Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The control room was quiet—eerily so. Just the gentle hum of flickering monitors and the distant buzz of static filled the space. Rows of cameras fed into massive screens, each one capturing a different angle of the arena. Survivors getting ready. Sharpening weapons. Whispering their nervous plans to one another. Some laughed hollowly, masking their fear. Others silently stared at the bloodstained walls they’d grown used to.

But The Spectre only watched one screen.

Their gaze was glued to the boy—Elliot.

A pizza boy, of all things. In a place ruled by death and bloodshed, Elliot still carried warmth like a candle in a storm. Sweet, carefree, and so painfully kind. He didn’t belong here. That’s what made him so captivating.

The Spectre had watched countless players before—killers, cowards, manipulators, martyrs. They all blurred together eventually. But Elliot stood out like a breath of clean air in a suffocating room. He gave without thinking. Threw himself into danger without hesitation. Bandaged wounds while bleeding from his own.

He smiled like he didn’t know he was in hell.

He gave hope like it didn’t cost him anything.

It stirred something inside The Spectre. At first, it was curiosity. Then, fascination. Now? It was something deeper. Something sharp and cloying and addictive.

They needed to know more.

Every gesture. Every thought. Every heartbeat.

Their gloved hands reached up, brushing aside long strands of silvery-white hair with deliberate grace. The Spectre pulled it into a low ponytail, the kind they always wore—a clean, composed look that matched the perfection of their attire. A tailored white suit hugged their frame, accented with a luxurious fur collar that draped like snow on their shoulders.

At the center of the suit’s chest lay their personal insignia: a simple yet chilling symbol—a perfect eye, unblinking, all-seeing. It gleamed faintly under the soft light of the screens.

They stood, adjusting their cuffs with precision. Their deep violet eyes, cold and unreadable to most, shimmered with something dangerously close to longing.

“He’s different,” they murmured to no one. Their voice, smooth as velvet, echoed faintly in the chamber. “So fragile… so warm.”

The other survivors were disposable. They were part of the game, pawns meant to struggle and fall. But Elliot—Elliot was not meant to be lost.

He wasn’t just another piece on the board.

He was the prize.

The Spectre leaned in, eyes still fixed on the screen where Elliot offered his rations to a teammate with a tired grin. Their gloved fingers traced the edge of the monitor, as if touch could bridge the distance.

They didn’t just want to observe anymore.

They wanted to step in.

To pull him close.

To have him.

Not just as a survivor.

But as theirs.

And in this world of shadows and endless death... what The Spectre wanted, they always found a way to take.

__

Shedletsky strolled over to the fridge, the dim lights above humming quietly as he opened the door and peeked inside. Cold air brushed his face, but he didn’t reach for anything. Instead, his eyes drifted to the small kitchen counter where Elliot stood—cheerfully humming as he worked dough with flour-dusted fingers.

Pizza. Again.

Shedletsky tilted his head, brows furrowing with lazy curiosity. “You ever wonder,” he began, voice half-distracted and half-knowing, “why there are only ever enough ingredients for pizza?”

Elliot didn’t look up right away. He just smiled faintly and kept sprinkling cheese with practiced hands, as if he’d already asked himself that question a thousand times before.

Shedletsky let the fridge close with a soft thud and turned, padding back across the room to the couch. He sank into it with a sigh, arms draping lazily across the backrest, but his eyes didn’t leave the kitchen.

The silence hung heavy in the room, only broken by the faint crackle of the oven and the soft clatter of kitchen tools.

Then Elliot’s voice cut through it, calm but laced with something unreadable.

“Who do you think the next killer will be?”

Guest 1337 stood from the couch, stretching his arms as if the question had been weighing on him. He glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable beneath the shadows that clung to his face.

“Maybe 1x1x1x1,” he said casually. “They haven’t been killer in days.”

Shedletsky gave a slow nod, his gaze flicking back toward the cams embedded in the wall above the kitchen—always watching, always listening. His expression didn’t change, but the subtle tension in his shoulders said enough. He’d been thinking the same thing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, leaning back into the cushions, “and when 1x1x1x1’s quiet for too long, they’re planning something.”

Elliot didn’t say anything at first. He just slid the finished pizza into the oven, wiped his hands on a towel, and leaned against the counter. The flicker of orange light reflected in his eyes.

shadows of the stairwell, still dressed in mismatched pajamas and rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair was a mess, and he looked half-asleep as he blinked at the light.

“Morning, gang…” he mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness and laced with a faint yawn.

Elliot turned from the kitchen, tilting his head upward to catch a glimpse of him. The corners of his mouth curled into a small, gentle smile.

“Mornin’, Chance!” he called back warmly. “You feeling okay?”

Chance gave a small nod as he padded across the room and dropped himself into the small couch beside the larger one where Guest 1337 and Shedletsky were still seated. He curled up slightly, pulling his knees close, and rested his cheek against the side of the couch with a sigh.

“Mhm, just a bit tired, but fine as a feather,” he said, voice muffled against the cushions.

Guest 1337 glanced over at him with a faint smirk. “You look like you lost a fight with your pillow.”

“Shut up,” Chance muttered, half-laughing.

Shedletsky chuckled quietly, arms still draped across the back of the couch. “At least he’s honest. That’s more than we can say for most people here.”

