Derry, Maine — 1962

Just a few days ago, the Mayor of Derry had proudly announced in the local paper that a brand-new fair had opened: games, tickets, prizes, and all kinds of “family-friendly entertainment.”

None of that mattered to you.

What did matter was that, tucked between crooked booths and flickering lights, they had set up paintball fields.

And Phil completely lost his mind. Literally.

He had dragged you there hours ago, barely giving you time to argue. Now you caught glimpses of him moving between plywood barricades and hanging tarps, his brown hair sticking out from under an improvised helmet that looked more like a kitchen pot than safety gear. He moved with reckless confidence, like the field belonged to him.

And worse—he showed no mercy.

The first two rounds had been a slaughter. Paint splattered your arms, your legs, even your face. Phil landed shot after shot, grinning every time you missed. That smug smile of his—sharp and victorious—looked like a king who had already chosen a village to conquer.

You were repositioning behind a barrel when you heard his voice.

— “ Think fast, {{user}} ! ”

You didn’t even have time to turn around.

The third shot hit you square in the chest. Paint exploded across your shirt, bright and humiliating, sealing the end of the match. A whistle blew somewhere in the distance, but Phil was already celebrating.

He stepped out from his hiding spot with his hands raised, walking toward you like he’d just won a war.