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Chance can't sleep. He’s been up all night, thinking about them.
He sits up, exhausted. His muscles ache, and his chest feels tight, heavy with a feeling he cannot name. He doesn't know what time it is—and there isn't any, not in this hell. It seems like they’re stuck here for eternity, trapped in the same moment for all of time. Day and night never changes… it remains the same throughout.
Everything feels too small. The walls around him begin to close in, nearly suffocating him. He can't breathe.
His body trembles, and the cold sweat from earlier clings onto his skin. He’s had another nightmare—another night without rest, another night of sleepless torment. Ever since he got here, he hasn't been able to sleep well. He’s been pretending that he’s fine, covering up the darkness underneath his eyes with his shades, but even he can tell he’s slipping. Maybe the other survivors can too.
He’s grown sloppy with his gun. Too many missed shots, ones he should have been able to make, all slipping by his fingers. He blames it on everything else—the panic of not making it, and failing everyone. He even puts on his usual facade of bravado—but he isn't sure how long he can keep that forever. Eventually, that mask will crack. Eventually, he will make too many mistakes, ones that can't be denied.
One day, he will have to confront the truth. But he hopes that day… will never come.
All this time, he’s been thinking about them. About… iTrapped. Their name haunts him, like a nightmare he cannot escape. No matter where he goes, no matter what he thinks about—he cannot escape them. Everywhere he looks, they’re there, watching him. Judging, criticising—and he’s trapped there, forced to remember them. Forced to relive those final moments, right before—
Even when he closes his eyes, even when he tries his best to drift to sleep… they’re always there. Even when he wakes up in hell, they never leave him.
Still, he continues to pretend that everything is fine, even if it's obvious to everyone that it isn't. When he sees the other survivors, he always makes sure to crack a cheesy joke and offer them a smile, but it's beginning to get hard to even do something like that now. But at least he can handle that. What he can't bear is when the time comes for them to rest, and retreat to their cabins. That's when he starts to spiral—those terrible memories come surfacing back, those final moments he had with him… it's all he remembers.
That blade. Dark, cold metal, sliding through his flesh. He can still feel it, and remember it to this day—the way the warmth of his own blood spills over, clinging onto his skin, sticky and relentless. He remembers staring back at them, trying to search their expression for any hint of guilt—something that he could use to convince himself that maybe they didn't want this. Maybe, they regretted it, and they felt… guilty. But there's nothing—only that pair of familiar ice blue eyes. Their gaze looks cold and distant. There's an empty, hollow look in his eyes—it feels as though to them, this whole thing was an inconvenience. To them, Chance meant nothing. It was… just a job they needed to complete.
"I've always hated you."
He can't meet their eyes. He can't read them at all. Did their voice waver? Did they feel guilt? Or was it just him imagining things, pretending that they did care about him, even if it wasn't enough to stop this?
"You… don't mean that," Chance rasps, voice hoarse from all the pain.
The world is starting to spin now, and everything is a blur—those black dots dance across his vision, threatening to engulf it whole. iTrapped pulls the sword out, causing Chance to weakly groan in pain. He offers no mercy when he pulls—he just tossed the sword aside, like it's nothing more than a tool. Just like how they viewed Chance—someone they could use, and exploit for their own gain… and when the right time came, they would just discard them, just like they did with the sword.
iTrapped looks away, refusing to meet Chance’s eyes. His shoulders tense slightly, and his words come out clipped, sounding almost harsh in nature.
"I do."
Chance’s hands begin to shake—whether it's from the burning pain in his stomach, or just from the grief he’s feeling, he doesn't quite know. He thinks he’s mourning their friendship… but he doesn't know. Maybe he’s crying over his own foolishness, for ever believing he could be loved.
Even as he sobs, his blood continues to drip onto the ground. The rain above mixes with the tears streaming down his cheeks, and his vision swims. It's too unclear to see anything properly—and so, he reaches out for them, trembling. A final plea, for an act of mercy. To beg them to grant them words of kindness, before his time is up. Even if those words are a lie, even if they turn out to be sweet nothings…
Anything would be better than this torment. He doesn't want his last memory of them to be ruined.
"Please, just… don’t leave me like this…"
His voice cracks. The desperation is clear in his voice. But still, they don't say anything.
After that, everything is a blur. He doesn't remember how he passes—he can only recall the warmth leaving his skin, and the way his body slowly grew weak, before giving up entirely. He thinks he died from the blood loss—but he isn't quite sure either.
That day, Chance dies.
He doesn't know where he ends up. Quickly, the world had started to fade, with everything slipping away, before it fades to black. Maybe he’s ended up somewhere in between, he thinks…
Until he opens his eyes, and realises he’s woken up in hell.
The scar still remains in his abdomen, a reminder of what they’ve done to him. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it's not quite healed either—it’s just like his mind.
Days pass. Everything blurs together—the rounds he’s participated in, the faces of the other survivors, and the things he’s said. For him, nothing is clear—he only has a vague and hazy memory of it all. He still chats to the others, tries to help them when they need it… but he never dares to let anyone close. He can't trust someone anymore. He can't be betrayed again—he’s not sure how much more heartache he can bear.
At the end of every round, when the survivors return to their cabins to rest, those same memories return. He thinks about being betrayed, then dying, and losing the one person he held dear to his heart. And yet, something else creeps in, a thought he never expected to rise.