The moment felt strangely calm. Almost like a real morning. Almost like they weren’t trapped in a never-ending game of survival.

Ding!

The oven let out a sharp chime, cutting through the quiet morning haze. The scent of melted cheese and warm dough filled the room, comforting and familiar—one of the few things that still felt normal in a place like this.

Elliot carefully pulled out the tray, steam rising as he set it on the counter. Three pizzas, golden and crisp, lined with careful toppings that masked how few ingredients they really had.

Shedletsky stood from the couch, stretching slightly as he turned to Chance. “Go get ready,” he said, voice low but firm. “And wake up the others.”

Chance gave a sleepy thumbs-up and groaned as he pushed himself off the couch, trudging toward the hallway.

Meanwhile, Elliot grabbed a knife and began cutting each pizza with practiced ease. The slices came out neat, even—he always made sure of that. His hands moved quickly as he plated each portion, stacking a total of nine plates.

One for everyone. Including himself.

But Elliot never really ate.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t know why—whether it was the stress, the constant cycle of dying and coming back, or something else entirely. Food never tasted right anymore. It sat in his stomach like stone, or didn’t sit at all. So, he didn’t bother.

No one really noticed.

Or maybe they just didn’t say anything.

Sometimes Chance would swipe his slice when no one was looking, and that was fine. Elliot didn’t mind. At least someone enjoyed it.

He placed the plates neatly on the counter, each one with care, as if this breakfast meant something more than just food. Like it was his way of holding everyone together for one more day.

Shedletsky was the first to rise from the table, his movements casual but deliberate. Without a word, he stepped away from the faint warmth of the group and sank back into the familiar curve of the old couch. The cushions creaked beneath him, worn from too many rounds, too many brief moments of rest between chaos.

He leaned back with a soft sigh, arms draping lazily across the top, gaze unfocused—lost somewhere beyond the static-filled screens.

A few seconds later, Taph stood up, quieter than most had even noticed. He didn’t speak. He never really did. Cradled in one hand was a small, slightly uneven brownie—one Elliot had baked hours ago, when things felt calm enough to pretend normal life still existed.

Taph took a slow bite as he walked away, footsteps light, the scent of chocolate following faintly behind him.

Everyone had finally settled. The hum of conversation had faded into a quiet lull, the kind that only happened when the group let themselves believe—just for a second—that they were safe. The cabin was warm with the scent of pizza and the soft clinks of plates. Elliot was finishing up at the counter. Shedletsky leaned back into the couch again beside Guest 1337, mid-conversation about nothing important. It felt almost normal.

And then—

BANG.

The front door slammed open with such violent force that it cracked against the wall and nearly came unhinged. The peaceful illusion shattered instantly.

Before anyone could react, a figure came hurtling through the air, limbs glitching, body twitching with corrupted energy. They hit the wooden floor and skidded across it, sparks flying as they slammed into the far wall with a sickening crash.

1x1x1x1.

The killer’s body pulsed and distorted, their frame struggling to hold form as they groaned and tried to push themselves up, their red sparkle-like eye flickering erratically in its socket. A strange, choking sound echoed from their throat—half static, half laughter.

Gasps broke out around the room. Everyone stared.

What were they doing here?

Killers weren’t allowed in the survivors’ cabin. That was one of the only unbreakable rules. The safe zone was sacred. It was the one place you could breathe. And yet, here 1x1x1x1 was—crashed, glitching, and clearly thrown.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy, slow, deliberate.

A second figure stepped through the broken doorway, ducking beneath the shattered frame like it was nothing. His form pulsed with violent violet code, numbers floating like drifting ash around his silhouette. One hand was still lifted from the toss. His expression unreadable beneath the digital distortion that covered him like armor.

Noli.

Another killer.

But not like 1x1x1x1.

Noli radiated something different. Something deeper. He didn’t just exist in the glitch—he controlled it. And now, he was inside the cabin, standing in the middle of the survivors’ space like he owned it.

Two killers.

In the safe zone.

This wasn’t just wrong—it was impossible.

“0uch… th4t hurt, y0u b1tch…!” 1x1x1x1 snarled, still struggling to rise, sparks flaring from their joints. Their voice was sharp and garbled, words flickering in and out of system distortion. Their fingers clawed weakly at the floorboards, glitch marks trailing beneath them like a virus spreading.

Across the room, Shedletsky had gone dead silent. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the two figures. A second ago, he’d been joking with Guest 1337.

Now?

He was watching his own creation—1x1x1x1—lying broken on the floor.

Thrown across the map.

Thrown into a place they were never supposed to enter.

By Noli.

The room held its breath. Even the other survivors had frozen in place, as if moving would make them targets.

Before anyone could process what had just happened—before Noli could even finish his sentence—the door creaked again.

Not a slam this time. Just a quiet creeeeeak, followed by the sound of soft footsteps.

Jason stepped through first, posture stiff, scanning the room like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was walking into. Right behind him was John Doe, his expression eerily calm as he strolled inside with his usual ghostly presence. But the real surprise?

John Doe was holding hands with C00lkidd.

More gasps echoed through the room. Confused glances were exchanged like wildfire.

More killers.

What the hell was going on?

