The Sinister Undertones and Murderous Intent of the Birthday Banquet

Thrown out of the villa, Paul gritted his teeth and rubbed his arm, cursing under his breath at the butler. "That old bastard still packs a punch!"

Before arriving here, he had been reveling in drunken ecstasy—a paradise of bare bodies and fragrant smoke, his favorite sort of heaven. Who would have imagined that upon waking, he'd find himself in an unfamiliar place, and be told it was a "wireless escape replica game"? He scoffed at the absurdity. Who were they trying to fool? He wasn't born yesterday! Dead? Impossible. That couldn't be.

"Which son of a bitch thinks this is funny? Where are the damn cameras? Come out now! I'm done playing!" Paul raised his voice, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of hidden surveillance.

But after all that yelling, nothing responded. Not a single flicker of movement.

Furious, Paul seethed. Who had the nerve to pull such a low-grade stunt on him? This was *not* amusing.

Still clad in his gaudy floral shirt and shorts—the same outfit he'd worn to bed—he found his phone and watch were missing. As night fell, the mountain air grew colder. He shivered uncontrollably, rubbing his arms for warmth while muttering a string of profanities, cursing not only his foolish friends but the bizarre theatrics within the villa.

"Putting on such an elaborate act—whose birthday is it anyway? Even drama queens don't go this far. And then they throw *me* out? Just wait 'til I get back in—I'll tear that actress to pieces…"

With no light and such bitter cold, descending the mountain was not an option. So Paul, grumbling and swearing, staggered back toward the villa.

But when he reached the front, he found it shrouded in darkness. Every light was off, and the main door locked. He pounded on it, enraged, but no one answered. Circling the building, he searched for an open window and eventually found one. He clumsily climbed through.

Though the game had returned his body to its "pre-death peak," years of indulgence, decadence, and substance abuse had left him in miserable shape.

By the time he finally tumbled inside, gasping and bruised from the effort, all anger had drained from him.

He rested a long while before forcing himself up. No lights were on inside. Listening carefully, he detected no noise from the dining room. Snorting dismissively, he turned to the stairs, deciding to slip upstairs and rest. He would head down the mountain come daylight.

Treading softly, Paul took the left stairway.

The second floor was unnervingly silent. His steps made no sound on the carpet, yet a chill crept up his spine.

He turned sharply.

Nothing behind him. Empty air.

"Damned theatrics," he spat, fumbling for his door and flicking the light switch. Darkness remained.

Still, he noticed nothing amiss. Muttering curses, he stumbled to the bed and collapsed without removing his shoes. A long yawn escaped his lips, his eyes moist with drowsiness. He rolled over, face down—and fell asleep.

He never woke again.

Downstairs, the birthday banquet was only halfway through.

The dining hall blazed with light.

After the butler had escorted Paul out, Miss Sweetie once again beamed with delight, her smile radiant as she played hostess to Eric and the others.

"I'm truly so happy you all came. It's been dreadfully dull up here. Life in the mountains is so tedious. Thank heavens for this excuse—my birthday—to bring you all here. I'm absolutely thrilled!"

Once she cut the first slice of steak, the banquet officially began.

Some players began to eat. Others, like Eric, sat still, observing.

Eric's eyes scanned the lavish spread, then settled on Miss Sweetie's brilliant red lips. Every dish on the table seemed to scream the same warning: *A Feast of Death.*

"Why aren't you eating?" Miss Sweetie asked, biting into a rare slice of steak. She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor with an almost sensual intoxication. After swallowing, she looked at the guests again, puzzled. "Not to your taste?"

The players remained silent.

Her smile began to falter.

Eric spoke up. "Miss Sweetie, night has fallen and the mountains can be dangerous after dark. I'm uneasy—you had the butler throw Paul out. I'm concerned for his safety."

Miss Sweetie chuckled. "Don't worry. He displeased me, so I had him removed. But there's no need to fret—I simply meant to teach him a lesson."

Her attention diverted, she seemed to forget the others hadn't touched their food. Humming to herself, she cut another generous piece of steak and ate with relish.

Several players quietly exhaled in relief. Sharon shot Eric a glance filled with admiration—and a trace of envy.

To preempt further questioning, Eric lifted her wine glass in a graceful gesture, pretending to sip, and speared a piece of chestnut cake with her fork. The movement was easy. Her opulent gown's wide, flowing sleeves concealed her mouth, allowing her to feign a shy nibble while discreetly disposing of the food.

