The blue LEDs on the chair pulsed, a slow, patient rhythm like the heartbeat of the room. The words on the screen—Sacrificial Lamb, Primary Lever, Anomaly—weren't just labels. They were verdicts. Vivian's eyes were glued to "Pressure Point." Her rocking had stopped. She was perfectly still, a mouse hoping the hawk's gaze would pass.
Before the silence could curdle into fresh panic, a new voice scraped through the hidden speakers.
It was a dry, rasping drawl, the sound of dust and old leather. It held none of the clown's glee or the father's false comfort. This was the voice of a man who'd broken horses and seen hard winters.
"Well, I'll be a son of a gun."
They flinched as one, heads snapping up.
"Y'all made it through the opener," the cranky cowboy voice continued, languid and assessing. "Look a bit roughed up, sure. Spirit's hangin' in there, though. Managed it in your own… igneous way. Hard-headed and messy."
Elijah's gaze swept the ceiling, hunting for the speaker. The new persona was a data point. Cranky observer. Detached. Amused, not ecstatic. The shift was meaningful.
Marcus let out a sharp, disgusted breath. His eyes were fixed on his own profile. Loyalty: Negligible. Use: Wild Card / Antagonist. The clinical dismissal of his worth, the reduction to a chaotic variable, struck a deeper blow than any physical threat. His face, already pale, tightened into a mask of cold fury. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand, extended his middle finger, and held it up, not to the screen, but to the central, dark lens of the camera he knew was watching. The gesture was silent, succinct, and brimming with venomous pride.
As if in response, the large central screen flickered. The stark performance metrics vanished.
The display split.
On the left side, the masked figure—Witnessing Hollow—was now presented in a new context. It was seated in a deep, oxblood leather armchair, within a paneled study. A faint glow from a unseen fireplace licked at the edges of its dark form. One gloved hand rested on the chair's arm, the other held a crystal glass containing a dark liquid. It wasn't threatening. It was the picture of relaxed, intellectual comfort, a scholar observing a particularly interesting colony of ants. The ultimate audience.
The right side of the screen showed the live feed of their own control room, their frightened faces rendered in high definition. And beside it, the Vtube chat scrolled, a torrent of text moving too fast to read individually, yet forming a palpable wave of collective sentiment.
Chloe, seeking any tactical advantage, forced her eyes to track the scrolling words. They were a gut punch.
User 'ReaperFan': When is someone gonna start spilling over? The tension is KILLING me!
User 'BallHog': man if there is someone who i would enjoy seeing in that situation is that richie fellow. seriously.
User 'Spectre': i would even pay good money if it would comprise the premises of the game to deal with that richie guy.
User 'TruthSeekerX': guys do you think that fool knows about the demise of his old man?
User 'ChaosEnjoyer': he doubts it.
Richie had been leaning against a console, his head down, trying to master the pain in his leg and the searing humiliation of being rated a 'Lamb.' His eyes, dull with shock, caught the movement of the chat. He read the first few lines about himself with a kind of detached numbness. Yeah, screw you too, he thought weakly.
Then he saw his father mentioned.
His head came up. His brow furrowed, not in anger, but in pure, uncomprehending confusion. Demise? The word rattled in his skull. It was a formal word. A final word. It didn't compute with the image of his loud, blustering, indestructible father.
He read it again. …the demise of his old man.
The confusion crystallized, freezing into a cold, sharp knot in his stomach. His eyes darted to the next comment. he doubts it.
The world narrowed to the glow of the screen. The pain in his leg vanished. The chatter of the others faded into a distant hum. All that existed were those two lines of text, written by faceless strangers watching him suffer.
A mottled red flush crept up his neck, over his cheeks. The breath left his lungs in a soft, shaky exhale. His hands, which had been limp at his sides, slowly curled inward. The fingers tightened, knuckles pushing against the skin, turning bone-white. A visible tremor started in his arms, traveling up to his shoulders, making his whole frame quiver.
He took a step. His injured leg buckled, but he caught himself on the edge of the console, his grip so hard the plastic casing creaked. He didn't seem to feel it. His eyes were locked on the left side of the screen, on the impossibly relaxed figure of Witnessing Hollow.
"You…" The word was a dry scrap of sound, torn from a parched throat.
He pushed off the console, standing upright on sheer adrenaline. He took another stumbling, dragging step toward the screen, his finger rising, arm shaking violently as he pointed it at the masked face.
"You…"
Then the dam burst.
"YOU PIECE OF TRASH!" The scream ripped out of him, raw, ragged, and deafening in the confined space. Tears of pure, unadulterated rage sprang from his eyes, tracking through the grime on his face. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY FATHER?!" He was screaming himself hoarse, his body a taut bowstring of fury. "YOU KILLED HIM! YOU SET THE FIRE! YOU— YOU MURDERING COWARD! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME, YOU MASKED FREAK!"
He was shouting at a pre-recorded image, at a symbol, but the emotion was devastatingly real. He was a boy howling at the storm that took his roof.
The chat, predictably, erupted in a frenzy of grotesque delight.
User 'MorbidJoy': OH HERE WE GO! THE PAIN! IT'S BEAUTIFUL! FEED IT TO ME!
User 'Vulture': This is better than any puzzle. Look at the little lamb realize it's already been slaughtered.
User 'Scribe': The emotional payoff is astronomical. The writing this season is top-tier.
Vivian had her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. Marcus watched, his own middle finger forgotten, his analytical mind coldly noting the efficiency of the psychological strike. Chloe took a step toward Richie, her hand outstretched, but Elijah caught her arm, a subtle shake of his head. Interrupting this raw, televised breakdown might be seen as denying the audience their prize—a dangerous move.
The cowboy's drawl sliced through Richie's screaming, not loud, but impossibly penetrating.
"Now, now. Rein it in, son. Save that fire for the main event. Y'all are calibrated. The audience is… invested."
On screen, the interface changed again. The chilling profiles were replaced by a game HUD. Five status bars, each labeled with their names. A "FAVOR" meter for the group, currently ticking slowly upwards as the engagement spiked. And prominently displayed, the "DELETION" poll for Richie, the percentage now jumping—71%... 73%...
"Next round's a team effort," the voice continued, a gruesome parody of a coach's pep talk. "A real thinker. Y'all gotta choose a door." As he spoke, three sleek, metallic hatches irised open on the far wall of the control room, each bearing a glowing number: 1, 2, 3.
"But choose wise," the cowboy added, the amusement back in his grating tone. "The audience… they got a stake in it now. Their favor can open paths. Or," a significant pause, "it can close 'em right up."
The voice faded. The room was left with the electric hum of machinery, the hyperventilating gasps from Richie as his rage dissolved into choked, helpless sobs, and the three silent, numbered doors.
The choice was before them. And the price of choosing wrong was no longer just a shock or a fall.
It was written in a percentage next to Richie's name, climbing toward one hundred.
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