Chapter 10
ten
Leave it to the president of Omega to be late and not catch up to her group in time.
My dress snags on the splintered threshold as I pass into the first room. The fabric pulls tight, then tears with a soft hiss. Of course! Sora will be so mad. Probably already drafting a formal apology to the seamstress in her head.
I glance around and immediately recognize the theme—Alice in Wonderland. Perfect. A wide-eyed girl trapped in a world full of manic creatures and quiet malice. How fitting for me.
Down the rabbit hole, I guess. Except this wonderland has more blood and fewer tea parties.
The floorboards creak beneath my heels as I step forward, into a too-red hallway trimmed in warped white paneling.
A grandfather clock ticks from a crooked angle on the wall—2:33.
Or maybe 9:55. The hands are bent. I think I remember this one from sophomore year.
Iota used it for their Purge-themed maze.
Everything gets recycled here eventually.
Hopefully, it won’t take me long to get through this, and then I can slip out early. I’m not in the mood for more of this performative terror tonight.
Part of me wonders what Elliot is up to... What do people who aren’t in this world do with their time? Freedom and friends?
A ping of jealousy stabs me in the ribs, sharper than expected. I picture him somewhere cozy and far too intimate with people who laugh easily. Skinnier ones with blonde hair. He’s not a player, is he?
What does it matter, Olivia? You can’t be with him!
As I finish the first clue with ease, a frustrated grunt escapes my lips. They always make the first room solvable in under five minutes to lull you into confidence. It’s all psychological.
Aiden better let me out of here before too long.
Being big sister to the president of Theta has its advantages.
There’s no way he’d make me spend the night in their dungeon.
If some initiates try to take me down there?
I’ll only need to tell them who I am, and then I’d get a free pass from my brother.
Distant screams bleed through the door to the next area. That’ll be the Theta pledges wearing cheap masks, lurking in dark corners, waiting for the chance to jump out and scare someone.
My stomach tightens as the door clicks behind me.
The change in atmosphere is instant. Dank, oppressive.
A cannibal’s kitchen scene, complete with a woman laid out on the butcher block island, her midsection carved open like a turkey.
Blood pools around her waist. The knife still stuck in her side gleams under the flickering overhead light.
Perhaps a piece of her fake entrails is cut into a triangle shape, but I try not to look directly at it.
I squint to scan her body. “Good makeup,” I mutter, but she doesn’t flinch.
A deep inhale steadies my nerves. The room carries a sour odor, like copper and spoiled meat. My fingers twitch when I slide one under my nose to cover the smell.
The cabinetry is painted retro green, peeling at the edges. A rotten pie sits on the windowsill with plastic cockroaches stuck in the crust while a blender still hums on low.
A little too immersive this year…
With a sigh, I find the first clue. As I lift the card, I catch a camera in my periphery as it blinks red, recording me. I narrow my gaze and lift my middle finger at it. Cute.
Probably my baby brother, Henry, monitoring my movements to make sure I get through.
To solve the next part, I have to stand directly underneath it. When I glance up to smile at Henry, I freeze. The entire front looks as if it’s been painted over… There’s no glow from the lens.
Despite my annoyance at solo participation and wanting to do anything but party tonight, a sense of dread slithers under my skin. The silence in this room isn’t a show—it’s loaded. Scripted, but not rehearsed. Like someone forgot to tell the actress what the play was about.
My eyes flick back to the woman on the counter just as the doorknob to the room I left rattles.
I blanch.
Probably just the pledges resetting things for the following group.
Still, I glance at the camera again. My skin itches with the feeling of being watched too closely. But not by the recording… No. Something else is digging deep, like sharp teeth.
Theta’s always been good at staging fear. But this year? This feels…unsupervised.
Solving the remaining clues, I move with purpose around the room. A sealed recipe box. A bone-handled corkscrew. A tin can of fake tiny toes.
With one last look at the figure on the counter—still motionless—I press forward.
As the door shuts behind me, I pull it tighter. Just in case.
Immediately, I step in something wet. Sticky. Red.
My heel slips for half a second before I catch myself.
Like syrup, the fluid coats the floor. Arterial patterns spray the walls of this mock hotel.
A silent chainsaw lies on the bed, dripping crimson.
In the center of the room, three women posed like mannequins in torn lingerie and Halloween costumes.
Blood cakes their hair and the carpet beneath their legs.
Perfume and gasoline fill the air. Foundation is caked over glassy eyes.
It’s difficult to recognize them under the pancake makeup and masks, but two of them might be Omegas.
Did Theta recruit them, my sisters, this year? Or is this some elaborate joke just to get under my skin? If so, I’m going to kill my brothers.
I whisper as I pass, “You’re all doing great.” As their president, I should encourage them.
The doorknob rattles again, and every muscle in my body stiffens.
“I’m almost out! You can have the room when I’m done, asshole!”
