The final cut

The Final Cut

Chapter 3: The Ones Who Smile While Voting You Out

The silence after the boy vanished was a new kind of heavy. It wasn't fear anymore—it was consequence. Real, breathing, irreversible consequence. The screen didn't flicker. The countdown didn't pause. The cameras kept watching. They always watched.

Seraphina's eyes darted to the corner the boy had been taken through. The sleek, dark rectangle where he had stood was now just a shadowy gap in the wall. No blood. No sound. No proof. But he was gone.

"Well," muttered a boy near the door, "that's one way out." His voice was too calm. Too casual. He was the kind who smiled at funerals—not from joy, but from detachment.

"Four more," the girl with the pink hair muttered. Someone laughed. A dry, humorless sound. A new energy pulsed through the room. The line had been crossed. Voluntary elimination was possible. Which meant some were now wondering: Why not manipulate others to walk out willingly?

Seraphina caught a look between two girls near the center—tight lips, subtle nods. A pact. The game had shifted. Again.

They called it a vote. A crude one. No anonymity. No booths. Just a circle of forty-eight strangers, pointing fingers like children on a playground. Or wolves at a feast.

Seraphina didn't vote. Not yet. She stood, arms crossed, as the chaos unfolded.

Pink Hair—her name, apparently, was Val—stepped into the middle. "I nominate Oliver," she said, gesturing to a quiet boy near the wall. Pale, bony, with wide, skittish eyes.

"Why?" asked someone. "He hasn't spoken once. He's a ghost. Dead weight. Might as well go now."

Oliver looked up. "I—I have asthma."

"Exactly," Val replied, smiling.

Seraphina's stomach twisted. The girl wasn't wrong—but she wasn't right either. This wasn't about strength or fairness. This was about how easily one could justify cruelty when the rules rewarded it.

One voice said no. Two said yes. Then seven. Then thirteen.

Oliver didn't fight. He looked like he was about to cry, but said nothing. Just walked toward the same door the boy had disappeared into. It opened like before. He turned, looked at the room—at Val—and smiled. A tiny, sad smile.

Then he was gone.

Two.

Seraphina sat beside a column, watching. Watching the leaders rise—the manipulators, the desperate ones, the liars cloaked in logic. Val strutted now. Her hands moved with flair. She joked. She laughed. People followed her because confidence feels like control when the world is breaking.

Another voice had emerged too: a guy named Jace. Lean, cunning, with a voice like velvet and poison. He wasn't loud—but when he spoke, people leaned in.

"We don't need to sacrifice the weak," he told his group. "We sacrifice the manipulators. The ones who play God. The ones who vote too fast."

He didn't point at Val. He didn't have to.

Seraphina's eyes widened. She understood now. The real players weren't the ones shouting—they were the ones planting seeds. Divide them. Make them paranoid. Then lead them. Classic psychological warfare.

Someone was shoved. Hard. A fight broke out—fast, loud, sloppy. Two boys wrestled to the ground. One screamed, "You tried to push me toward the door, you freak!"

"No! I tripped!"

Security didn't come. The cameras didn't blink. But the crowd responded. Harshly.

They voted.

The one who pushed was named Malik. He tried to explain. "I wasn't trying to eliminate him—I just fell!"

No one cared.

The third person walked to the door sobbing.

Three.

The game had fully consumed them now.

Jace approached Seraphina quietly.

"You haven't voted once."

"Observation is a vote," she replied.

He smiled. "I like that."

"No, you don't," she said, turning to him. "You like control."

He didn't deny it.

"You planning to survive this, Jace?"

"I plan to win it," he said. "And I think you do too."

She tilted her head. "You don't want alliances. You want leverage."

"You're smart. We could—"

"Don't finish that sentence," she cut him off. "Because I'm not interested in surviving by dragging others down."

He chuckled and stepped away. But not before whispering, "Then you'll be next."

Val was turning unstable.

