Chapter 17 Good Game
Good Game
Levi sprinted down the corridor, abandoning his notes and messenger bag on the recreation room chair. The floorboards creaked dangerously beneath his pounding feet, threatening to give way with each step. Zoe’s scream echoed in his mind, setting his heart racing.
“Zoe!” he called, skidding into the large open space where the team set up their equipment.
Four faces turned toward him—Tyler, Jasper, Maddie, and Zoe herself. She sat on a folding chair, face contorted in pain as Maddie knelt beside her, examining her right leg. Blood soaked through Zoe’s jeans from knee to ankle.
“What happened?” Levi asked, rushing to her side.
“Floor gave way,” Zoe said through gritted teeth. “East corridor. I was setting up motion sensors and stepped on a weak spot.”
Levi glanced at her injury. The denim was torn, revealing a jagged gash along her calf where splintered wood sliced through skin and muscle. The wound was deep but clean.
“Where’s Owen?” Levi asked, scanning the room.
“Getting the first aid kit from the van,” Tyler replied, hovering uselessly nearby. “Elliot was supposed to be with her. Has anyone seen him?”
Owen burst through the entrance doors, first aid kit clutched in his hands. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them up with frantic fingers.
“This isn’t going to be enough,” he declared, opening the small white box. “We have bandages and antiseptic, but that needs stitches. Possibly antibiotics too—this building is a bacterial paradise.”
“I’ll be fine,” Zoe insisted, wincing as Maddie dabbed at the wound with an alcohol wipe. “Just wrap it up. We can still get footage of the east wing before dark.”
“Are you insane?” Owen squeaked. “That needs medical attention. Actual medical attention. From someone with a license and clean instruments.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Zoe argued, though her pale face betrayed the pain she felt.
“We should pack up,” Tyler said, suddenly the voice of reason. “We can come back another day.”
Jasper nodded. “Yeah, no ghost is worth sepsis, man.”
“We drove three hours to get here,” Zoe protested. “The equipment is already set up. I’m not ruining this shoot over a little blood.”
Levi watched the argument unfold, his mind racing. This injury wasn’t random—it was a game mechanic, designed to create tension and force decisions. But what was his role supposed to be?
Then he remembered the messenger bag upstairs.
“I found medical supplies,” Levi interrupted. “Third floor, supply closet. Proper bandages, medical tape—looks like hospital stock.”
“Are you serious?” Maddie asked. “Like, actual medical supplies?”
“They’re old but sealed,” Levi said. “Better than what we have here.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tyler volunteered.
“No,” Levi said quickly. “Stay with Zoe. I know where they are.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Has anyone seen Elliot recently?”
A moment of silence fell over the group.
“Not since we split up,” Jasper admitted. “He was supposed to be checking the east corridor with Zoe.”
“I thought he went to get equipment from the van,” Maddie added.
“I haven’t seen him outside,” Owen said, adjusting his glasses nervously.
Levi felt a chill run down his spine. Elliot’s absence wasn’t coincidental. Why is the game changing this much?
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Levi promised, already moving toward the stairs.
As he climbed back to the third floor, Levi’s mind raced with possibilities. Was Zoe’s injury a distraction? A way to separate the group? Or was it meant to test his response specifically? The game was becoming more complex with each reset, the scenarios more layered.
This is wrong. Too early. Like the game’s AI changed the script midway through. But it’s still daylight. There has to be a reason.
He reached the third floor and hurried toward the recreation room where he’d left his bag. The building felt different now—shadows stretching longer across the walls, sounds carrying with unnatural clarity. Something had shifted while he was downstairs.
As Levi approached the recreation room, he heard a sharp, pained gasp from inside. He froze, hand halfway to the doorknob. Every instinct screamed danger, but Zoe needed those medical supplies.
I could turn around. Find another route. Maybe there’s more supplies elsewhere.
He shook his head. Logical thinking kept him alive this long. The messenger bag with bandages was right inside where he left it. Going elsewhere would waste precious time Zoe didn’t have.
Quick in, quick out. Grab the bag and leave.
Levi pressed his ear against the door, listening for movement. Another soft sound—fabric rustling against the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs as he crouched down, peering through the keyhole.
The limited view revealed nothing but the far wall and piano. Swallowing hard, he turned the knob with excruciating slowness and pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.
The sight froze him in place.
Elliot lay sprawled face-down on the floor, his expensive jacket was shredded, revealing a gaping wound that exposed vertebrae and muscle tissue. Dark liquid pooled beneath him, spreading across the warped floorboards in a crimson lake that seemed impossibly large for one human body.
Bile surged up Levi’s throat. He clamped his palm over his mouth, forcing the acid back down. The metallic scent of fresh death filled his nostrils, sickeningly familiar from previous loops.
This is wrong. It’s too early for this…
Levi’s eyes darted to his messenger bag, still sitting on the chair where he left it. Just fifteen feet away. Between him and the medical supplies that could help Zoe.
Think logically. Elliot’s already dead. Whoever killed him might still be here. But I need those supplies.
