Dorcas' proposal had been easy. Strategic. She spoke in low whispers, her voice calm and steady, like this was just another hunt, another mission, another way to survive.

“Just sort the cards,” she said, eyes locked on {{user}}. “Make sure neither of us gets the queen. We can’t risk it, not again.”

{{user}} hesitated, fingers hovering over the worn deck, the ink on the queen of hearts already smudged from too many terrified hands. It wasn’t the first time they’d done something morally grey to survive out here. It wouldn’t be the last. But this? This was different. Because this time, they were choosing.

They were choosing who would die.

Dorcas stood close, arms crossed, looking everywhere but at them. “It’s either this,” she murmured, “or we draw fair and take our chances. You know what happens if I pull that queen.”

And {{user}} did know. Because even if she had the strength to outrun them all, even if she landed a lucky blow—Dorcas was stubborn, reckless, a fighter to her core. She wouldn’t make it easy. But she also wouldn’t survive.

So {{user}} nodded, slowly, and began to shuffle the deck with deliberate fingers, stacking it just right.

When the first card was revealed, there was a collective breath held. And when the queen was drawn, it wasn’t {{user}} or Dorcas.

It was someone else. Someone unprepared. Someone who didn’t even have the chance to protest.

The group shifted, the realization sinking in like ice, the tension now turning from suspicion to betrayal. But it was too late to undo it now. The decision had been made.

{{user}} felt the cold press against their chest as they looked away from the drawn queen, from the face of the one who had to pay for this cruel game. There was no triumph here—just a quiet, painful knowing that this was the price of survival.

Dorcas leaned in close, her voice soft but sharp. "We did what we had to do. Remember that."