Jason and John Doe didn’t say anything. They just walked in like they belonged there, like the shattered rules meant nothing now.

Then, almost as if on cue, Pr3tty Princess strutted through the broken door, dragging a very disheveled and annoyed-looking Bluudude by the hair.

“Ow, ow—cut it out, I said I’d come!” Bluudude complained, trying to twist free.

“Shut up, you're not getting out of this.” Pr3tty Princess snapped back, yanking harder.

Shedletsky took a step back, stunned. His eyes flicked between all of them—Jason, John Doe, C00lkidd, Pr3tty Princess, Bluudude. It was a parade of killers, all breaching the one place they were never meant to enter.

The survivors' cabin had just become a warzone of contradictions.

And then—

“Hiiiii, Dad!!”

C00lkidd beamed, waving with both arms like nothing was wrong at all. His voice cracked with joy as he giggled and ran a bit ahead. “Look! I made it!!”

He looked directly at 007n7, who had just entered the room moments earlier from the hallway—completely unprepared for the chaos unraveling in front of him.

007n7 blinked. “...What?”

The others looked around in disbelief. Elliot stared, his brow furrowed and plate still in hand. Guest 1337 let out a breathless laugh, clearly unsure if he should be worried or amused.

There were now seven killers inside the survivor safe zone.

No announcements. No warnings. No penalties.

The chaos hadn’t even begun to settle when the door creaked open again.

This time, it was more forceful—calculated. Azure stepped through, his boots clicking against the floor with frustration practically radiating off him. Right behind him was Itrapped, silent and unreadable, his face obscured by the black square that masked all expression.

Without a word, they shoved past Noli, pushing the glitching killer to the side like he was in the way—which, to them, he probably was.

Azure stopped in the center of the room, arms crossed, gaze sweeping across the crowd of stunned survivors and glitching killers. His piercing stare lingered on each of them before he finally let out a long, exhausted sigh.

“Look.” he said sharply, voice echoing in the stunned silence. “The killers are here because some absolute IDIOTS—” his tone spiked as his glare shot toward Noli and 1x1x1x1, “decided it would be smart to BURN DOWN OUR CABIN.”

Murmurs rippled through the survivors. Elliot looked visibly confused. Shedletsky blinked, clearly trying to process how things had gone so far off the rails in just ten minutes.

Itrapped stood beside Azure, silent as ever. His posture was calm, but something about him still felt dangerous—like a blade waiting for an excuse to unsheathe. The black square over his face made him feel even more unknowable. He gave a small nod, quietly confirming Azure’s explanation without adding a word.

“Burned down your—?” Guest 1337’s brow furrowed. “Seriously?”

“Very seriously,” Azure snapped. “We don’t exactly respawn with furniture.”

Meanwhile, in the background, Pr3tty Princess and Bluudude had begun arguing like toddlers.

“I told you we should’ve taken the back exit!” Pr3tty Princess shouted, smacking Bluudude on the arm.

“And I told YOU to stop threatening the fire with lipstick, but here we are!” Bluudude snapped back, trying to yank his sleeve from her grip.

“I was trying to SCARE it, dumbass!”

“It’s a fire!! It doesn’t care!!”

The two flailed at each other while the rest of the room watched in a bizarre combination of disbelief, concern, and tired acceptance.

Elliot leaned toward Shedletsky. “So... are we just letting them stay here now?”

Shedletsky didn’t answer. He looked at Azure, at Noli, at the growing crowd of killers invading their only safe space.

A soft crackle swept through the cabin.

It was barely noticeable at first—just a faint buzz of static laced into the silence. But it grew steadily louder, like a storm building behind the walls. Then came the sound of a gentle tap-tap, like fingers brushing a microphone. Every head turned as the overhead speakers came alive with a warm, eerie hum.

And then—a voice.

Smooth, velvety, and theatrical, with an unnerving cheerfulness that didn’t match the chaos still thick in the air.

“Well hello, my dear survivors… and killers!”

The voice of The Spectre echoed through the speakers, laced with amusement and just a touch of malice. It oozed confidence, as though this situation—this complete collapse of the rules—had been perfectly planned.

Survivors and killers alike froze.

C00lkidd stopped mid-chew. Bluudude paused with Pr3tty Princess’s fingers still tangled in his hair. Shedletsky slowly turned toward the nearest speaker, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“I see you’ve all met… unexpectedly.” The Spectre laughed lightly. “Now, now—don’t look so tense. I come with delightful news!”

There was a short, calculated pause. Long enough to raise a few heartbeats.

“Due to a recent… incident”— their tone twisted slightly, and Azure rolled his eyes from the center of the room—“the killer cabin has been temporarily destroyed. Reduced to smoke, glitch, and rubble.”

A few eyes darted to Noli and 1x1x1x1, still standing across the room with sparks occasionally hissing off their corrupted forms.

“And so!” The Spectre’s voice perked up again, bright and musical. “The killers will now be staying… here, with the survivors! Isn’t that fun?”

Gasps and muttering rippled across the group. Guest 1337 swore under his breath. Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. Elliot, still holding an untouched plate of pizza, just stared, unsure whether to laugh or scream.

“Now, before anyone panics—” the Spectre continued breezily, “rest assured: all killer abilities have been disabled against survivors. You’re perfectly safe, for now.”

