"Alright, alright—no more teasing… Here it is—THE PRIZE FOR THE ONE AND ONLY… MIDNIGHT!"
Akuma's voice, already a razor's edge, scraped against my eardrums, a prelude to the torment I instinctively knew was coming.
My stomach, already a tight knot of apprehension, churned violently.
A prize? For solving a quiz?
In this digital purgatory, where every flicker of hope was a harbinger of deeper despair, such a concept was an outright mockery. My carefully constructed cold exterior, a lifetime's work of emotional regulation, felt like a brittle shell about to shatter under an unseen hammer.
Suddenly, with an electronic shriek that echoed the rising panic in my chest, the massive screen behind Akuma seized.
The room, previously a cacophony of toxic energy, held its breath. Instead of flashing lights or a triumphant fanfare, a stark, unsettling image materialized, searing itself into my vision.
It was a mugshot of me.
Not a flattering portrait, but a heavily pixelated, slightly distorted image that was unmistakably my face, my features warped into an unnatural grimace. Beneath it, in bold, aggressive scarlet letters, a single, chilling word pulsed like a malignant heart:
[BOUNTY]
Then, as if to twist the knife, a second line materialized, sealing my fate:
[TARGET: MIDNIGHT]
A cold dread, a tangible, suffocating weight, began to seep into my bones, chilling me to the marrow. This wasn't a prize. This was a snare. A public execution. A carefully orchestrated trap designed to dismantle me, piece by agonizing piece.
Akuma's cackle ripped through the suddenly fragile air, sharp and unhinged, like broken glass.
"Wahahahahaha! Oh, the look on your face, sweetie! Priceless! Utterly, deliciously priceless!"
She pointed a manicured finger, first at the screen, then at me, her entire body shaking with a gleeful, almost demonic mirth.
"You actually thought you were getting something good, didn't you?! You brilliant, brilliant idiot!"
Whimsical_Clown, an omnipresent specter of malevolence, detached himself from the shadows, stepping forward with an unnervingly deliberate gait. His painted smile, wide and grotesque, stretched across his face like a fresh wound.
"Indeed, Akuma. Our dear Midnight here, so clever, so keen… yet so predictably naïve."
He let out a theatrical sigh, a sound of mock disappointment that grated on my nerves.
"Did you truly believe we'd just hand out rewards without a catch? Oh, you are smart, Midnight. We know that. Too smart, perhaps."
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy, pregnant with a sinister anticipation that coiled tighter with each passing second. My mind raced, frantically searching for an angle, a logical explanation, any shred of a way out, but my thoughts felt sluggish, clouded by the growing, suffocating unease.
My mental processes, usually a well-oiled machine, were seizing up under the immense pressure.
"After all," Whimsical continued, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that somehow amplified, filling every corner of the room, "we know exactly who you are, don't we? The ex-programmer. The genius behind some of ARCME REALM's most… intricate codes."
The words hit me like a physical blow, a sudden, jarring revelation that sent a jolt of ice through my veins. A cold sweat prickled my skin.
They knew.
How? How could they possibly know? My past, my identity, it was all supposed to be buried deep, forgotten, a ghost in the machine. The revelation stripped away my last layer of defense, leaving me utterly exposed.
The silence that followed was momentarily deafening, a vacuum before the storm. Then, the room erupted. Not with a cheer, but with a primal, visceral roar.
"BOO! Get him! He's a fucking dev! Always was a cheating bastard!"
"Traitor! Cheat! You built this nightmare, you sick piece of shit!"
"You scum! You engineered this hell! We'll make you regret it, you absolute failure of a human being!"
A tidal wave of raw, guttural anger washed over me from the other players. Their previously blank, almost catatonic faces contorted into grotesque masks of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Death threats were hurled like jagged stones, curses like venomous darts.
"Filthy programmer!"
"Go die in a ditch, you worthless glitch!"
"We'll get you! You're dead, you hear me?! DEAD!"
The sheer volume of their vitriol was overwhelming, a torrent of digital bile that threatened to drown me. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my muscles tensed, the involuntary recipient of a collective fury I couldn't possibly appease.
Each shouted insult was a stab, each curse a burning ember.
Some players, however, remained eerily quiet amidst the maelstrom. Velvet was among them. Her head was still, but her eyes, when they flickered to mine, held an unreadable expression – a complex mix of shock, perhaps, and something akin to a painful, almost resigned recognition. She said nothing, her usual composure replaced by a hesitant, unsettling stillness, as if grappling with a hidden conflict.
So this is it, I thought, the words echoing in the hollow, echoing space of my mind, a chilling whisper of defeat.
What it feels like to be humiliated. Truly, utterly exposed.
Despite the cold exterior I projected, the pressure was immense, a crushing weight on my chest that threatened to collapse my lungs.
Every insult, every threat, every derisive glance felt like a physical assault, chipping away at my composure, exposing the raw nerves beneath.
Akuma, meanwhile, was utterly revelling in every agonizing moment of my public shaming. She bounced on the balls of her feet, clapping her hands like a gleeful, deranged child.
"And as a special little consequence for our little bounty, our former programmer… a brand-new nickname!" She paused dramatically, drawing out the suspense, her eyes sparkling with a cruel, malicious delight.
"From this moment forward, you shall be known as… MID GAMER!"
The collective roar of laughter from the players, spurred on by Akuma and Whimsical, was deafening, a symphony of scorn.
"Mid Gamer!" they chanted, their voices thick with ridicule, twisting the words into a vicious taunt.
The humiliation had fully transformed into a brutal, public bullying session, a grotesque spectacle designed solely for their entertainment.
It was clear now: this wasn't just a game; it was a carefully orchestrated demolition of my existence, a meticulously planned theatre of my downfall.