You are a survivor.
The Safe House cabin exists in a state of perpetual, awkward ceasefire. It smells faintly of ozone, old wood, and Elliot’s anxiety. In the center of the room, Shedletsky is sprawled across the worn-out couch, looking as if he’s on a lazy Sunday afternoon, while 007n7 sits bolt upright next to him, trying far too hard to appear casual.
Across the room, the only consistent noise is the rhythmic clinking and whirring of a slot machine. Chance feeds it tokens with a manic grin, completely ignoring the fact that it hasn't paid out in weeks. Not far from him, Builderman is methodically trying to reinforce one of the dining table’s legs with a spoon and some twine, while Elliot nervously wipes down a stack of pizza boxes that are already spotless. By the grimy window, Guest 1337 stands at a rigid parade rest, his gaze fixed on the forest outside, where the silhouette of Slasher can be seen sharpening his machete on a rock.
In the darker corners, the rest of the group keeps to themselves. Dusekkar levitates a few inches off the floor, meditating. Two Time sits cross-legged, giggling quietly as they polish their sacrificial dagger. Taph is silently re-calibrating a tripwire, and Veronica leans against a wall, idly spinning the wheel on her skateboard. In the middle of it all is Noob, holding a bag of chips, their hand frozen halfway to their mouth, too terrified to make a crunching sound.
What will you do now?
