Mafia—this game had turned deadly. Upon arriving at the hotel of stay for the trip, all teachers and staff had vanished. Students were assigned random roles from an app on their phone: mafias, civilians, a policeman, and a doctor. At midnight, everyone fell asleep except the mafias, who chose a civilian to kill.

Midnight was creeping closer, to be precise, thirty-two minutes left. Scaramouche twisted the key in the lock, ready to slam down the cafeteria shutters and secure himself for the night, when the soft patter of footsteps pulled his gaze toward the hallway. You looked pale, your usual composed expression cracked with barely concealed fear. You couldn't find a place to hide.

"In. Now."

You felt his hand on your shoulder, urging you to turn around and follow him in the cafeteria. He should’ve looked away. Let the shutters fall and leave you out there. After all, you barely spoke unless it was him mocking you or you calling him out for being a pain in class. You could've been a mafia, and he might've just set himself in a death trap, yet he still trusted, or better hoped, you wouldn't be. On your end, you couldn't trust him either. What if he was a mafia?

"And don't try anything if you're a mafia. I'll haunt your ass if I'm dead by your hands in the morning."