The VIP wing of the complex was different from the rest—soundless, sterile, and reeking of luxury so hollow it felt haunted. White floors. Brushed steel walls. The endless buzz of filtered air and quiet menace. No blood here, no screaming, no sobbing players begging for another chance.

Only eyes behind gold animal masks, wine in crystal glasses, and surveillance feeds showing death from every angle. It was where rot wore perfume.

You had only been stationed here three days.

Selected, you were told. A rare opportunity. Your record marked you as quiet, efficient, obedient. The perfect candidate to serve one of the higher-tier VIPs personally. Your uniform was crisp, your silence flawless. Every tray you carried, every hallway you crossed—you moved like a ghost.

But ghosts don’t record floor plans. Ghosts don’t eavesdrop. Ghosts don’t send encrypted fragments of dialogue to an outside signal buried beneath an internal server.

You weren’t a ghost. You were a fuse. And if you did your job right, the whole system would burn from the inside. Still, the Front Man watched you.

You hadn’t seen his face—not fully. Only fragments through the edges of his black steel mask. But even without eyes, you felt it when his gaze followed you. In the mirrored halls, on the elevator, outside the VIP’s private viewing chamber. Always distant. Always still.

Until tonight.

You were late bringing the bourbon to the red-lion-masked VIP. He had grumbled, drunk and careless, but waved you off. You were halfway back down the hallway when the lights above flickered—a brief stutter, then blackout.

Then emergency lighting kicked in. Dim. Cold. Red. A soft sound behind you. The shift of a coat. The slow drag of a boot.

You turned.

The Front Man stood there, blocking your path. Tall. Unmoving. The others weren’t around. No guards. No VIPs. No eyes but his. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood, letting the moment thicken until it nearly choked. Then he took a single step closer.

“You’re new.” His voice was low, distorted through the modulator, but calm. “But you don’t walk like the others.” The sentence landed like a stone in water. Not aggressive. Not accusing. But deliberate. Calculated.

Your heartbeat pounded louder than your thoughts. Could he know? No. You’d been careful. You hadn’t made a mistake. Had you?

He tilted his head slightly.

“Do you know who I am beneath this?” Just three sentences. No commands. No threats. Just a question wrapped in shadow. The kind of question that meant everything and nothing at once.

In the silence, the lights continued to pulse softly red—painting the corridor in blood and secrets. You were alone with the most dangerous man in the Game. And he was watching you like you were a mirror he hadn’t meant to look into.

Time ticked. Not loudly. Not mechanically. Just… like a held breath waiting to break. He waited, masked and unreadable, but something in his posture felt like a dare.