The basement smelled of wet stone, rust, and fear. Cold seeped into my bones as I pushed myself upright, scraping my palms against the rough concrete. Shadows flickered across the walls, cast by a single swinging bulb that groaned with every sway.
Then I heard footsteps. Slow. Hesitant.
A man stepped out first. Broad-shouldered, tense, and with a bruise spreading across his cheek. He scanned the room, wary, like a cornered animal.
I froze, heart hammering. But my mind was racing faster. I knew him. James. From the story. Logical, observant, the one who would calculate every move and hesitate at the right moment. If anyone could stay alive, it was him—but he could also be dangerous if panicked.
"I—I don't know what's happening," he said, voice tight with fear. "I just… woke up here."
Two more appeared. A young woman with long, dark hair tangled around her face—Clara, cautious, sharp, always noticing details that others overlooked. And another man, taller, older, grim-faced—Victor, the one who followed orders, reliable in a crisis, but slow to trust.
I let my gaze sweep over them carefully, cataloging their traits. Names, strengths, weaknesses. If I was going to survive, I had to use this.
"Does anyone know how we got here?" I asked, keeping my voice calm, careful.
"No," James said. "We just… woke up. This place… it's locked. There's no way out."
Clara's voice trembled. "It's like… we're being watched. I can feel it."
I nodded slowly, masking my recognition. "Yeah… I feel it too." My eyes scanned the room, noting every detail: the shelves stacked with dusty boxes, the tipped-over chair, the cracked table, the rusty door at the far end. Everything could be a weapon—or a trap.
Victor narrowed his eyes. "Who are you? You don't… seem like the others."
I forced a faint, nervous smile. "Just… someone trying to stay alive, same as you."
Good. That kept suspicion low. I didn't need anyone questioning why I seemed… different.
Another movement. From the shadows, someone tall and slow emerged. Their face hidden, but the glint of a knife caught the flickering light. The killer.
My stomach dropped. My pulse spiked.
But I forced myself to breathe. Every story has rules. Every character has a pattern. I knew them all—James, Clara, Victor, the others. I knew who would panic first, who would try to lead, who would freeze. I just had to be patient and play my part.
James shifted, glancing at the shadow. "It's here…" he muttered, voice barely audible.
Clara hugged herself. "We have to do something…"
I nodded subtly, making sure my body language stayed in line with theirs. "Yes… but carefully. We watch. Observe. Every action counts."
Victor's lips pressed into a thin line. "Trust is dangerous right now. Whoever moves first…"
Exactly.
I cataloged their faces, their expressions, their instincts. Who would follow a plan? Who might betray? Who could be persuaded? This knowledge is power.
The shadow moved closer to the door, then disappeared again, leaving only the echo of movement and the promise of violence.
I swallowed hard. They don't know I know their names. They don't know I know how they think. That gave me an advantage. And if I wanted to survive, I had to use it.
This wasn't a fairytale. There was no prince, no magic, no happy ending waiting for us.
This was survival.
And I had to play my part carefully, using the players exactly as I knew them… or risk being the first one gone.