are."

The man's eyes shifted to Flynn. "You?"

Flynn swallowed. "I'll take the stairs."

He turned away and disappeared into the stairwell.

The elevator doors slid shut. The man pressed nearly every button—one for each of the 30 floors. They were going to sweep the whole building.

Eight killers in an elevator, blades in hand, lights flickering, eyes set on the hunt.

There were 9 killers total—and 27 'killed-ers.'

Each killer needed 3 kills to survive.

"Hold the door," the leader ordered Liam's father.

They stopped at the eighth floor, skipping parking levels. Liam's father held the door open while the others stormed out, scanning hallways, kicking down doors to apartment units.

From down the hall, a scream rang out.

"No! NOOO!"

Liam's father watched from the elevator as a man sprinted for his life. Behind him, seven killers chased like wolves, weapons drawn.

"He's mine!"

"Back off!"

They argued, tripped over each other, and fought for the kill—wasting precious time in the chaos.

The fleeing player ran toward the elevator—toward Liam's father. But when he saw the sword in his hand, he skidded to a stop just meters away.

That hesitation cost him everything.

A blade pierced clean through his back, exiting through his chest. Blood sprayed—splattering the floor, the walls, and Liam's father's face. The man fell forward. His head thudded against Liam's father's shoe.

"Get it now?" the killer behind the body asked.

"I'm not holding the door next time," he muttered.

—

Elsewhere in the building,

The 'killed-ers' had also received the announcement on the killers' kill requirement.

Samantha knew what was coming. She wouldn't sit still and wait.

The moment the lights flickered, she burst out of the apartment unit she woke up in, dashing down the hallway toward the stairwell. Elevators were a death trap.

Liam did the same. So did Brandon. Instinct told them the same thing—move now or die later.

Unlike Liam, Samantha and Brandon immediately ran into other 'killed-ers' once they hit the stairwell.

"Samantha!"

"Brandon!"

Their reputations in the game preceded them. People followed them—out of fear, hope, or desperation.

Samantha led her group downward, aiming for the ground floor. Brandon led his upward, thinking the roof would be further from the violence.

Their strategies differed, but their urgency did not.

The original plan had been for Samantha, Heather, Caitlyn, Jason, and Liam to regroup on the ground floor. But Liam ignored the plan.

He stayed in the stairwell, halfway between floors.

He figured: if killers came from below, he'd run up. If they came from above, he'd run down. That was his best shot.

He reached into his mouth, pulling out a small plastic packet he'd hidden between his cheek and gum. Inside was the compact, foldable knife.

He flipped it open, then tucked it away in his pocket—just in case.

Among all the 'killed-ers,' only two were secretly armed:

Liam and Caitlyn.