The pause that followed dragged out just a little too long.

“…But against other killers?”

The Spectre chuckled.

“Can’t confirm.”

The air practically crackled with tension.

Pr3tty Princess and Bluudude, who had resumed their tug-of-war, immediately froze. Noli’s hand twitched near his side. Itrapped let out the smallest breath of a sigh, his square-covered face unreadable as always.

“Enjoy the warmth, enjoy the company,” The Spectre purred. “And most importantly— behave.**”

And with that, the speakers let out a final pop and went dead silent once more.

For a moment, no one moved.

The Spectre’s words hung over them like fog, too thick to breathe through, too heavy to ignore.

Then—quietly, like a breeze through the storm—Taph stepped forward.

Unbothered by the chaos, the argument, or the threats of glitch-born violence, he simply held out a small, slightly crumbled brownie.

He offered it toward C00lkidd, who blinked twice, then gasped softly like he’d been given a diamond.

“For me?” C00lkidd squeaked.

Taph nodded.

C00lkidd snatched the brownie and bit into it with absolute joy, cheeks puffed out, crumbs flying. “THANK YOU!” he beamed, as if the brownie had erased all knowledge of killer drama, destroyed cabins, or system-breaking consequences.

Elliot blinked slowly from across the room.

“…Is he always like this?” he whispered to 007n7.

007n7 just shrugged. “Honestly? That’s one of his better days.”

In the corner, Shedletsky sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, staring blankly ahead. “We’re screwed,” he muttered. “We are absolutely, completely screwed.”

And yet—despite everything—no one left the room.

A beat of silence passed after The Spectre’s voice faded, thick with disbelief and tension. But as the static died, Elliot stepped forward, his smile somehow still intact despite the chaos unraveling around him.

He clapped his hands once and cleared his throat. “So… uh…” he began, offering a sheepish grin. “You guys want pizza? I have extras!”

He gestured toward the counter, where plates of perfectly cut slices still sat, steam rising softly in the air.

Without missing a beat, C00lkidd’s hand shot into the air, nearly smacking John Doe in the face.

“Oo o! Me! Me!” he squeaked, bouncing slightly in his seat like a hyper schoolkid on field trip day. “I want pizza! I want, like, three!! No—four!!”

Elliot chuckled, already sliding slices onto a plate for him.

Pr3tty Princess tilted her head slightly, watching Elliot with a cool, detached expression. Her long lashes fluttered as she studied the food like it was a foreign concept. Finally, she let out a faint sigh.

“Hm... Sure. I could go for one.” Her voice was calm, calculated—as if agreeing to eat was more of a strategy than a desire.

“Uh… okay?” Bluudude muttered, rubbing the side of his head where Pr3tty Princess had been yanking at his hair earlier. “As long as she stops pulling on me, I’ll take a slice too.”

Elliot gave a warm laugh, handing each of them a plate as the three of them sat around the table—like a group of weird kids at lunch detention. It was oddly wholesome… and slightly unnerving.

Across the room, Azure stood with his arms crossed, surveying the group with quiet disdain. When Elliot offered a plate his way, he simply raised a hand and gave a polite but firm “no thank you” gesture, not saying a word.

John Doe, as silent as ever, gave a slow, approving nod—accepting a plate and drifting toward the edge of the room like a ghost with a mission.

Itrapped glanced up from his spot leaning against the far wall. His tone was calm, a little distant, but sincere enough to surprise Elliot.

“Not hungry, but thank you, pizza man.”

Elliot blinked, surprised. “Uh… sure! Anytime.”

Then Jason, who had been sitting nearby polishing a blade, raised his head. His dark eyes locked onto the pizza, and he gave a single nod.

“Ki ki ma cha.”

A pause.

Elliot raised a brow. “That means yes, right?”

Jason gave a toothy smirk and reached for a plate.

Before long, a strange sight unfolded: killers gathered around the table, some eating like it was the first real meal they’d had in days, others standing awkwardly off to the side.

The tension didn’t disappear—but it shifted.

It became something else.

Something uncertain.

Something… human.

And Elliot, despite it all, just kept serving slices.

“Alright, who wants seconds?”

—

Three hours had passed since the accidental pizza-fueled truce, and to everyone’s horror—

nobody had died yet.

Not even a small stabbing.

C00lkidd had only mildly broken a chair, and 007n7 hadn’t screamed once (though he looked like he wanted to). The killers had awkwardly melted into the cabin’s routine like overcooked marshmallows. Tense but tolerable.

Then it happened.

With a glitchy POP! and a spray of confetti pixels, a fresh, violently cheerful poster was suddenly slapped onto the front wall of the survivors’ cabin. The font sparkled. The edges pulsed. That was never good.

At the top, it read:

"Your Roommates! Have fun! <3"

The room fell into a deep, spiritual silence. Not a good one. The kind right before the apocalypse.

1x1x1x1 glitched straight up to the list like a corrupted missile, scanned the names—and immediately exploded.

“3W N0. 1 D0NT W4NT T0 B3 R00MM4T3S W1TH TH4T TH1NG.”

They pointed at Shedletsky, who was sitting with one leg over the other, sipping lukewarm coffee and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He gave a slow blink. “I already have a malfunctioning toaster. I don’t need a roommate version.”