No answer. Only the faint creak of floorboards and another twitch of the knob.
Probably Deltas trying to sneak a shortcut. Still…my stomach won’t settle. Whoever it is, they’re not laughing or responding. They’re just…waiting.
My brain hurts like it remembers something I haven’t caught up to yet.
When I have to shift one of the girls to get to the nightstand, her arm flops loosely. Her skin is tepid. A gasp gets caught in my throat.
I spin around, hands on hips, eyes raking over the room. I count them. Three bodies. Three frozen, painted faces. Three women who don’t blink.
And their chests don’t rise.
The doorknob rattles again.
“Fuck!” I jump back.
This... This can’t be real. Right?
The smell. The copper. The plastic. Something is—
I grab the final code from the dresser and crouch beside a brunette dressed as a sexy prisoner. Blood beads on her lip, stiff and unmoving. I reach down, trembling, and press a fingertip into the puddle under her head.
It’s warm.
And thick.
It reminds me of last Saturday night. When I first met Vanq. On my knees. Hunter’s draining life soaking through my skin. Bryce’s body jerking beside me.
My chest aches.
Panicked, I look up through tears at the camera in the corner. “Aiden?” I shout. “Aiden! Henry!”
Maybe they’re watching me and laughing. I don’t care. I just want out.
Now.
The doorknob twists.
I scream and sprint toward the exit leading to the next room. My fingers fumble with the keypad, blood or something like it streaking across my palm. The code clicks. I shove the door open, slam it shut behind me, then collapse against it.
Eyes squeezed shut. Breath ragged.
This isn’t a game anymore.
My back presses hard to the door, heart pounding so loud it hurts my ribs. The air in this room is colder—just barely—but it helps me reframe my fears. A little.
When I finally crack my lids open, my breath catches and dies halfway up my throat.
There’s another girl in this room.
Not posed or playful. Not decorative.
She’s sprawled across the stained carpet like something gutted, her torso torn open from hip to rib. Her intestines spill out in loops—bloated and glistening, stinking of blood and something worse.
I gag as the smell hits me next. It’s not like the last room. It’s not copper and hairspray. This is guts and feces. Her sac’s been ruptured, and pieces are gone. The insides turned out like garbage, the body a dumpster. It’s real.
Too real.
Staggering back, one hand covers my mouth to prevent me from vomiting, the other blindly grasping for the next clue. Just get out. Get out!
Behind me, the doorknob rattles again.
Harder this time.
They’re not just jiggling it now—they’re trying to break in. The knob thumps violently in its housing, the frame groaning with pressure. A hit. Perhaps a body thrown against it. Urgently.
My fingers shake as I punch in the last combination, my vision swimming.
Please work!
The door behind me bursts open, and a large shadow fills the frame, but I don’t look at his face. He lumbers toward me, heavy footfalls sinking into the soaked carpet.
With a shriek of angst, I hurl myself through the opposite door just as the code beeps and the lock gives. I slam it shut behind me with a bang, barely turning the handle before throwing all my weight against it.
Everything inside me is pulsing. Ripping through my veins like fire.
And then, I see her.
The final room is empty except for a single platform in the center of the space. A raised slab like a mockery of the Cathedral of Seven Moons—lit by a single spotlight that hums overhead like a fly.
She’s lying on it.
No, not lying.
Laid.
Like an offering.
Naomi…
My best friend.
She’s spread out across the cold stone altar, her limbs at odd angles, her throat bared. Her dress is torn, her wrists and ankles bound with black silk. And across her stomach, carved in sharp, angry lines, is a single word:
HUSH
My knees nearly buckle. “No,” I whisper brokenly. I take a shaking step forward while my hand grasps my throat. “Naomi?” My voice cracks. She doesn’t move.
I reach out and shove her lightly with my index finger, her body stiff.
“Naomi!” I sob, louder now, leaning over her face, searching her eyes.
They’re open.
Cloudy. Vacant.
Tears pour down my cheeks as I stumble back, hand clutching my neck. My breath hitches into a wail, terror closing tight around my ribs.
This isn’t a game.
This is a fucking nightmare!
The door behind me crashes open.
Spinning just in time, I avoid a hulking man as he lumbers inside. There’s no hurry in his movements. No lunging for me. He just walks. Slow. Intentional. Like he knows he doesn’t have to rush.
The corner of the concrete catches my toe until I nearly tripping over Naomi’s altar.
I don’t look at his face. I can’t, but he keeps coming for me. My vision blurs.
Every muscle I have tenses—to throw myself at the exit, the window, the wall—anywhere.
The emergency door behind the altar slams open with a metallic clang.
A new person steps in wearing a hoodie and a full black mask, featureless and smooth. Gloves.
He strolls into the room as if he owns it…a demented savior.
His voice cuts through the space like a blade, but with grit and gnashing teeth.
“Run, Chrysalis.”