"Don't look at me like that!" she yelled at a girl who hadn't said a word. "I'm not a villain! I'm just playing smart!"

People murmured. Doubt was growing. The same charisma that attracted now repelled. Confidence, when unchecked, turns to threat.

"Let's vote again," someone said. "Let's pick her."

Val's face went white.

"No," she hissed. "You need me. I keep you alive."

"You keep us divided," said another voice—soft, but sharp. Seraphina.

Val turned, eyes burning.

"You think you're better?"

"No," Seraphina said. "But I think you're afraid. And people like you always fall first when the fear flips."

Val laughed. "You don't get to moralize. Not here. Not in this place."

"I'm not moralizing," Seraphina replied. "I'm calculating. You've made too many enemies. You're not useful anymore."

And just like that, the crowd began to nod.

The fourth person stepped into the door.

Val screamed all the way until the metal swallowed her.

Only one more.

One name. One sacrifice.

The calm before the final cut was haunting. People whispered, but eyes now darted less. The countdown was devouring their choices.

One girl—tiny, maybe thirteen—was curled in a corner, sobbing silently.

"No one touches her," someone said. And everyone agreed. For the first time, humanity sparked again.

But sparks don't survive in a storm.

Jace stepped forward.

"Let's be honest," he said. "We're running out of easy targets."

He smiled that crooked smile, gaze settling on Seraphina.

"She's too smart," he said. "She'll manipulate all of us eventually."

Someone gasped.

Jace walked slowly toward her. "And let's not pretend she hasn't been observing us all like rats in a maze."

Seraphina rose. Calm. Cold.

"You're afraid of me, Jace," she said.

"I'm cautious," he corrected. "Of predators."

"But you're not voting me out," she said. "Because if you were that sure, you wouldn't need a speech."

He faltered.

"I could've voted you out two turns ago," she continued. "But I didn't. And they know that."

Eyes turned toward her.

"Remember who's talking to you," she said. "A man who hasn't gotten his hands dirty once. He lets others do the cuts for him. And when your usefulness runs out, he'll point at you next."

Silence.

Then one voice whispered: "Vote Jace."

Then another.

And another.

He didn't protest. He just stared at Seraphina with a new kind of respect. And hatred.

Then walked to the door like a man in control of his death.

He turned before entering.

"This game isn't about survival," he said.

"It's about what part of you dies first."

Then he stepped in.

Five.

The countdown hit zero.

A loud buzz rang.

The metal doors creaked.

The exit lights turned green.

And the screen flickered back on.

The man in the white room appeared again. He was smiling this time.

"Well done," he said. "You made your second cut. You've proven that desperation makes better leaders than democracy. But don't relax. This was the warm-up."

He leaned forward.

"Your next room awaits."

The doors opened.

The light outside was white. Almost blinding.

But Seraphina didn't move.

She turned, scanning the survivors.

Fewer now.

Harder.

Sharper.

No one was crying anymore.

They were evolving.

Or devolving.

She stepped through the door. And left the room where humanity had been put on trial—and mostly failed.

---

Author's Note:

Chapter 3 was never going to be easy. And if you made it this far, you're not just a reader. You're a player now.

Seraphina's mind is sharp, but this game doesn't just test the smart. It punishes the kind, rewards the cruel, and bends the rules just when you start to learn them.

So here's a question:

What is a cut?

Is it betrayal? Silence? A lie?

Or is it something deeper—like when you let go of who you were just to survive what you're becoming?

This chapter showed us alliances. Manipulations. And that even the loudest fall when the silent speak.

But the next room?

That's where masks won't help.

That's where the game stops pretending to be fair.

Stay sharp.

Stay suspicious.

And stay tuned for Chapter 4: The Mirror Room — where your worst enemy might just be yourself.

— Aarya Patil

Writer. Strategist. Survivor of my own imagination.

#TheFinalCut #Chapter3 #WouldYouVoteOrBeVoted