“Y0U W1LL R3GR3T TH1S,” 1x1x1x1 hissed, glitching so hard the lights flickered.

“Already do,” Shedletsky muttered.

Guest 1337 rubbed his temples. “Let’s just get this over with…”

He began reading the list aloud, for anyone too lazy or too traumatized to stand.

Room Assignments:

1x1x1x1 & Shedletsky

Azure & Two Time

Jason & John Doe

Chance & Itrapped

007n7, Noli & C00lkidd

Pr3tty Princess & Bluudude

Mafioso & Elliot

“Wait.”

Chance’s voice cracked like a dropped plate. “Wait. WHAT.”

He turned—very slowly—to Itrapped, who stood motionless like a statue someone had asked too many personal questions.

Chance cleared his throat. “Roommates, huh?”

“Yeah,” Itrapped replied, voice unreadable.

Chance smiled a little. “Crazy how the world works.”

“Mm.”

Chance looked at the floor. “I brought matching slippers.”

Itrapped stayed silent.

“Okay. Cool. I’ll just cry later.”

Taph, watching the exchange with deep emoji sympathy, lifted a sticky note and scribbled with glitter pen:

“ 💔😩➡️🧸🍪 ”

He stuck it to Chance’s back like a band-aid.

Elsewhere, Azure was experiencing a spiritual crisis. His name was beside one he absolutely hated seeing.

“...Of course,” he muttered.

Two Time popped into the room like an uninvited pop-up ad. “CALLING THE WINDOW SIDE—NO TAKESIES BACKSIES.”

“You can have the entire floor,” Azure replied without looking up.

“Oh wow,” Two Time said, fake-pouting. “Still mad at me after all this time?”

“Yes.”

“Still holding that teeny-tiny grudge?”

“Yes.”

“You stabbed me.”

“You framed me for setting a med-bay on fire.”

“I lightly blamed you.”

“You submitted a PowerPoint.”

“It had transitions!”

Azure turned fully. “I will sleep in the vents if I have to.”

“You did that last time,” Two Time huffed. “You coughed up dust for a week.”

“I’ll die dusty.”

Meanwhile…

Elliot scanned the list again, mouth slowly falling open as he reached the last line.

“Mafioso...?”

He said the name like it physically hurt. Because it kind of did. Mafioso was a killer he had never once spoken to. Unless you counted the moment Mafioso calmly ended his life in round seven.

Now they were going to share a room.

Mafioso, from the far corner, adjusted his gloves and gave Elliot a tiny, polite nod—like a butler about to commit a crime. That was somehow worse.

Elliot let out a whimper. Taph materialized beside him and handed him a brownie.

Then silently flashed:

“ ☠️➡️🛏️🫣➡️🍫❤️ ”

“I—I think that means ‘don’t die, nap carefully, eat chocolate, love yourself,’” Elliot whispered.

Taph gave him a double thumbs up. “ ✅🍀🛐 ”

007n7 was still frozen in place.

He read his name again.

“Noli. And C00lkidd.”

C00lkidd gasped so hard he nearly passed out. “ROOMMATES?! ROOM. MATES. I’M GONNA DO CARTWHEELS.”

“Please don’t,” 007n7 said, already aging from the stress.

Noli grinned. “We could brainstorm ideas for a co-op horror game called ‘Suffering.’”

“I already live in it,” 007n7 mumbled.

C00lkidd was dragging furniture into the hallway. “IM BUILDING A FUN ZONE! WHO WANTS TO EAT COUCH CUSHIONS WITH ME?!”

“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT—”

Too late.

Then came the true disaster pairing.

Pr3tty Princess & Bluudude.

They both stared at the list like it had insulted their fashion sense.

“No,” Pr3tty Princess snapped.

“No,” Bluudude echoed, louder.

“Absolutely not.”

“I will chew off my own foot.”

Pr3tty Princess pointed a sharp nail. “You use two-in-one shampoo. I can smell it.”

Bluudude crossed his arms. “You put glitter in the sugar bowl.”

“It’s called aesthetic aggression.”

“YOU BEDAZZLED THE TOILET.”

“I wanted vibes.”

Bluudude pointed at the list. “Change it.”

Guest 1337 shrugged. “That’s permanent. It’s been printed by the Spectre.”

“I will scream,” Pr3tty Princess said, dramatically collapsing onto a beanbag.

“Good,” Bluudude muttered. “I sleep better with screaming.”

“I am not above poisoning your tea.”

“I only drink rainwater, sweetheart.”

“UGH.”

They both stormed off in the same direction.

“Stop following me!”

“This is the hallway!”

“I was walking here first!”

“LIES.”

The cabin was now a chaos soup.

Killers and survivors.

Old tension. New confusion.

Taph handing out brownies like emotional support grenades.

Chance sniffling in the hallway.

Elliot preparing to sleep with one eye open.

And C00lkidd stacking lamps to build a “party chandelier.”

Above them, the “Roommates! Have fun! <3” sign glitched and winked, like it knew exactly what it had done.