The other players quickly followed suit, mimicking the act of eating to avoid drawing attention.

Only the male players, whose attire offered no such camouflage, found themselves cornered. After another round of steak, Miss Sweetie once again asked, and they had no choice but to ingest a few bites.

Steven blinked and stood, raising his glass to Miss Sweetie. "A very happy birthday to you!" he said, downing the wine in one gulp and flipping the empty glass.

Miss Sweetie laughed, the sound like silver bells. "Thank you!" she replied, her eyes turning eagerly toward the others.

Under the searing gazes of the other players, Steven sat back down with maddening composure.

Sharon trembled under Miss Sweetie's watchful eye. Though no "ghosts" had yet appeared, the resplendent young hostess exuded an air of quiet menace. Sharon feared her instinctively.

She clutched her wine glass and instinctively prepared to stand.

But Amy spoke first. "Miss Sweetie, this cake smells divine. But the cream's beginning to melt. Shall we make a wish and cut it now?"

"Oh no! The cream's collapsing! That won't do at all! Butler!" Miss Sweetie leapt up. "Quick, bring me the knife! I must make a wish and blow the candles!"

The butler returned with the knife, placing sixteen pink candles upon the cake and lighting each one. He moved to the switch and plunged the room into darkness.

Bathed in candlelight, Miss Sweetie pressed her palms together and made a wish.

It should have been a tender, magical moment. But as Eric gazed at her face, glowing softly in the flickering light, her heartbeat quickened.

Danger.

She remained silent, every sense on alert.

"Whoosh!" Miss Sweetie blew out the candles.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Eric felt something rustle against her in the pitch-black void. Something touched her shoulder, then her hair.

It was icy cold—like the flesh of a fish frozen for a month. Or worse... like a corpse.

She froze, not daring to breathe.

"Aah!"

A soft, trembling cry rang out beside her.

*Snap!*

The lights came back on. Eric shut her eyes against the sudden brightness, then turned toward the source of the scream.

It was Laura, one of the new players. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes wide with terror.

To be touched by something—*someone*—in the dark. No one could be blamed for the fright.

Sharon was pale as death, gripping Laura's hand tightly. The two girls huddled together for comfort.

Miss Sweetie frowned. "What's the matter?" Her displeasure was obvious.

"I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I'm really sorry!" Laura stammered.

Miss Sweetie's expression softened. "As long as you apologize, it's fine. But don't shout like that again—my heart is delicate."

She made the first cut into the cake, then passed the knife to the butler. He served her a slice, then distributed the rest among the guests.

Feigning delight, the players forced themselves to eat. The banquet at last came to a close.

Miss Sweetie announced her fatigue and ascended the stairs to rest. The others followed, weary and wary.

Eric opened her room door, slipping off her heels. Cynthia headed to the bathroom to wash her face and remove her makeup.

Suddenly, a voice called out from outside.

"Something's happened!" It was Andrew.

Eric tore off her gown and threw on her regular clothes before hurrying out.

She found Andrew standing outside the fifth room, face grim.

"Paul is dead," he announced.

"What? That newcomer the butler kicked out?"

"How could he be in the room? Didn't he leave?"

"It's him. Come see for yourselves."

Andrew opened the door once more.

Eric followed him inside, past the entryway and to the bed.

Paul lay facedown, utterly still. From the left side, his face could be seen—

It was rotting.

Eric gasped. His exposed limbs bore the same grotesque signs of advanced decay. Only his clothes remained untouched.

"This… this looks like he's been dead for days," someone whispered. "But he was just thrown out last night. Even if he died immediately, it couldn't rot this fast."

"I thought the smell was a dead rat," Andrew muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"We need to determine the cause," Eric said quietly.

The players gathered, suppressing their nausea as they examined the corpse.

Sharon and Laura, who had arrived late, couldn't push through the crowd. From the silence beyond the door, Laura grew anxious and clutched Sharon's hand. "What's going on?"

The message soon came.

"He… he rotted?"

Laura nearly collapsed. Sharon swayed beside her.

For newcomers, encountering such horror so soon was both a curse and a blessing. It forced them to adapt quickly—but if they weren't strong enough, it might shatter them.

The veteran players not only checked the body, but combed through the room. They found nothing—no clue, no mark, no hint of violence.

Paul seemed to have simply died in his sleep… then rapidly decomposed.

It was too strange for words.