He weighed his options. Returning empty-handed meant Zoe’s injury would worsen. Infection would set in. The group would be weakened, vulnerable. But entering a room where a murder had just occurred was practically suicide.
Unless the killer’s already moved on to the next target.
Levi steeled himself. “Focus,” he whispered. “Analyze the situation.”
He pushed the door wider, taking a few cautious steps inside. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. His eyes swept the room, searching for movement in the shadows.
That’s when he saw him.
Asher crouched beside Elliot’s body, near an electrical outlet in the far corner. In one hand, he held a hunting knife, its serrated edge dripping with fresh blood. In his other hand—Levi’s notebook lay open, pages stained with red fingerprints.
Levi’s sharp intake of breath betrayed his presence.
Asher looked up calmly, no surprise registered on his angular features—only mild interest, as if Levi’s arrival was an expected development.
“He was reading your notes,” Asher said, gesturing toward the notebook with the knife.
Levi backed away from Asher, heart hammering against his ribs. The image of Elliot’s mutilated body burned into his retinas, dark liquid pooling beneath the corpse in an ever-widening circle.
“W-what are you doing?” Levi asked.
Asher didn’t answer. Instead, he set the knife down beside Elliot’s body and turned his attention to the cable in his hand. With a shrug, he plugged it into the outlet, connecting it to one of the electronic devices scattered on the floor.
A series of lights flickered on the equipment, blinking red in rapid succession.
Then the sound came—a symphony of slamming doors echoing throughout the building. One after another, just like before, each door in the sanitarium sealed itself shut. The recreation room door behind Levi shuddered violently as its lock engaged with a decisive click.
Asher rose to his feet with deliberate slowness, Levi’s notebook still clutched in one bloodstained hand. Those mismatched eyes never left Levi’s face as he flipped through the pages, reading passages aloud.
“‘Loop 6: scenario changed,’” Asher read aloud, his voice unnervingly calm. “‘Ghost hunting in hospital.’” He looked up, head tilting slightly. “Interesting documentation system you’ve developed.”
Levi’s back pressed against the door, fingertips working the handle. Locked. Sealed shut. The messenger bag with medical supplies sat on the chair, tantalizingly close yet impossibly far with Asher standing between them.
“It’s n-not what it looks like,” Levi stammered, mind racing for plausible explanations. “It’s just... creative writing. For the YouTube channel. Horror fiction based on—”
“Based on previous deaths?” Asher interrupted, turning another page. “That’s quite the creative premise.”
Asher closed the distance between them, backing Levi against the locked door. He placed one palm flat against the wood beside Levi’s head, creating a cage with his body, blood smearing from his fingers on the weathered surface.
“Strangled in the forest,” Asher whispered, his face inches from Levi’s.
“Stabbed in the throat when you tried to warn the others. Shot in the chest at the mining operation. Drowned in the river.” His free hand traced the path of each death across Levi’s body—fingertips ghosting over throat, sternum, face with terrifying intimacy.
Levi’s knees threatened to buckle as each memory flashed through his mind with visceral clarity—the pressure of fingers crushing his windpipe, the knife plunging through his throat, the bullet tearing through his chest, water filling his lungs.
“And the fifth,” Asher continued, his voice dropping to a reverent murmur. “You left out a detail. You cut your own throat.”
Levi’s blood turned to ice. “W-what?”
The notebook fell from Asher’s grip, landing with a soft thud at their feet.
Asher leaned forward, lips hovering mere inches from Levi’s. The proximity sent a chill down Levi’s spine, muscles tensing for the unwanted contact—but Asher stopped short. His features crumpled into something unexpectedly vulnerable, almost sad.
“Did I do better this time?” Asher whispered, his breath warm against Levi’s face. “We almost made it out of that kitchen together. If we’d had just a little more time...”
Levi’s mind spun. Asher remembered the gas-filled kitchen. He remembered their shared death.
He knows. He’s always known.
Heat bloomed across Levi’s sternum, a confusing mixture of terror and something else—something that made his stomach tighten when Asher’s gaze dropped to his lips.
Why am I not fighting harder? Why does part of me want to—
Levi’s thoughts scattered as he averted his eyes, unable to look at him. His body betrayed him with a slight tremor that wasn’t just fear.
“Look at me.” Asher’s bloodied fingers gripped Levi’s jaw, forcing his face upward. The gentleness vanished, replaced by rough insistence that left crimson smears across Levi’s skin. “Please.”
The demand shocked Levi into compliance. Asher’s expression twisted into something desperate with a terrible wonder in his eyes that didn’t belong on the face of a killer.
“I did a good job, right?” Asher’s voice cracked like breaking glass as he traced Levi’s lower lip with a bloody thumb. “Do you like me more now?”
The question hung between them, absurd and horrifying in its sincerity. This wasn’t just a killer—this was something else entirely, something that craved Levi’s approval with an intensity that defied logic.
Levi stared back, paralyzed by the realization that whatever game he was trapped in, Asher wasn’t simply its villain.
He was playing by rules Levi didn’t understand.