POV: The Girl
"Are we there yet?" she groaned, dragging her feet across the tile floors of the dimly lit corridor. Her tone was that of a whining child, though her fingers still danced excitedly across the hilt of her knife. "I want to see you kill!"
The mafia man beside her didn't even flinch. He kept walking forward with the grace of a dancer and the silence of a grave.
"You said this one would be fun," she added. "I hope they scream this time."
Another shadow fell in behind them.
"Oh! You're back!" she grinned, waving at the man who had joined them. "Just in time for the finale!"
They stopped in front of a tall wooden door. The walls were dressed in velvet and gold, some old nobility preserved through money and false peace. The girl leaned on the doorframe and looked up at her partner with wide, mischievous eyes.
"Can you pleaaaase take a video when you kill? I want to see how you kill. Pretty please?"
The mafia chuckled, tilting his head down toward her like a king addressing a spoiled princess.
"Of course, princess," he said. "You'll have your show."
He clicked open the door and entered. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the calm in the room thickened like fog.
She stood there.
Waiting.
A woman.
Slouched lazily on a chair in the middle of the lavishly decorated suite. The golden chandelier above her cast fractured light over her calm expression.
"I was waiting for you," she said with a casual smile. "Killer. Or should I say… mafia?"
The mafia's footsteps didn't falter. He took slow, deliberate strides forward, each one echoing against the walls.
"Oh-ho…" he mused. "You were expecting me. I didn't expect a lady would wait for the man to arrive. How charming."
His voice was cold, smooth—like wine poured over ice. Polite, refined, but coiled with something violent beneath it.
She stood slowly. Her hand brushed over a side table where an empty wine glass sat.
"For the past few days, I've been dying of boredom," she said, flipping the glass in her hand. "Everyone's just been yelling at each other—blah blah blah. What I want is real action."
He stopped five steps away from her.
And bowed.
"My pleasure, ma'am."
He lunged. Fast, too fast. A blur of movement.
She threw the glass—not to hit, but to deflect. The shards scattered in the air like glittering knives. She rolled across the floor, grabbing a heavy candelabra and swinging it toward his face.
Clang.
Steel met steel as his hidden blade intercepted the arc mid-air. The blow reverberated, making her fingers go numb.
He pulled out a small device, thumbed it—recording—and smiled darkly.
"For the princess," he whispered.
"You're not taking me down that easily," she hissed.
She grabbed a wine bottle from the shelf and hurled it. He dodged with a lazy twist of his shoulder, as though dancing. Then he came in again—this time slashing low.
She flipped over a table. His blade carved through the wood like paper. She kicked a vase at him—he sidestepped.
"Why…" she thought, breathing heavily, "Why can't I see his face?"
Even as she blocked, dodged, and countered, his face never landed in focus—always shadowed, and blurred.
A chair leg snapped under her as she leapt. He moved in—this time faster—and a crack echoed as she hit the floor. He pinned her wrist with his boot, blade grazing her throat.
She gritted her teeth.
And he smiled.
His free hand brushed her hair aside, gently. Then he grabbed it, yanked her head up, and pointed the camera.
"There you go, princess," he said to the device, flashing a wicked grin. And stopped the recording "One life taken."
She stared at him, panting, and blood trailing from a shallow cut on her throat, arms and feet.
"I know you won't die," he murmured, brushing a thumb along her jaw. "You have the Survivor role. You get three lives. Tonight, I've taken one."
His eyes darkened.
"Expect more… later on."
And just like that, he dropped her head, turned his back, and walked out. No glance over the shoulder. No final blow.
He left her there.
Alive.
Bleeding.
And alone with her first death.
"Fuck! I fucking lost."
Her breathing was uneven now. Not from fear.
From rage.
The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
She lay there motionless for a second longer, one hand trembling near the shattered remains of the wine glass, the other gripping the torn hem of her dress. Her chest rose and fell with each sharp breath. Her eyes didn't close. They remained fixed on the high ceiling above, following the slow sway of the chandelier.
She didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
"…That bastard," she muttered.
With a grunt, she pushed herself upright, knees scraping against broken porcelain and wooden splinters. Blood smeared down her arm—red, but not deep. It stung, but she didn't flinch.
"That was one life," she whispered to herself, touching her throat where the blade had traced her skin. "Just one."
Her hands were shaking with adrenaline, but her smirk returned.
She stood slowly, brushing the dust from her skirt. And as she stared at the dark door he'd walked out of, she said—low and promising:
"I'm going to kill you."
Meanwhile, outside the room
The girl was bouncing on her heels like a child outside a candy stand.
"Oooh—did he get her?" she asked the silent man beside her. "Do you think he killed her fast or slow?"
The man answered. "Probably he killed her fast."
She giggled anyway. "He always knows how to make it a show…"
Moments later, the mafia exited the room, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as if he'd just come from a casual dinner. His face was unreadable, but there was the smallest curl to his lip.
The girl clapped her hands.
"Yay! Did she scream?"
"No," he replied smoothly, tucking his phone into his coat. "But she bled. Quite beautifully."
He leaned down and gently tapped her on the nose.
"One life down."
She beamed.
"She has three, right?"
He nodded.
"And when do I get to play?"
"Soon, princess."
He turned to the silent man.
"Your work is done. Wait for the next signal."
The man dipped his head and walked off into the dark.
The mafia extended his arm to the girl like a proper gentleman.
"Shall we, my dear?"
She laughed, slipping her arm around his, skipping beside him down the hallway.
They left behind the faint scent of blood and perfume. Behind them, the door creaked ever so slightly—just enough for the survivor inside to hear their fading steps.
Inside the room
The girl—no, the survivor—stood before a cracked mirror now. Her hair was disheveled, makeup smeared faintly beneath her eyes. Blood had dried in small patches on her neck and collarbone.
But her reflection didn't look weak. It looked furious.
Her eyes, dark and gleaming, stared into their own reflection with a fire that hadn't been there before.
She tilted her head.
"Smile for the camera," she whispered mockingly in his voice.
And then she slammed her fist into the mirror, cracking it into a web of fractures.
One life fucking gone.
Two left.
Elsewhere, late that night
Rain began to fall—softly at first, barely tapping against the high windows of the manor. But it picked up. Stronger. Louder.
A soft buzzing echoed on the mafia's phone.
He looked at the screen.
[Upload complete.]
A file attached: "Survivor_1of3.mp4"
He chuckled softly to himself and whispered, "Sleep well, princess."
Then he slid the phone back into his coat pocket and looked out the window, rain reflecting like silver knives on the glass.
Let the game of killing starts