No Exit from the Death Game

Time crawled by, second after second. Then, heavy footsteps echoed in the stairwell, right on schedule. Each one stomped in time with my heartbeat.

The doorknob turned with a click, and the door swung open. That tall figure in the clown mask filled the doorway. He held a bloodstained fire axe, droplets of water trickling off his raincoat and dripping onto the floor.

According to my plan, if he could read my thoughts in real time, or if he had some kind of omniscience, he should've headed straight for the kitchen and put that axe right through the fridge.

But he didn't.

He just stood there at the bedroom door, those shadowed eyes behind the mask locking on me where I was hidden beneath the bed. I felt pathetic.

"You didn't go to the kitchen," I said hoarsely, staring back at him. My palms were slick with sweat. "You can't read my thoughts in real time."

The killer didn't answer. He just tilted his head, dazed for a split second. Then, in the next heartbeat, he raised the axe and charged toward me like a beast crazed for blood.

Instinct told me to roll to the right, but something made me jerk the other way instead. I twisted, threw myself left with everything I had, and barely dodged the axe as it came crashing down. The wooden floor split open in a vicious crack, and splinters flew.

The angle of that swing had completely cut off my escape route to the right. It was the direction I always favored when something went wrong. He knew my fighting instincts by heart!

If I'd rolled right on reflex, I'd be in two pieces by now.

He and I grappled in the cramped living room, trading blows in tight quarters. The longer we fought, the colder my blood ran. Despair seeped in.

He knew me too well. He knew my habit of dropping my shoulder to build power before I struck, so every time I moved, he was already there. He was faster and meaner, catching me off guard again and again.

When I forced myself to change tactics and adjust my defense on the fly, he could predict that, too. Because of that disadvantage, I slowly became overwhelmed.

Clang!

The fruit knife went spinning out of my hand. He slammed a kick into my chest. I flew backward, crashing into the wall so hard it felt like all my organs had been knocked out of place.

The pain was blinding; my vision went dark around the edges. Still, I laughed.

Because when he lifted his leg to kick me, his pant leg rode up, and I saw something just above his ankle. It was a dark red birthmark shaped like a tongue of flame. I had the exact same mark on my ankle.

"So, it's you…" I spat out a mouthful of blood and looked up at that looming clown mask. The fear in my eyes was gone, replaced by sheer disbelief and shock. "No wonder you knew the 16-digit passcode. No wonder you knew I'd hide in the ceiling crawlspace."

I laughed, blood trickling down the corner of my mouth. "Because you're me!"

The axe froze in midair. From behind the mask came a quiet sigh, heavy with resignation and bone-deep fatigue.

"Third time's the charm. You finally figured it out." The voice was hoarse and low, but it sounded exactly like mine.

With a thud and sickening squelch, the axe came down. Darkness swallowed me again.

[Third loop over. Player has died. Remaining attempts before game over: 7]