All alone
The world blurred around him.
Guest’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as he pressed a trembling hand against his torn side.
The wound burned, hot and cold all at once, the pain sharp enough to keep him from slipping into unconsciousness—but only just. The snow beneath him was stained red, the frozen ground doing little to stop the steady trickle of blood seeping from his body.
He should have died.
The moment John Doe’s claws had torn through him, he knew it. He had felt the raw force behind the strike, the way it ripped through flesh and muscle like paper. But still—he lived.
Barely.
His vision swam, the edges darkening. His back was pressed against a crumbling wall, his body half-hidden by the wreckage of a fallen tree.
He had crawled here, using the last of his strength to drag himself away from the center of the battlefield.
His fingers left weak, trembling trails of crimson along the wood.
His ears were ringing. Distantly, he could still hear their voices—Chance, shouting his name. The others, screaming for retreat.
They thought he was dead.
Maybe he should have been.
A soft crunch of snow.
Guest’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened weakly, but he had nothing left to defend himself. His weapon was gone—knocked from his grasp, lost somewhere in the chaos. His body refused to move.
The mist curled.
John Doe’s hollow gaze met his.
For a long moment, he just stood there, towering over Guest like a shadow given form. The darkness around him pulsed, shifting like something alive. His claws still dripped with red.
And then—he tilted his head.
John Doe crouched, slow and deliberate, until he was eye level with him.
Guest’s body tensed on instinct, but he had no energy left to fight.
John Doe’s face was unreadable.
He exhaled softly, as if amused.
????-"Pathetic."
Guest’s chest tightened. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to glare at him through the haze of pain.
John Doe just chuckled, a quiet, hollow sound that sent ice down his spine.
????-You really thought you could stop me?" His voice was smooth, almost mocking. "Throwing yourself in front of that fool—wasting yourself for nothing."
Guest didn’t answer. His breaths were shallow, uneven.
John Doe leaned closer, until Guest could feel the unnatural cold radiating from him.
????- "he ran, you know." His tone was almost gentle. "They all did. Left you here to die."
A lump formed in Guest’s throat. He swallowed hard, refusing to look away.
John Doe smirked.
????-" you should have known better. No one is coming back for you."
The words cut deep.
Guest gritted his teeth, willing himself to move—to fight, to do something—but his body refused.
John Doe let out a low hum, as if considering something.
And then, just as easily as he had appeared—he stood.
The black mist curled around him, swallowing him in its embrace.
????- "Try not to bleed out too quickly.. You need to suffer because of your bad decisions.. "
And then—he was gone.
Just like that.
The darkness faded into the trees, the echoes of his presence lingering like a stain in the air. The snow settled. The wind howled.
Guest was alone.
His chest ached. His fingers twitched weakly against the frozen ground.
The pain was unbearable.
But worse than that—
—was the silence.
The cold crept in fast.
Guest’s body trembled, but not just from pain.
The warmth of his blood seeped into the snow, vanishing into the frozen earth as if the world itself was swallowing him whole.
His breath came in slow, uneven shudders, misting weakly in the frigid air.
His limbs were heavy, leaden, refusing to move no matter how much he willed them to.
He was alone.
John Doe’s words echoed in his mind, clawing at the edges of his resolve.
????- "No one is coming back for you."
He grit his teeth. His fingers curled weakly against the ice, but there was no strength left to grasp anything. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, slow and unsteady, each throb a reminder of just how much blood he was losing.
But he wasn’t dead. Not yet.
A strangled, bitter breath escaped him, something between a laugh and a cough. The taste of copper filled his mouth. His body screamed at him to stay down, to let go, to just—
No.
His jaw clenched. His hands twitched.
If John Doe wanted him to suffer, if he thought he could just leave him here to rot in the snow, then he had made a mistake.
Because Guest wasn’t dying here.
Not like this.
Slowly, agonizingly, he forced his arm to move. His fingers scraped against the frozen wood of the fallen tree beside him, nails digging into the rough bark. Every inch felt like fire licking through his nerves, but he moved.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred, swimming with darkness.
- "Come on."
The words were barely a whisper. He didn’t know if he had even spoken them aloud.
He dragged himself forward—an inch, then another. His arm trembled violently beneath his weight, threatening to give out at any moment.
But he couldn’t stop.
They thought he was dead. He had to prove them wrong.
Chance. Noob. Shedletsky. Builderman. All of them.
If he could just—get up. If he could just make it a little further.
His body lurched, his strength failing him. He collapsed back against the tree, vision flashing white as pain lanced through his side. A strangled groan tore from his throat.
He sucked in a breath.
The cold was eating at him.
Too slow.
He could feel it—his limbs growing numb, the edges of his mind fraying. The world around him was distant, muffled, as if he were already slipping away.
- "Not yet."
His fingers twitched again, grasping weakly at the ice. His breaths were shaky, uneven, but he forced them to keep coming.
Somewhere, in the distance, the wind howled through the trees.
The forest loomed around him, dark and endless.
No voices. No footsteps.
Just the endless quiet.
The silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating.
He had to move.
