Spes stepped out of the kitchen, entering the hallway with the same calm, unchanging posture. His hands rested behind his back, and his masked gaze swept over the three seated figures—Harper, Nathan, and Ivy—each waiting in tense silence.
He stopped a few steps in front of them.
"Who's next?"
His voice was flat. Still unreadable. No urgency, no pressure—yet somehow, the weight of time clung to every syllable.
The group looked up, but someone was missing. Ivy's eyes narrowed as she quickly noticed what the others hadn't yet.
Alice wasn't with him.
She stood up slowly.
"Where is Alice?" she asked, a hint of alarm in her voice, though she kept her tone composed.
Spes didn't hesitate.
"She made her decision. I sent her outside the cottage. There is no need to worry. She'll wait for you to complete your part, and once it's done—you will all reunite."
The answer left a cold gap in the air. Not worrying… yet not comforting either.
Harper leaned forward slightly, brows furrowed. Nathan glanced toward the kitchen, unsure whether to be relieved or more tense. But it was Ivy who kept pressing—she wasn't one to let uncertainty slide.
"Can we see her?"
Spes turned his head slightly toward her.
"No."
His reply was immediate. Firm. Unyielding.
"You will only reunite once every one of you is done. That is the rule."
A long pause stretched between them.
Ivy exhaled through her nose and nodded, understanding the pattern of this test. Her instincts wanted information—Alice's expression, her tone, her body language—anything to dissect what kind of challenge lay ahead. But none of it would be available to her.
This was designed to isolate. One by one. Alone.
Spes broke the silence again.
"So… who is next?"
His voice remained calm, but something about it stirred the tension in the room again. The clock was ticking. And no one could hide behind someone else now.
The spotlight had shifted.
Nathan and Harper's eyes shifted—almost in sync—toward Ivy.
It was subtle, but unmistakable. A quiet, almost involuntary gesture.And Ivy noticed.
The moment Spes asked who would go next, their silent agreement had already been made: Not me. Let Ivy go.
A strange feeling washed over her—not exactly dread, not exactly frustration. More like the absurd realization that she'd been unanimously and silently voted tribute.
She narrowed her eyes, muttering under her breath.
"You don't want to go, Nathan?"
The words came out more like a hiss than a question.
Nathan gave a half-shrug, trying to look casual but failing to mask his discomfort. "I just think you'd handle it better," he said, nodding as if trying to sell the idea to himself. "Besides… I was thinking I'd go last."
Of course you were. Ivy resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Harper folded her arms.
"Well, if we're going by logic, shouldn't the guy go first? You know—gents leading the charge and all that?"
Nathan, quick to counter, raised his brows.
"Alice already went first. That technically broke the cycle. So… ladies first, right?"
He offered a toothless smile, clearly pleased with his reasoning.
Harper opened her mouth in protest, but Ivy raised a hand, stopping her.
"Oh my god," she muttered, then looked at Nathan.
"You're actually throwing me into the fire with a gender role debate as your shield?"
Nathan looked away, pretending to examine the floor tiles.
A soft sigh escaped Ivy. Not exactly fear—more like mild, well-earned annoyance.
Then Spes stepped forward.
"If you're done…"
His voice cut cleanly through the tension, neutral but edged with cold efficiency.
"Please come forward. You're forgetting… your time is ticking."
That last part struck hard.
Because they were.
And there was no more time to stall.
Ivy rose to her feet with a resigned exhale, brushing her pants as she stood tall. There was no way around it now—she was next.
But it wasn't all dread.
"Come on… it won't be that bad."
Alice had gone in first, and if Alice could do it, Ivy—the planner, the strategist, the backbone of the team for now, sure as hell could too.
That thought gave her a flicker of confidence.
Spes turned, calm as ever.
"Very well. I'll meet you in the kitchen."
Without waiting for a response, he walked toward the doorway and disappeared into the dim light of the hall.
Ivy followed, pacing forward with deliberate steps. But just before crossing the threshold, she paused.
She turned back—just enough to catch Nathan in her peripheral vision—and shot him a sharp, unapologetic middle finger.
No words. Just the silent, universal language of "Screw you."
Nathan chuckled under his breath, barely hiding the smirk forming on his lips.
"You're gonna be next," he muttered to Harper, nudging her elbow gently. "Prepare yourself."
Harper rolled her eyes.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
Nathan leaned back, arms folded, gaze still fixed on the kitchen door Ivy had just entered.
But behind the banter… a quiet unease lingered.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Ivy stepped into the kitchen.
Spes was already there—his back turned, gaze locked on the window where the slithering black tentacles rose like smoke. The room felt colder than before. Sterile. Stagnant. The silence?
Suffocating.
Unbeknownst to her, Alice was just outside the same window—hidden, as per Spes' command—her presence mere feet away, but utterly unreachable.
Everything about this moment felt… off.
It was like stepping into déjà vu, though Ivy didn't know why.
The kitchen interior was painfully ordinary—the same as Alice had seen. The modern stove, the mounted shelf with dusty spice jars, and the cups stacked to the side. A table with half-empty milk bottles sat to Ivy's right.
But none of that mattered.
All that did was the man standing at the front, unmoving.
Ivy's chest tightened.
The clock was ticking. Time was bleeding out fast.
She spoke, breaking the thick stillness.
"Will I be getting my offer?"
Her voice was even, but there was a tension in it—a sense of urgency she couldn't suppress. There was no time to waste.
At once, Spes turned. Smooth, deliberate. His eyes met hers—calm, unreadable. The same exact posture, the same exact movement as before.
To Ivy, it was just the beginning.
But to Spes?
It was a repetition. A script he'd already played once before
He was ready to begin again.
The sad truth about the entities of Palamine was this:
They thought they were alive.
They thought they had consciousness.
That their thoughts were their own.
That the way they moved, spoke, reacted—was a choice.
That their actions were just how any normal human might behave in their position.
But they were wrong. Terribly, fundamentally wrong.
They were only imitating humanity. And not even well.
None of them knew it, of course. Not Spes. Not the old woman. None of them saw the strings that held them up. None of them felt the hollow core inside.
They were coded—like puppets tied to invisible scripts.
Repetition was their essence. Predictability was their prison.
They delivered the same lines.
Offered the same "choices."
Responded in the same ways to the same triggers.
It didn't matter how you screamed at them, cried, begged, or broke down. Their expressions wouldn't shift. Their tone wouldn't falter. Their roles were locked.
No emotion. No empathy. No true awareness.
They were robotic ghosts—soulless vessels cycling through the same scenes over and over again.
No participant had figured it out yet.
And Spes—
No matter how calm, wise, or composed he appeared—
He was no exception. His role was to behave like this to every participant which came in this phase.
He was just another cog in the scripted nightmare of Palamine.