đź’€ The Final Cut
Chapter 1: The Invitation
Chicago wasn't dead at 2:47 a.m., but it sure felt like it. The streets weren't exactly silent — a siren screamed two blocks away, a bottle shattered somewhere deeper into the night, and the bitter wind howled like it was laughing at every broken soul who still wandered the sidewalks. Seraphina Wexler was one of them.
Wrapped in a worn trench coat and boots that had seen better winters, she walked with her head low, a half-dead phone buzzing weakly in her pocket. Another rejection email. She didn't even need to open it. She knew the format by heart now: "We regret to inform you that your results…" Same story, different seal.
Seven years. Seven tries. Seven full federal-level exams. And nothing.
She didn't even know where she was going anymore — just walking. Moving because standing still meant thinking, and thinking meant collapsing under the weight of every dream that had slowly turned to rot. Her hands were stuffed into her coat pockets, her eyes stung from exhaustion, and her backpack felt heavier than it should have — maybe from shame, maybe from empty lunch boxes and unopened letters from home.
Eventually, she found herself at the Ashland Avenue Metro Station, one of those all-night loops that ran on three-car trains and too many broken dreams. The station was half-lit, the yellowing tiles on the floor stained with water and who-knows-what. She sat on the last bench near the edge of the platform, rubbing her cold hands together, watching the tracks shimmer slightly under the flickering overhead light.
Then someone sat next to her.
A man. Maybe mid-40s, sharp suit, polished shoes, and an expensive cologne that didn't match the setting at all. He was reading a small leather notebook, but as if on cue, he closed it and turned to her.
"You look like someone who's tired of losing," he said softly.
She stared. "Excuse me?"
He smiled faintly, eyes sharp. "You've failed seven times. Federal track. Your record's public — don't worry, I didn't hack anything. Just... good at reading people."
Her heart picked up pace. "What do you want?"
"I want to offer you a chance," he said, pulling out a small black envelope and placing it gently between them on the bench. It had no writing, no logo — just a single red X pressed into the wax seal.
Seraphina didn't touch it.
He glanced toward the tracks. "Train gets here in six minutes. If you want to ride it to nowhere, be my guest. But if you're done wasting your life trying to impress a broken system, maybe it's time you played a different game."
Her fingers twitched.
"What kind of game?" she asked, not because she trusted him — but because her life was empty enough to entertain curiosity.
He stood up and dusted off his sleeves.
> "A survival game. High stakes. One winner. Ten million dollars. All you have to do is say yes… and show up."
She opened the envelope. A black card gleamed inside like a secret. On it:
"Welcome to The Final Cut. 3:30 a.m. Arrival Point: 34th & Ashland. Come alone."
She looked up — but the man was gone. Like he had vanished into the night.
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She almost didn't go.
She stood there for a long time, fingers frozen around the card, heart louder than the approaching train. This was either the start of something insane… or the end of her sanity. But for the first time in a long time, her pulse wasn't flat. She felt something — not hope, not fear, but a strange need to know.
So she turned, walked up the stairs instead of boarding the train, and made her way into the shadows of Chicago.
At 3:29 a.m., Seraphina Wexler arrived at an abandoned warehouse near Ashland Avenue.
There were others. Dozens of them. Waiting. Watching. Quiet.
And above the door was a single flickering red sign.
> The Final Cut.
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To Be Continued...
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đź’Ś Author's Note
Now you've met Seraphina — sharp, tired, and walking into something she has no idea how to survive. But something tells me she'll do more than just survive… she'll shake this whole thing to the ground.
What would you do if someone handed you that envelope?
Stay tuned, because The Game has just begun. 🎮
Your votes, comments, and reads are my lifeline, fam.
With 🔥 and suspense,
Aarya Patil