Had to survive.
So he gritted his teeth, braced himself—
And tried again.
The cabin was silent except for the sound of cracking wood in the fire and the occasional rustle of fabric as everyone shifted uncomfortably.
The group was beaten, bloodied, and tired—too tired to speak, too shocked to process everything that had happened.
The weight of loss pressed down on them, heavy and suffocating, the absence of Guest a constant ache in their chests.
Chance sat in the corner, his body rigid, eyes staring blankly at the wall.
His mind wouldn’t stop racing. He could still hear Guest’s voice in his head, feel his presence even in the emptiness of the room.
It didn’t make sense. How could he be gone?
How could someone like Guest be wiped off the map so easily?
No, he wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. He couldn’t have died like that.
But as the hours dragged on, a sickening doubt began to creep into his mind.
007n7 sat nearby, his own face pale from exhaustion, his eyes flicking back and forth from his c00lgui screen to Chance. The room felt small, closing in on them, as if the cabin itself was suffocating under the weight of the memories they carried from the battlefield.
- "Chance…" 007n7 started, his voice hesitant. He didn’t want to say it, but he knew it was the truth. "You’ve got to accept it. He’s gone. Guest is—he's probably dead."
Chance’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles going white. His chest tightened painfully as 007n7’s words hit him like a physical blow. He shook his head vigorously, his thoughts tumbling over each other in a mad rush.
- "No," Chance whispered, voice low and broken. "No, he’s not. He can’t be."
007n7 sighed, setting his c00lgui down on the table with a soft click.
- "Chance, listen to me," he said, his tone uncharacteristically soft. "I know what you’re feeling. I know it hurts. But you need to be realistic here." He paused, then continued,
- "You saw what happened out there. You saw how fast he—how fast John Doe was. Guest took the full brunt of that attack. You saw the blood, the way he fell. I… I don’t think he survived that."
Chance’s heart hammered painfully in his chest as the words sunk in, but he refused to let them consume him. Guest had to be alive. He had to be.
- "You're just saying that because you didn’t see it—" Chance’s voice cracked, and he stood up suddenly, his legs shaky as if his body was just as unwilling to accept the truth. "You don’t get it. You don’t know what it was like out there. You didn’t see—"
- "Chance," 007n7 interrupted gently, standing up and placing a hand on Chance’s shoulder. "I’m not saying it because I don’t care. But you need to face reality, okay? Guest was…” He hesitated for a moment, his face faltering.
- "Guest was probably dead before we even made it out of there. The fact that we even got away is a miracle. We barely made it, Chance. The chances of him surviving that... they’re slim."
Chance yanked away from him, his emotions spiraling out of control. His heart ached for Guest, for the fact that they had been so close to saving him, and yet everything had shattered in an instant. The pain was unbearable.
- "You don’t know anything! He’s still out there! I’m not giving up on him! I’m not!"
007n7 stepped back, his face tightening with frustration.
-"Chance, this is insane. You’re holding onto something that isn’t there." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You’re just doing this because he’s—he’s your boyfriend. I get it. But you can’t keep torturing yourself. It’s over. It’s done."
For a moment, everything went still.
Chance's breath hitched, and he staggered backward, his mind numb. It was the truth, wasn’t it? Guest was his boyfriend, the person he had trusted and fought beside for so long. But now... now he was gone. And Chance was left with nothing.
But the thought of just walking away—of giving up on the person he loved—was not something Chance could stomach.
- "Maybe you’re right," Chance muttered, his voice hollow, "but I still don’t care. I’m going back for him."
He spun on his heel, grabbing his broken flintlock off the table, his fingers trembling as he checked the pistol. He was going back. He had to. He wouldn’t let that be the end of it.
007n7’s face twisted with frustration.
- "Chance, don’t be stupid. You’ll get yourself killed. He’s not coming back. You have to let it go."
- "No," Chance spat, fury rising again in his chest. "I won’t. I’m not leaving him like this. I’m not leaving him behind."
With that, Chance stormed out of the cabin, determination filling his every step, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He was leaving. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. He would find Guest, no matter what it took.
Meanwhile, Guest had collapsed in the snow, the relentless cold creeping through his blood-streaked body.
His vision swirled, the edges of his consciousness slipping further away as his breath came in shallow, weak gasps.
He had tried to keep moving. He had fought with everything he had left, but it had been too much. The blood loss. The pain. The fatigue.
His body had given out.
His hands shook as they scraped against the ice, his fingers barely able to grasp onto anything. His face was pale, his body trembling uncontrollably as the cold took over. He had been abandoned. Everyone had left him.
Or had they?
Through the haze of pain and disorientation, he thought he heard something.
A faint whisper in the distance. Footsteps crunching in the snow. Someone… coming.
Was it a trick of his fading mind? A hallucination brought on by blood loss?
No. No, it was real. Someone was out there.
His heart skipped a beat, and despite everything, he forced his body to move, dragging himself painfully forward, his body screaming in protest.
- "Chance…" he whispered, barely able to hear himself over the roar of his pulse in his ears.
He was alive.
But who knows for how long..