These Guilty Games

1. First Cut.

The Ending.

The smell of burnt flesh clung to the air, sharp and sickly sweet.

Niko's fingers trembled against the blade in his lap, his knuckles slick with blood. He didn't know if it was his anymore. His vision blurred, his chest heaving with shallow, uneven breaths as the room tilted. The screams around him had faded, swallowed by the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic drip of something wet hitting the floor.

"You've got five minutes."

The voice came from the figure in the mask, calm and unbothered. They stood across from him, their gloved hands crossed in front of them, blood spattered across their boots like an afterthought.

Five minutes.

Niko's eyes darted to the timer on the wall, its numbers burning bright red: 4:37... 4:36...

The blade felt wrong in his hands—too light, too sharp. He'd already made it this far, through the screaming, the breaking, the tearing. But this? This was worse. The choice they'd left him with was worse than any pain they could inflict.

"Pick one," the voice said again, more pointed now. "Or they all die. You know how this works."

Niko's stomach twisted as his gaze shifted to the others. There were three of them, barely conscious, bound and bloodied in the corners of the room. Their eyes flickered open and shut, unfocused, pleading.

He couldn't do it.

The blade slipped in his grip, clattering to the floor.

"Three minutes."

The voice was sharper now, like a knife pressed to his throat.

Niko bent over, clutching his stomach as bile rose in his throat. The smell of the burnt flesh was worse now, suffocating, clinging to his skin.

"Make the choice, or I'll make it for you."

The timer ticked down, and Niko's shaking hands reached for the blade. Somewhere deep inside him, something cracked.

It was just survival, wasn't it?

2:13... 2:12...

And the blood began again.

The First Part.

Did you know blood has a sound?

It drips thick and slow, the silence around it stretching like a scream no one can hear.

NIKO VALE knew that sound too well. He heard it now, echoing in the small, windowless holding cell where they'd kept him for seventy-two hours. His hands were clean, his clothes still prison-issued, but in his head, blood never stopped pooling. It coated his thoughts, staining memories he couldn't scrub clean no matter how hard he tried.

The cell was suffocating, the air so stale it felt like breathing through a wet rag. A dim bulb hummed faintly overhead, painting the walls in a jaundiced glow. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the bench, worn smooth from decades of restless hands. His knuckles were split, and his nails were bitten to stubs.

The door creaked.

Niko stilled. His heart slammed against his ribs as the sound ripped through the silence. He didn't move, barely even breathed, as the door swung open with a deliberate slowness.

The man who stepped inside wasn't one of the usual guards.

He was tall and broad, his matte black uniform immaculate and imposing, a stark contrast to the scuffed gray of the prison staff. The fractured circle insignia on his chest gleamed faintly under the flickering light. A gun rested on his hip, but he didn't reach for it. He didn't need to. His presence alone felt like a warning, the kind that tightened around Niko's throat like a noose.