—

Chapter Text

The Spectre slowly lifted their gaze from the flickering monitors, lips curling into a grin that stretched just a little too far. “Ah… my sweet Elliot,” they whispered, voice thick with devotion. “Soon, you’ll be mine. Entirely. Forever. Mine, mine, mine.” In their hands, they toyed with a delicate purple butterfly clip—its shimmer the same haunting hue as their eyes, trembling slightly between their fingers.

The Spectre leaned closer to the screen, fingers trembling as they adjusted the butterfly clip into their hair with delicate precision. On the monitor, Elliot was laughing—carefree, radiant, surrounded by chaos and yet somehow untouched by it. The sound wasn’t even on, but The Spectre didn’t need it. They had memorized every expression, every microsecond of joy that painted Elliot’s face.

“Laugh while you can,” The Spectre whispered, voice coated in a sugary, venomous sweetness. “Because soon, you’ll only smile for me.”

They pressed a button. A hidden file folder flicked open on the screen—dozens, no, hundreds of saved recordings, snapshots, pixelated screenshots of Elliot’s every movement since the game began. Another click, and a single text file appeared, titled:

“Dear Elliot.txt”

Pages and pages scrolled by. Love letters? Obsessions. Rants, poetry, dreams. Plans. It was all there. The Spectre giggled, hugging themselves as they stared.

“I made this game for you, you know,” they murmured, their pupils dilated in obsession. “I let them all stay. I gave them fear.” Their eye twitched.

Then, with a sudden jerk, they stood up and slammed their hands on the desk. “And yet you look at Mafioso with such.. affection—him? He doesn’t even know how to use a napkin properly! And Itrapped? A traitor. Chance? A child.”

The Spectre took a deep breath, collected themselves, and gently caressed the edge of the monitor, Elliot’s paused face gazing unknowingly into the camera.

“You’ll understand soon. You’ll have to. And when you do…”

They pressed another button.

All cameras flickered for a split second.

“I’ll be waiting, my dear Elliot.”

__

Elliot always had the nagging feeling that he was being watched.

At first, he brushed it off. A passing glance over the shoulder, a chill that lingered too long. It was easy to blame the game, the killers, or just nerves. But lately… things had started to shift.

Little things. Subtle things.

His favorite candy appeared on his bed one night in a velvet pouch. A ribbon in his favorite shade of teal tied neatly around his chair. His go-to brand of socks—down to the size and design—folded in a drawer he swore he hadn’t opened.

And today, a small box, plain and unmarked, sat at his door.

Inside: a butterfly clip. Elegant. A vibrant purple, almost iridescent, his exact favorite insect. The exact shape he’d once doodled in a forgotten notebook. He blinked, confused, then smiled softly despite himself.

“What is going on…?” he whispered, holding the clip between his fingers. “A butterfly clip...? My favorite insect...”

He didn’t remember telling anyone that.

Without thinking much more, he gently clipped it into his hair. It felt light. Cool against his scalp. Pretty, even.

But what he didn’t notice—what his eyes skipped over entirely—was the minuscule, blinking red dot nestled at the center of the butterfly’s body. A pinhole lens. Almost invisible.

Watching.

Recording.

Tracking.

And somewhere—deep beneath the stage, behind countless monitors—The Spectre grinned.

_____

(Hey hey so so sorry for the delay!!! But my writing style maybe changed?? Idk anyways keep reading siiiggghh)

“Elliot! Oh my gosh, that butterfly clip is adorable!” PrettyPrincess squealed, practically bouncing in place as her eyes sparkled. She had always been drawn to pretty things—delicate accessories, shiny details, even the killers’ outfits if they weren’t too plain or ugly.

Her fingers twitched like she wanted to touch it, but Elliot instinctively stepped back a little, hand brushing against the clip as if to shield it.

“Ah—thanks,” he said with a small laugh, trying to sound casual. The compliment warmed him, but something about the way the clip sat against his hair made the back of his neck prickle. Still, he smiled at her. “Guess it suits me, huh?”

PrettyPrincess leaned in, beaming. “It doesn’t just suit you, it transforms you. Like—like you’re glowing! Ugh, I’m jealous. I wish I had one just like it.”

Elliot chuckled again, though his eyes flickered to the floor. Glowing… huh? he thought, running his fingers over the cool metal. The weight of it suddenly felt heavier than before, as if the tiny clip was more than just decoration.

He shook the thought away quickly, flashing PrettyPrincess another smile. “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky. Who knows?”

She clapped her hands together and twirled off, still rambling about fashion and sparkles, leaving Elliot standing there—his smile faltering the second her back was turned.

The clip gleamed faintly in his hair. Watching.

Shaking the thought away, he sighed and headed toward the little kitchen tucked against the stage wall. “Alright,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves, “time for pizza night.”

He pulled open the fridge, expecting the usual bland leftovers and half-empty soda cans. Instead, his eyes widened.

There, right on the middle shelf, was a neatly wrapped package of his favorite topping—exactly the brand he always picked, the kind he’d grown up eating. The kind he hadn’t even mentioned to anyone here.

Elliot froze, staring at it.

“…No way.”

He picked it up slowly, turning the package over in his hands as if to check if it was real. The logo, the smell—it was perfect. Too perfect.

His chest tightened. Someone had put it there. Someone who knew.

But his stomach growled, cutting through the unease. With a shaky laugh, he shoved the thought aside. “Guess I’ll take the win,” he murmured, pulling out the dough and sauce.

