The door sealed shut behind us, as she checked the door didn't budge.
The Mafia leader sat, draped in control. Not smug. Not gloating. Just… still. The way predators are before they bite.
His eyes flicked toward me and the girl like we were chess pieces that had just stepped into check. The reporter was behind him barely conscious. Her arm still bloodied. Her hand missing a finger.
"We're all here now," he said, voice calm, detached. "You, her, and her." He nodded to the faintly breathing reporter on the floor. "Three lives. One answer."
I tensed. He hadn't even looked at the pain he'd caused. That made it worse.
"My terms are simple," he continued. "Tell me who the Proxy is—and I'll let you all walk out of here alive."
I didn't flinch. "We don't know who has the Proxy. We didn't even know that role existed."
His gaze sharpened. "Don't bullshit me."
A soft hiss slipped from the girl beside me. She leaned close and whispered, "He's after the Proxy for a reason. That role… its ability must be dangerous."
There was hesitation in her voice. Like she knew more. Like she was afraid to say it out loud.
The Mafia leader didn't miss it. He turned his stare to her now. "You're one of the escapees from Generation 3, aren't you? No… not quite. You're smarter than they were. But you're still twitchy. Still flinching at ghosts."
She clenched her fists. "You don't know anything about me."
"I don't have to," he said, tilting his head. "I've studied the failures of your predecessors. Weak leaders. Emotional players. Too much chaos, not enough control." He rose slowly, his presence towering even without a weapon drawn. "But I? I don't make their mistakes."
He took a step closer to the reporter.
"Stop," I said quickly. "You want the Proxy, not her. She doesn't know."
He didn't even glance back. "You don't get to make bargains."
His hand reached into his coat. The girl tensed beside me, already preparing for a fight.
"She's dying," I said. "You'll lose your leverage."
His hand stilled.
Then he turned, slowly, eyes settling on me. "And yet… you're still lying."
"We're not."
"You are. You think I'm like the last Mafia, I won't know when people lie? They ruled on instinct. I rule on pattern. You flinched when I said the word 'Proxy.' That's all I needed."
He walked over to the table. Picked up something wrapped in cloth.
A blade.
He laid it down beside the reporter, who stirred faintly, trying to sit upright. Her breathing was shallow. Her eyes were dim, yet she still met his gaze.
He crouched.
"This is mercy," he said softly. "Because when I run out of patience, mercy ends."
He looked back to us.
"One of you knows. And when she wakes again… if I don't have the answer, I won't just take another finger. I'll start carving truth from flesh."
The girl beside me whispered, "He's not bluffing."
No.
He wasn't.
He didn't need to.
He was winning already…
The reporter's scream never came—only a broken gasp, soft and wet like breath shattered through blood. Her body slumped, and her head rolled back as her consciousness finally gave in to the pain.
Her finger… was no longer there.
The girl beside me dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she caught the reporter just before her head hit the ground. She was pale, nearly ghost-white, but breathing—barely. That small, fragile breath was the only thing anchoring her to life.
And the Mafia?
He didn't walk away.
He sat down at the far side of the room, in a cracked leather armchair near the blood-streaked wall, as if he were simply watching a slow-burning fire. One leg crossed over the other, arms lazily draped, blade resting on the armrest like a decoration. Like he had all the time in the world.
His eyes never left us.
He didn't speak, didn't move.
Just… watched.
And something about that was worse than if he'd left.
I was frozen.
Not by fear anymore—but by something deeper.
DESPAIR.
She was right in front of me. A friend. Someone who had helped me without asking for anything in return. And all I could do was watch as he maimed her. I stood there, useless.
I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit through skin. My thoughts scattered. I wanted to scream, to charge him, to tear him apart even if it meant dying with him. But I didn't move. I knew the rules. I knew the cost.
The girl beside me looked at me briefly, her expression unreadable as she pulled out the healing pot with trembling hands. "Help me, I'm sorry I had to use my role ability just for her bleed out to stop" she whispered.
And I noded. Because it was the only thing I could do.
We worked together in silence, patching the wound, slowing the bleeding. My hands were shaking. I tried to focus, but my mind was a chaos of rage and shame. I kept seeing her eyes—how they fluttered before she passed out, how she held strong until the very end.
And I did nothing.
From the corner of the room, the Mafia shifted slightly. I heard the faint creak of leather beneath him.
"You see now," he said, his voice low and even. "What it means to hold no power. What it means to be prey."
I didn't respond.
"You're lucky I need her," he went on, tone almost bored. "Or I would've ended it already. One name that's all it takes."
Still, I said nothing.
"Tick tock," he murmured. "The game waits for no one."
He closed his eyes and leaned back, the blade still resting on the chair's arm like a statement: Try something. I dare you.
The girl finished sealing the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain hadn't. That much was written all over the reporter's face, even in unconsciousness.
I sat there, beside her, trembling with fury.
Not just at him.
But at myself.
Because for all my thoughts, my deductions, my so-called intelligence—when it truly mattered, I had no power.
And now someone else had paid for it.
Again.
And still, no correct answer.
She couldn't speak anymore—only scream.
The girl's sobs had long since died into silence. Her arms were stained red as she tried to hold the reporter together, whispering words of comfort the reporter could no longer hear. The reporter's hands—once steady, sharp, quick to text me leads and gut instincts—now had only three fingers left on each.
Each wrong guess had cost her another.
Each second stretched longer than the last.
And I—I just stood there.
No. Not again.
A voice in me snapped.
I stood, fists clenched, trembling in rage. And before I could think—before reason could remind me of the cost—I lunged.
A broken scream left my throat as I charged straight toward the man sitting in the chair like a god among corpses.
"You son of a—!"
But I never reached him.
The moment I moved, he moved faster. He was already up. One smooth motion—like it was nothing.
A hard force collided with me. I hit the floor hard, air knocked from my lungs, and before I could even lift my arm—steel bit through it.
A stab. Clean. Precise.
Straight through my hand.
I howled in pain.
The blade stuck out from my palm into the wooden floor. Blood pooled beneath me like a spreading shadow.
He crouched low beside me. His face calm. His voice colder than steel.
"Time's up."
My eyes widened.
"No... No—WAIT!"
But there was no waiting.
He stood.
Walked past me like I was just debris on the floor.
And that's when the girl snapped.
"No—DON'T!" she cried out, throwing herself between him and the reporter.
But he didn't even flinch.
With a twist of his heel and one fluid motion, he kicked her—a brutal, unrestrained blow to the gut. Her body flew backward, crashing into the wall with a heavy thud.
She gasped, coughing violently, her breath ripped from her lungs.
He didn't even look back at her.
No hesitation.
No pause.
And with the same hand that had maimed me, he raised his blade one last time.
"Stop!" I roared, throat breaking, tears blinding me.
But—
Slice.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The sound was wet.
And then...
Her body dropped.
The girl screamed, collapsing beside her.
I couldn't move.
I just watched.
Blood poured into the cracks of the stone floor, trickling toward me like it wanted me to feel every inch of it. Her blood. Her silence. Her end.
And I—
I was still breathing.
Still alive.
Why?
He turned toward me, casually removing the blade from my hand like peeling off a bandage. My scream was silent this time. I had nothing left.
He wiped the blood on his coat.
And said—
"Now. We reset."
Then he walked away with a girl who we didn't see, who just appeared when the murder ends
And all I could do was lie there—
Bleeding.
Raging.
Breaking.
AND IT SNAPPED…
I REMEMBER…
EVERYTHING…