After seeing their face so many times—that cold look, void of any warmth… he’s grown numb to it all. He no longer feels that same, sharp pain—instead, it's just a dull ache in his heart, one that refuses to fade. He knows what to expect in his nightmares now—but still, that feeling lingers.
This time, something's changed. He can't see their face clearly—it’s hazy, like there's something covering their eyes. He doesn't know why he can't make them out—he’s seen it so many times already.
Maybe his mind is trying to protect him, by not letting him see the truth. Maybe it's letting him imagine that they did feel guilty, that this act of betrayal meant more to them than it ever could. Maybe it's better for him not knowing the truth, and seeing their real expression. At least that way, he can pretend.
And deep down, he's scared. He doesn't want to feel that agony again—the unbearable weight of losing his dearest friend. Of discovering, too late, that they never cared about him at all.
I’m slowly forgetting your face. But even now, my mind doesn't forget—you can't erase what you did.
He can't help but sob.
In his grief, he had destroyed all their memories together. Now, he can’t even remember what they look like.
His body shakes violently, his shoulders heaving as painful, ragged breaths tear from his throat. All those happy memories come rushing in—he thinks about those many nights they spent together, sometimes tangled in each other’s arms—now ruined, all amounting to nothing because of their betrayal. He had cared for them deeply—loved them, even—only for them to be betrayed in the end. His friendship meant nothing. And his love… was meaningless.
You made me the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. But you also hurt me deeply, and gave me scars I cannot heal.
I loved you, iTrapped. I loved you so much… but you never felt the same way, did you?
No. They never did. It was all… a lie.
That thought makes him sob even harder. It leaves him feeling hollow, as he comes entirely undone. And he can't bring himself to sleep after that.
Eventually, he stops crying, upon hearing the other survivors stir from their slumber. He doesn't know how much time has passed—after all, it always remains as eternal night in this hell. Although he feels exhausted, he still gets up from bed, and wipes the darkness from his eyes. He doesn't want to let them down, nor does he want them to realise the truth of how much he’s hurting.
The scar in his stomach remains—damned and stubborn, an ugly wound imprinted on his skin. He can't bear to look at it—it’s the only proof that they existed in his life. He could try to deny everything else—those painful memories, and the end of their friendship—but this was the one thing he couldn't erase. His hands shake slightly as he adjusts his blouse, and his fingers end up brushing against the scar slightly. Although it doesn't hurt, the memories it holds do, and the feeling is enough to make his heart ache from grief.
He needs to go. He can't stay here any longer.
He slips out of the cabin quietly, feeling that weight of emptiness settle heavily on his shoulders. Everywhere he looks seems to be a reminder of what he lost, of what can never return. He sees the survivors getting along, with old friends being reunited at last—while he’s happy for them, seeing it just hurts him on the inside. Even now, when he's surrounded by other people, he feels alone. He isn't just haunted by his own death, by their betrayal—but the absence of the one he loved most.
He reaches the main cabin. It's where they usually gather, and where most of them are right now. As he approaches, he hears a loud commotion rising there—there are various voices overlapping, some tense, and some excited as they discuss… something. He can't fully catch every word, but he hears snippets of it, enough for him to put the pieces together.
“A new survivor…”
“Who could they be—?"
“...must have ended up here…”
“Are you okay…?”
“Hey, what’s with the new face?"
Chance asks, but no one seems to listen. Everything is too loud, and everyone is too engrossed in their own conversations. He can't even see the new survivor—so he decides to move closer, to push through the crowd in order to see who it could possibly be. He keeps his eyes down, careful to avoid everyone’s gaze. He doesn't want anyone asking about what happened in the previous rounds… how he had begun to slip up more often, and cause them to lose the game.
He can't handle that right now.
Instead, he chooses to focus his thoughts on the new survivor. They haven't had a new face in so long—so it was unexpected that that… entity would bring another soul here. They don't know what they were about to get into—they had no idea what any of them endured. That same process of dying and respawning, over and over again, until life and death had become rudimentary to them now, blurring into one endless cycle.
It's probably someone unfamiliar to him. Maybe another one of the admins, seeing how there were so many of them already here. Or maybe someone from that former hacker, 007n7’s past—he felt for the guy, seeing the number of people he’s wronged become trapped here to torment him. He knew that they were once an infamous hacker, but still.
That was his guess for who it could possibly be. He wasn't quite sure who else they could be connected with, seeing how the entity had a pattern to these things. Finally, he reaches to the front of the crowd. He extends his hand in greeting, then looks up to see their face.
It’s nice to meet—”
His heart nearly stops. No, it couldn't be.
The figure standing in front of him. That… familiar appearance. That blue vest. The crown. That blond hair.
He can't make out their eyes clearly. His brain refuses to focus on their expression. He can't… Why can't he recognise their face? It all seems so distant, with everything slipping through his fingers. It's like there's something there, a shadowy censor of some sort—preventing them from looking at their eyes.
Is this really…? But how could it be?
Then, their voice cuts through the noise, snapping him out of his spiral. It sounds sharp, yet it's familiar to him. He can recognise that unmistakable voice anywhere.
“…Chance.”
He freezes, completely rooted to the ground. His limbs refuse to move, refuse to give way. The world around him spins, and his thoughts begin to race—but they all point to the same conclusion.
You know who that is—you can't deny the truth now, Chance.
It's him. The one you loved dearly, the one who betrayed you. The person who took your life, and ruined it. The face you cannot remember, the face you tried to forget—
“It’s… you.”