Still, as he spread the toppings over the crust, he couldn’t help but glance back at the fridge every few seconds, as if it were hiding secrets he wasn’t meant to see.

The smell of melting cheese soon filled the little kitchen, warm and comforting against the cold, ever-looming air of the stage. Elliot hummed under his breath as he slid the tray from the oven, steam rising in curls that made his stomach growl louder.

“Pizza’s ready!” he called out, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt.

C00lkidd was the first to bound over, clapping his hands. “Yaaay! Pizza again! You’re the best, Elliot!” he grabbed a slice without hesitation, nearly burning his tongue but refusing to let go.

Mafioso wandered in next, skeptical as always, though even he couldn’t resist the smell. “...Fine,” he muttered, taking a slice with exaggerated reluctance. But Elliot caught the way his eyes softened after the first bite.

One by one, the others gathered, laughter spilling out into the kitchen as grease-stained napkins piled up and the tension of the game seemed, for just a moment, to fade.

Elliot leaned against the counter, a slice in hand, smiling faintly as laughter bubbled around him. The butterfly clip glimmered in his hair whenever the kitchen light caught it. For the first time that day, he felt normal. Safe. Pizza nights always seemed to bring everyone together.

What he didn’t know was that the safety wasn’t real.

Far beneath the stage, in a room no one ever entered, The Spectre’s lair glowed with the pale blue light of countless monitors. One of them displayed Elliot now—sitting at the table, cheeks puffed with food, laughing softly at something PrettyPrincess had said.

The Spectre leaned closer, nose almost touching the screen. Their hand shook as they reached out, tracing Elliot’s face in digital static.

“See?” Their voice was breathless, half a whisper, half a hymn. “I told you you’d love it. I knew you’d smile.”

Their other hand rested on a stack of folders, all labeled the same name. Elliot. Inside were notes—pages of handwriting detailing his likes, dislikes, cravings, the little songs he hummed when he thought no one listened.

“I’ve memorized every flavor you crave. Every comfort you reach for when the world feels heavy.” Their voice cracked into a broken laugh. “That pizza, your favorite—it was waiting for you because I left it there. Just for you.”

They pressed their forehead against the glass, eyes wide and trembling.

“They’ll never understand like I do. They’ll never give you what you need. But I will. I’ll keep giving and giving until you finally see.”

On the monitor, Elliot wiped grease off his fingers, oblivious, tossing a napkin at PrettyPrincess when she teased him. His laugh rang out, warm, effortless.

The Spectre’s lips parted, their breath fogging against the screen.

“One day, Elliot… it won’t be them you’re laughing with. It’ll be me. Just me. Forever.”

They tilted their head, pupils blown wide in delirium, as Elliot disappeared briefly from the camera’s angle.

“And you’ll thank me.”

…..

The wooden floor creaked softly under Mafioso’s steps as he crossed their shared bedroom. Elliot sat on the edge of his bed, absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve, but his eyes trailed after the tall figure without meaning to.

Something about the way Mafioso moved always carried weight—controlled, heavy, purposeful. Tonight, though, his steps seemed less sharp. There was no hard edge to his shoulders, no distant glare in his eyes. He looked… calmer.

“You… okay?” Elliot asked before he could stop himself, his voice small but clear in the quiet of the room.

Mafioso paused at his desk, glancing back over his shoulder. His face softened just enough to show he’d heard. “Fine. Thanks for asking, Elliot.”

The way he said Elliot’s name—smooth, steady, not dismissive—sent an odd jolt through him. Elliot blinked quickly, trying to play it off, but his gaze lingered longer than he wanted. Mafioso looked… different tonight. Not as untouchable. His posture was relaxed, his expression free from the usual stern weight.

And in that moment, with the low light catching across his jawline and his dark eyes steady, Elliot couldn’t help but think—

Handsome.

The thought slapped through his mind before he could stop it, leaving his cheeks burning. What? No. No, no, no. What the hell am I even thinking? His chest tightened, his inner voice tripping over itself in panic. Snap out of it, Elliot. Don’t go there. Don’t you dare—

He clenched his hands in his lap, grounding himself, as if the pressure could squeeze the thought away. He risked a glance again, and—damn it. Mafioso was still there, setting down his jacket with a kind of quiet precision, his back to Elliot now. That calm presence filled the room, making it impossible to ignore.

Elliot swallowed hard and tore his eyes away, pretending to study the floorboards. He forced his voice steady, though it came out almost rushed. “Cool. Just… checking.”

Mafioso gave a faint nod without turning, a subtle acknowledgment, before sinking down into his own bed.

The room fell into silence again, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the faint hum of the night outside.

Elliot lay back slowly, staring up at the ceiling, his pulse still unsteady. No matter how hard he tried to shove the thought away, it lingered, warm and stubborn.

Handsome.

He shut his eyes tight, scolding himself. Don’t. Just don’t.

The sheets rustled as Mafioso shifted on his bed, settling in. Elliot thought the man had dropped off into silence for good—until a low voice cut through the dimly lit room.

“You’re restless,” Mafioso murmured.

Elliot’s breath hitched. He hadn’t realized his fingers were still tugging nervously at his sleeve, or that his foot had been tapping against the wooden floor. Heat flooded his face. “I—uh—what? No, I’m fine.”

