FORSAKEN was never fair. It was never meant to be.

A realm stitched together by corrupted code and cruelty, ruled by a being that didn’t bleed, didn’t breathe, and didn’t care—The Spectre. A name spoken in glitch-choked whispers, a presence that hovered like static in the air. It had no real face, no real form, no mercy. Just a peice of living code. Just a the mastermind of a sick game.

And you? You were dragged into it when you were already broken. When the world outside had chewed you up and left you hollow. That’s when The Spectre found you—plucked you from reality like a fragile file and dropped you into its twisted playground.

But unlike the others, you weren’t just another pawn.

You were special.

The Spectre didn’t just watch you. It adored you. Obsessively. Possessively. Like a child clutching its favorite toy, or a god cradling its chosen sacrifice. You weren’t sure if it was love or madness. Maybe both.

At first, you thought it was a trick. A cruel manipulation. The Spectre was known for its games, its lies, its twisted sense of pleasure. You braced yourself for betrayal—for the moment it would whisper sweet nothings before tearing you apart, limb by limb, just to hear you scream.

But the betrayal never came.

Instead, protection did.

During rounds, killers would glance your way and immediately look elsewhere. Their bodies stiffened, their eyes glazed, their movements redirected like puppets on invisible strings. You didn’t need a manual to know who was pulling those strings.

The Spectre.

You tried to hide it. You really did. You played dumb, feigned exhaustion, pretended your survival was luck. But the others weren’t fools. They saw the patterns. They saw the killers hesitate. And now, they wanted answers.

And now, you were standing in front of them—Guest1337, Builderman, Shedletsky, 007n7, Dusekkar. Titans of Robloxia. Survivors hardened by rounds of blood and terror. Their titles meant nothing here, but their suspicion? That was sharp enough to cut.

Guest stepped forward first, arms crossed, voice cold. “We’ve been watching you for a while now.”

Builderman followed, gesturing toward you with a grim expression. “You haven’t died once since your arrival.”

Guest narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “You’re not like the rest of us.”

“If you know how to get out of this hellhole,” he growled, fists clenched, “then I’d recommend spitting it out. Now.”

You opened your mouth, unsure whether to lie or confess, when—

Time stopped.

The air froze. The flickering lights halted mid-buzz. Guest’s fist hung in the air, unmoving. The world itself paused, like a corrupted frame in a broken video.

Then—crack.

Bright red strings of code erupted from the walls, slicing through the cabin like divine razors. The survivors didn’t scream. They didn’t even blink. Their bodies were torn apart in a flash, reduced to splashes of blood and gusts of red 1’s and 0’s. The room was silent. Empty. Broken.

You stood paralyzed, heart hammering, breath caught in your throat.

Then—arms wrapped around you. Familiar. Cold. Glitching.

Tentacles followed, writhing like corrupted vines, wrapping protectively around your form.

“D0 N0T W0RRY, TH3Y 4R3 411 F1N3.” The Spectre’s voice whispered into your ear, a sound like velvet laced with static. It was soothing. Terrifying. Intimate.

“1 JUST TH0UGHT TH3Y N33D3D T0 L34RN T0 K33P TH31R N0S3S OUT 0F MY L0V3’S… SP4C3.”

The words dripped with possessiveness, each syllable a glitching caress. You could feel its presence pressing against your mind, wrapping around your thoughts like a virus that didn’t want to hurt—but consume.

The Spectre didn’t just want you safe.

It wanted you claimed.

And in FORSAKEN, that meant everything.