The severed head passed slowly from hand to hand among the villagers, a grim and silent ritual. Each pair of calloused fingers gripped it for a moment before passing it on, as though they were sharing the weight of a collective crime. Eventually, the grisly token made its way through the last set of trembling hands.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then, from the dirt road leading into the town, a sharp voice cut through the still air.
"All villagers, squat down!!"
No one could say for sure which villager gave the command first, but the order rippled through the crowd like a shockwave. People obeyed instantly, bodies lowering in unison. One villager, his hands shaking, tossed the prison guard's head to the ground as though it were burning coal. It hit the dust with a dull thud.
No one dared speak after that. The once-lively farmland fell quiet, stripped of its usual cheerful chatter. Even the constant hum of insects seemed to fade.
Yet, beneath the oppressive silence, a faint sense of strange satisfaction lingered. It was not joy exactly—more like the guilty relief of people who had done something irreversible together.
A squad of prison guards marched into view, their leader's face hard as stone. His eyes swept the crowd until they landed on Lucas.
"You!" His finger stabbed the air like a spear aimed at Lucas' chest. "Go to the confessional. You're not leaving until ten o'clock tonight!"
Two guards stepped forward immediately. One clamped a heavy hand onto Lucas' left shoulder, the other on his right, steering him firmly away from the farm.
Lucas offered no resistance. In fact, this was exactly the outcome he had predicted from the moment he entered this strange, game-like world. He had been tense all day, bracing for something to happen. Now that it had, his nerves eased just slightly—though he didn't let it show.
The other villagers stood rooted in place, watching him go. Some faces were pale with worry, others softened with quiet admiration. It was as if they were seeing him off to an execution, uncertain if they'd ever see him walk back.
The prison guard captain clasped his hands behind his back, turning to face those who remained. His voice cracked like a whip.
"All of you will be punished later! And when we're done, you'll learn what true unity and friendship mean."
Lucas glanced around as he was marched through the streets toward the town's office building. Not a single villager was in sight—only prison guards, moving from door to door, inspecting houses with grim efficiency. The empty streets gave the town an eerie, abandoned feel.
The office building loomed ahead, its five stories of gray stone casting a long shadow across the cobblestones. Guards in crisp, formal uniforms moved briskly in and out, carrying files and muttering instructions. None spared Lucas a second glance, not even to glare at him. They were too absorbed in their work, as though seeing a prisoner escorted inside was as ordinary as sorting paperwork.
His system interface flickered to life in his vision.
[Modeling…]
[Risk assessment in progress based on host's current strength…]
[Verne Town Staff: Advanced Danger]
[Verne Town Staff: Advanced Danger]
[Verne Town Staff: Advanced Danger]
[…]
Lucas frowned.
"Are all prison officers rated at the exact same danger level?"
It was the first time he'd seen identical results across the board. Normally, even people with similar abilities varied in their risk profiles. But here, the results were… identical. It was as if they'd been carved from the same mold.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Lucas quickly realized the "confessional" wasn't just a single room—it was an entire floor. The corridor stretched long and narrow, lined with doors on both sides. The air was unnervingly still.
As they walked, Lucas peeked into several open rooms. Each was nearly identical: a plain wooden table, two wooden chairs, and nothing else. The simplicity made them feel more like interrogation rooms than places for repentance.
Halfway down the corridor, Lucas froze.
Creak… kkrrrk…
A sound like grinding bone seeped through the air, sharp enough to make his teeth ache. It came from behind the only closed door on the floor.
Then came another sound—a low, trembling whimper. It was the kind of cry that carried the weight of fear, desperation, and humiliation. Lucas recognized it instantly: it was the prisoner who had been taken here before him.
[Modeling…]
[Preparing analysis…]
[Confessional Room in Office Building: No Danger]
The display made Lucas arch an eyebrow.
"No danger? Then what in the world makes a violent, murderous criminal whimper like that?"
At the far end of the corridor, the guards stopped. One stepped forward, opened a door, and stood aside, gesturing for Lucas to enter.
"This is your first time in the confessional," the guard said flatly. His tone was purely professional, as though reading from a manual. "Here are the rules."
He ticked them off on his fingers.
"First, no damage to public property in the confessional. Any damage will add extra work hours to your sentence. Second, you are not allowed to leave before your session ends. Third, no self-harm of any kind is permitted."
The third rule made Lucas' brows knit together. "No self-harm allowed…?" The phrasing was odd, almost ominous, as if they were warning him against something far darker than a simple emotional breakdown.
The guard stepped back toward the hallway as Lucas sat down in the wooden chair.
"The confessional will take you back to the most fearful moment in your life," the guard said evenly. "You will reflect on your mistakes here and strive to become a better citizen of Verne Town."
With that, he closed the door behind Lucas.
"You'll be released at ten o'clock."
The heavy click of the lock echoed like a final verdict.
From somewhere far away, a familiar voice spoke—this time the clown host's, hushed and theatrical.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you didn't expect this, did you? The confessional of Verne Town can recreate the most fearful moment in a person's life! No wonder every criminal leaves this place in tears."
He chuckled, the sound high and twisted.
"No one comes out without crying…"
The audience chat feed exploded.
"I can't wait to see Lucas break down!"
"Bet he'll be bawling in ten minutes!"
In a hidden control room, One in a Hundred leaned forward, uneasy.
"When was Lucas most afraid—when he was in the orphanage, or the mental hospital? I can't even imagine him crying like that."
Beside him, Blue Kill had dropped her usual smirk. Her eyes stayed fixed on the main feed.
"Is he really capable of fear?"
As the footsteps of the departing guard faded, Lucas' attention drifted to the empty room around him. His fingers tapped softly against the table, a nervous rhythm he didn't notice he was making.
"The scariest moment…" he murmured. Of course he had one—memories that still crawled into his dreams at night. And now, here, he could recall every detail with terrifying clarity.
"Can this place really recreate it…?"
For a while, there was nothing—no sound, no movement. Then, a faint shift in the air.
Lucas caught it first as a smell.
It was subtle, but his stomach clenched instantly. It was the smell from that day, from that moment. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
The light in the room began to twist, bending into strange, unnatural shades. The walls seemed to waver, as though he were seeing them through rippling water.
The scene around him began to melt away.
And in that instant, Lucas knew—he was going back.
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