The text message glowed with malicious clarity: Climb or Call.
The choice was a brutal test of Rajeev's resolve against his immediate, protective instinct. Calling Mrs. Sharma was the "safe" action, but as he'd learned, safety led to irreversible consequence. Warning her now would only give the entity time to reroute the threat, perhaps escalating the danger to her or executing the loss instantly for disobedience.
The immediate, physical action—climbing to the adjacent roof—was the only path that offered a chance to gain information and control the timeline.
Rajeev moved to his bedroom, the throbbing brand on his shoulder reminding him of the stakes. He slid open the window. The cold, high-rise air rushed in. His apartment was on the fourth floor. The adjacent residential building, separated by a narrow six-foot alley, had a slightly lower rooftop, maybe three feet lower than his window ledge. It was a terrifying, reckless leap, a twenty-foot drop into the alley if he missed.
He looked across. Taped to the flat cement roof, bright white against the grey, was another envelope.
Rajeev quickly assessed his gear. He grabbed a pair of thick gardening gloves for grip and found a long, strong nylon rope he'd used for securing balcony plants. He tied one end securely around the heavy, built-in wardrobe in his room, testing the knot with all his weight.
He looked at the phone. Call Mrs. Sharma. He could hear her voice now, worried, gentle. He fought the urge. He was committed to the active choice.
"I'm coming, Aunty," he muttered, grabbing the rope.
The Leap of Despair
Rajeev threw the coiled rope out the window, ensuring it landed on the adjacent roof. The rope was a safety line, not a bridge. He needed to make the jump without relying on it.
He climbed out onto the narrow ledge, the gritty concrete cold beneath his sneakers. Below, the alley was a chasm of deep, unforgiving shadow. He took a deep breath, focusing entirely on the opposite ledge. The slightest miscalculation—a slippery spot, a gust of wind, or a sudden noise—and the game would end with his splattered body.
He launched himself across the gap, pushing off hard with his legs. For a terrifying second, he was airborne, suspended between two silent, towering structures.
He landed hard on the opposite roof, his hands instinctively grasping the edge of the parapet to stabilize himself. The impact jarred his branded shoulder, sending a fresh wave of blinding pain through him.
He was alive. He pulled the rope taut, then turned to the envelope.
He ripped it off the roof and tore it open. Inside was a small, sealed glass vial and another note.
The note was brief:
Congratulations, Rajeev. You chose Confrontation over Cowardice. That is the perfect decision.
The consequence of this choice is that Mrs. Sharma is now safe from the scheduled event. The immediate physical risk saved her life.
Now, the vial. This is a highly concentrated, fast-acting neurotoxin. It will kill you in less than ten minutes.
EVENT 4 IS READY: THE EXCHANGE.
Your final choice: Do you climb back to your apartment and administer the toxin to yourself to end the game, or do you remain on this roof and wait for the police, ensuring your arrest?
The toxin will take effect in 60 seconds.
Choose the perfect sacrifice.
The Final Betrayal
Rajeev stared at the vial and the message, his mind reeling from the sickening twist. He had jumped, risked his life, and the reward was a vial of poison and the demand for his suicide. The game was designed for him to lose everything, including his will to live.
As he realized the utter hopelessness of his situation, the throbbing in his branded shoulder intensified, becoming a burning agony that spread down his arm.
Suddenly, a woman's terrified scream tore through the night air. It wasn't Mrs. Sharma's voice; it was much closer.
He looked down into the alley. A young woman, clearly a resident of the adjacent building, had stepped out onto her balcony, drawn by the sound of his landing. She was staring directly at him, her eyes wide with fear, holding a phone.
She was dialing the police.
"He's up there! He jumped across! He's a lunatic!" she screamed.
Rajeev had no time. The police were already looking for an excuse to arrest him. If he was caught here, holding a vial of poison, his fate was sealed. The game master had engineered the perfect double-trap: either he commits suicide to "win" the game, or he is arrested for trespass and attempted murder, confirming his "lunacy" to the world.
He quickly pocketed the vial and the note. He scrambled back to the ledge, grabbed the rope, and pulled himself back across the gap, dragging the rope in after him.
The Aftermath
He slammed the window shut, locked it, and pulled the blinds just as the distant wail of sirens began to grow louder. The neighbor had made the call.
Rajeev leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He had not taken the poison, nor had he waited for the police. He had chosen Escape—an option not presented, yet the only one that preserved his life and his ability to fight.
He looked at the vial, its dark liquid shimmering in the dim light. He had the weapon now.
His phone buzzed. A new text.
FROM: ANONYMOUS DEATH
EVASION IS NOT A CHOICE, RAJEEV. YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO LIVE. THIS IS THE INCORRECT DECISION.
THE CONSEQUENCE: ALL LIVES YOU HAVE SAVED ARE NOW IN PLAY.
Mrs. Sharma is safe for now, but she is now the permanent target of every future consequence.
The clock starts now, Host. You have 24 hours to find a third party to inherit the game. If you fail, the life of Mrs. Sharma will be the price.
The game was no longer about personal survival; it was a desperate race against time to save the last person he cared about by finding a new victim. Rajeev had 24 hours to commit the ultimate betrayal: find someone else to become the Host.
He looked at the vial in his hand, then at the glowing, painful brand on his shoulder. He was a fugitive, a suspect, and a host to a parasitic killer. He had to think of a name. A new player. Someone with the technical knowledge to fight this digital ghost, but who wouldn't immediately call the police.
A name flashed through his mind, a long-lost connection, a genius programmer from his university days. A man who specialized in high-level network security and who, Rajeev remembered, had a dangerous love for conspiracy theories and high-stakes puzzles.
Rajeev pulled out his wallet, looking for an old business card. The only way to save Mrs. Sharma was to condemn someone else.