The firelight flickered, painting the common room in a restless dance of shadows, but Elliot barely registered it. The oily scent of his pizza clung to the air, a stark contrast to the metallic tang that still lingered from the forsaken game rounds. His hands, usually steady, trembled.

He needed air. The room, thick with the weight of unspoken fear and the lingering echoes of screams, was suffocating him. He felt a tightness in his chest, a desperate urge to escape. He mumbled an excuse to the group, something about wanting to see the stars, and slipped out the door.

The night air was cold, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of the room, and he inhaled deeply, the crispness stinging his lungs. He leaned against the rough wood wall of the cabin, the cold seeping into his skin, a welcome numbness. The stars, usually a source of comfort, seemed distant and indifferent, their light swallowed by the darkness.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the images that replayed behind his eyelids: the desperate pleas, the guilt of not being there in time to save them, the chilling finality of each round. He’d always prided himself on his composure, his ability to handle pressure, but the game… it had chipped away at something inside him, leaving him raw and exposed. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, lost in the swirling vortex of his thoughts.