Glass Shard

The apartment units were mostly empty and long neglected. Dust coated the glass dining table, the marble countertops, the bed, and everything else.

Jason remained in the apartment unit he woke up in, staying longer than any other 'killed-er.'

He stared at the ceiling as the lights began to flicker, still numb.

In the span of just three days—no, barely even two—he had lost a friend, his best friend, and his father.

At the center of all that loss stood this game. And this game all started with Liam.

Liam, that shady, manipulative bastard.

Jason didn't care anymore if Liam was telling the truth. Didn't care if Liam hadn't killed anyone. Didn't care if Liam had been "controlled" when he brought Jason into this nightmare.

All he wanted now was to see Liam suffer as he had suffered.

If Samantha and Caitlyn hadn't stood in the way, Jason would've already done it. He would've wrecked him.

He let the rage explode—he shoved the glass dining table, sending it crashing to the ground in a violent shatter.

Panting, teeth clenched, fingers knotted in his hair.

He looked down—and in the middle of the broken shards was one piece, long, sharp, and gleaming. It almost looked back at him.

—

Liam heard footsteps above him. He was just about to run down the stairs when a familiar voice filtered through the chatter.

"Have you seen my mother?"

"No, no I haven't."

They turned the corner and found Liam already waiting. Samantha and Caitlyn, followed by a few other 'killed-ers', were descending from above.

"Liam," Samantha said.

"Let's move down," he replied, but didn't move down.

They locked eyes for a moment—silent words and instincts passed between them.

Then Samantha turned to the others. "Let's go," she said, and led the group down.

—

The door to another apartment flew open.

Two killers stormed in, swords already stained with blood. They were on the 13th floor. No one held elevator doors anymore—it was a race for kills.

There was no reason to be quiet. They moved confidently, scanning every corner.

The bedroom. The bathroom. The closet.

They trashed the unit, leaving nothing untouched.

Just as they were about to move on—

**cough**

A weak sound from the balcony.

Liam's father followed the noise and found a sick woman curled up behind the patio furniture.

When she saw the sword, she shoved herself into the wall like she could disappear through it.

"Please... please—PLEASE. NO."

"Name of the game," Liam's father said, and drove the blade through her throat without a hint of hesitation.

"Damn it," the other killer groaned. "Could've gotten my second kill there."

Liam's father smirked. One down, two to go.

The woman wasn't the only victim on the 13th floor—more screams rang out through the hallways as the killers swept the building.

Flynn was nearby, crouched in the stairwell, frozen. Through a narrow crack in the door, he could hear the cries and panicked footsteps—the wet sound of life leaving bodies.

His hand trembled around the sword.

Footsteps echoed from above.

It was Jason, descending. In his hand was a jagged shard of glass.

Veins bulged in his neck and temples. His face was tight with fury and dark intent.

Though Flynn was the one with the sword—the one who chose kill—Jason looked like the real predator.

He raised the shard high, walking like a man with nothing to lose.

"Wait! Wait! Listen!" Flynn stammered, instantly dropping his sword and holding up his hands. "You remember me, right? Flynn?"

Jason didn't drop the shard.

"I—I didn't want to choose 'kill'. Someone offered me their life. You remember him? The man from the last game? The one who said the ice was going to crack?"

"I don't give a shit."

Jason stepped forward and picked up the sword.

"What are you doing?"

No answer. Jason kept walking down.

Flynn followed, desperate. "Wait! I need that—I need that!"

Jason turned sharply, sword pointed right at Flynn's throat.

"Whoa—whoa! Look, I need that, man. I… I need to make it out of this. Please."

Jason stared for a beat. "I'll give it back later."

And just like that, he resumed his march downward—toward the ground floor, where everyone had agreed to regroup.

Flynn followed closely behind.

—

Brandon and his followers emerged on the rooftop.

The open night sky stretched above them, vast and silent.

"Alright," Brandon said, scanning the group of six behind him. "You all stay here. If any killers show up, stick together. Overwhelm them with numbers."

Then he turned back to the stairwell.

"Where are you going?" Thomas asked.

Brandon glanced over his shoulder.

"The killers."