Mafioso turned his head slightly, eyes glinting in the faint light that slipped through the curtains. He didn’t look intimidating in that moment—not the looming figure Elliot had always seen him as—but rather sharp, perceptive, steady.

“You’ve been staring holes through the floor for the last five minutes,” Mafioso said plainly, his tone calm but edged with quiet amusement. “If that’s ‘fine,’ then I’d hate to see what troubled looks like.”

Elliot’s mouth went dry. He scrambled for something to say, forcing out a weak laugh. “You notice… too much.”

“I have to,” Mafioso replied simply, turning back to face the ceiling. His voice was even, but the weight of his words lingered. “Noticing things keeps people alive.”

Elliot swallowed hard, trying not to think about how his heart was hammering. He wanted to say something back, something clever or casual, but the words caught in his throat. His mind betrayed him again, flashing that one word across his thoughts—handsome—and he nearly groaned aloud at himself.

Mafioso let the silence stretch, his breathing steady, before speaking again—softer this time. “You don’t have to tell me what’s on your mind. But… if you did, I’d listen.”

Elliot froze, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. Mafioso’s voice carried no pressure, no demand—just a quiet offer. A rare one.

His chest tightened, his emotions tangling in ways he couldn’t make sense of. He wanted to brush it off, to deflect like always, but for once… he didn’t.

Instead, all Elliot managed was a small, shaky whisper. “Thanks.”

Mafioso didn’t reply, but Elliot thought he saw the faintest curve at the corner of his lips before he finally closed his eyes.

Elliot rolled onto his side, burying his face into his pillow, his mind buzzing. He couldn’t tell if the warmth in his chest was relief… or something else entirely.

___

The Spectre’s gaze was locked onto the glowing monitor, pupils dilated as the screen flickered with Elliot’s image. Every detail was magnified—the way Elliot’s smile tilted, the faint crease in his brow, the way he glanced—longer than he should have—at Mafioso.

A sharp crack rang out. The stem of the wine glass shattered between The Spectre’s fingers, crimson liquid spilling across their hand like blood. The sudden sound made several of their masked underlings flinch, exchanging wary glances.

“B-Boss..?” one of them stammered, hesitating at the edge of the room. “Are you… alright?”

The Spectre’s head turned slowly, their expression eerily calm despite the shards of glass embedded in their palm. “No.”

The word was quiet, venomous, but it made the entire room freeze.

They turned back toward the screen, fingers curling into a fist, glass grinding into their skin. Elliot was laughing faintly at something Mafioso had said, and the sight made their blood boil.

“That man,” The Spectre hissed under their breath, though everyone heard it. Their voice trembled with rage, yet carried the weight of conviction. “That filth dares to stand so close. To speak so casually. To breathe the same air as him.”

The minions shuffled nervously, none daring to interrupt.

The Spectre leaned forward, pressing a bloodied hand against the monitor as if trying to brush Mafioso out of the frame. “He thinks he can take what’s mine. What’s rightfully mine.” Their smile curled into something sharp and unhinged. “But Elliot belongs to me. Only me.”

The room fell silent, the only sound the low hum of the monitors.

The Spectre’s eyes glowed with feverish devotion, voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow louder than a scream.

“Mafioso…” (Hoe weren’t you the one who put him in the same room as Elliot 🙄🙄)

The Spectre’s bloody hand slid from the monitor, leaving a faint smear of red across Elliot’s image. They didn’t even flinch at the glass shards digging deeper into their palm. Pain didn’t matter—not when their heart already burned with something sharper.

“Mafioso thinks he’s clever,” they muttered, pacing across the dark room lined with screens. Each one showed Elliot at different angles—laughing, cooking, sleeping, even just sitting in silence. “But cleverness fades. Fear does not.”

A trembling minion approached, carrying a fresh glass of wine. Their hands shook as they set it down, careful not to draw attention. “Boss… what will you do?”

The Spectre’s lips curled into a grin, wild and dangerous. They turned back toward the glowing screens, eyes locked on Mafioso’s tall frame in the corner of Elliot’s bedroom.

“What I always do,” they whispered. “Turn his strength into weakness. Twist his image until Elliot sees the monster hiding under the suit.”

With a snap of their fingers, another monitor flickered to life, revealing a series of files—dossiers on Mafioso’s past crimes, debts, betrayals. Information The Spectre had gathered long before Elliot ever crossed Mafioso’s path.

“We’ll start small,” they said, dragging a finger across the screen. “Whispers in the right ears. Shadows in the wrong places. Elliot doesn’t need to fear Mafioso yet…” Their grin widened. “…he just needs to doubt him.”

The minions exchanged uneasy looks, but none dared to speak.

The Spectre leaned close to the screen showing Elliot, their tone softening, dripping with something that almost sounded like affection. “Don’t worry, my love. I’ll save you from him. From all of them.”

They chuckled low, a sound like cracking glass. “And when the dust settles, when Mafioso is gone… you’ll see. You’ll finally see that I’m the only one who’s ever truly loved you.”

The laughter grew louder, echoing through the chamber as the monitors flickered, bathing the room in Elliot’s image.

The plan had begun.