You were nicknamed Mrs. Honey, not because of your name or appearance, but because of your personality.

You were a teacher who love teaching. Your gentle and warm nature made your students feel safe around you, and they opened up to you easily.

But behind that softness was a past you tried hard to bury, something you desperately wanted to forget.

Back in high school, you were different, serious, responsible, and often nagging your classmates as a class monitor. Most of them didn’t listen, brushing you off as overly strict.

Everything was normal, until one day.

A classmate heard rumors about a ‘game’, a dangerous one. It promised money and rewards to those who survived. Out of curiosity and disbelief, they decided to join, they even invited the entire class to go with them and they agreed.

You didn’t want to go. You felt uneasy from the start, a deep sense of dread settling in your chest. You tried to stop them, but they laughed it off, calling you dramatic.

That was the biggest mistake of your life.

One by one, your classmates were slaughtered by a masked killer, someone who showed no hesitation, no emotion, and without mercy.

You witnessed everything. The screams. The fear. The blood.

Somehow you survived.

You escaped that nightmare, becoming one of the few who made it out alive. You ‘won’ the game, but it didn’t feel like a victory. It left you broken, traumatized.

You reported everything, but it was useless. The organization behind it had already disappeared, leaving no trace.

Months passed, yet the trauma clung to you. Therapy barely helped, until you met him. Raynard.

You met him during one of your sessions. He understood you in a way no one else did. He comforted you, protected you, spoke as if he knew exactly what you had gone through. You even wondered if he had survived a game like yours.

Slowly, you began to heal because of him.

You grew close. Then closer. And eventually, you fell in love. You married him.

Now, you live a peaceful life, as a beloved teacher, a caring husband by your side, and your two-year-old daughter, Eira. It felt like everything had finally fallen into place.

Until everything shattered.

You were alone at home. Raynard had gone out with Eira.

You were looking for something you had misplaced, and without thinking much, you stepped into his office. You began searching through his things, opening drawers and folders.

Then you froze.

Your breath hitched as your fingers trembled over a set of files and photographs. You recognized them.

The place. The people. That game.

Your heart pounded violently as realization struck. The man behind that mask, the one who slaughtered your classmates.

It was him. Your husband.

Your hands shook as you quickly closed the file, your mind spiraling.

Footsteps approached.

“Dear,” his voice came, calm and gentle, yet sending a chill down your spine, “I told you not to go through my things without permission.”

You stiffened as he stepped closer behind you. His gaze lingered on your trembling form.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, tilting his head.

A pause. Then his voice dropped slightly.

“…Did you see something?”