The audience remained deathly still. Not even the crackle of fire dared interrupt the suffocating silence. Their fear had evolved beyond panic—it was now reverence. Horror-coated reverence.

  I wiped my mouth delicately, then tossed a scrap of cloth onto the growing heap of limbs and weapons near the center of the stage. They hadn’t seen me feed—of course they hadn’t. I was always careful with that. Still, the body of the fifth fool lay crumpled and pale at the edge of the arena, neck bent at an unnatural angle, like a broken doll discarded by a spoiled child.

  The silence cracked when a few of them made a break for it—pathetic, frantic shapes hurling themselves toward the burning barricades. I didn’t even bother watching. The sharp twang of bowstrings and the brief, high-pitched screams told me everything I needed to know.

  No escape.

  A few brave—or perhaps foolish—ones tried to rush me together, fourteen in all. Their strategy was laughable. I fled, let them taste a sliver of hope, then snuffed it out one by one in the shadows. When I returned, I brought proof—four heads swinging by their hair, tossed casually into the ever-growing graveyard I had made of this place. No words were needed anymore. The message was loud, visceral, and bleeding.

  They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. They just stared—wide-eyed, lips trembling, lungs half-filled with the air they were too afraid to exhale.

  “I’m bored,” I said at last, tapping the blade of a sword idly against my boot. “This game isn’t fun anymore unless you play with me.” I let the pause drag long enough for their dread to steep fully in their bones. “If no one steps forward, I’ll start choosing.”

  Predictably, no one volunteered. Of course they wouldn’t. The bold had died screaming, the reckless had died begging, and the brave had died in silence. All that remained were cowards and corpses-in-waiting.

  “...Alright,” I sighed and pointed into the crowd. “You.”

  He tried to retreat. Always the same. I let him fumble backward before seizing his collar and dragging him onto the blood-soaked platform. He stumbled, his legs barely supporting him, but the sword on his hip told me he had at least fantasized once about being a fighter.

  “Sword? Axe? Tell me what you want to die holding.”

  He unsheathed his blade, hands trembling, and looked at me like I wasn’t a person—but a nightmare given flesh.

  “You… you are the devil.”

  He turned the blade—not toward me, but toward himself. A swift thrust. Cowardice disguised as defiance. His body fell like a sack of blood and failure.

  “How rude…” I muttered and turned to the shell-shocked crowd. “You,” I pointed at a trembling girl with ash in her hair. “Clean that up. And the one to your right? You’re next.”

  The hours bled together in a crimson haze. One after another they came—some fighting, most crying, a few laughing hysterically before they died. I played with them, painted the stage with their blood, let their screams echo into the night sky until even the stars must have heard them.

  Only two remained.

  I had kept one alive deliberately.

  He was the one I had seen before—unshaken, composed, leaning in the prison shadows with an air of calculated curiosity. He watched every kill not with horror, but with a sparkle of appreciation, like a critic admiring a masterwork.

  And so, for him, I saved the grandest display.

  I brought the axe down on the final opponent. Again. And again. His head came off cleanly, but I didn’t stop. I kept chopping until bone and brain and blood flew in wide arcs, my mad laughter ringing like church bells on the night of a massacre. All but one spectator were long gone—either dead or empty inside—but the freak behind me still watched. Still smiling.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  When I finally stopped, chest heaving, blood soaking every inch of my skin except the spots I’d already licked clean, I turned to him slowly.

  “What a beautiful night, don’t you agree?”

  "That depends on where you look," he said, his voice calm, yet clipped, as though trying not to offend me and failing anyway. "The sky? It’s crystal clear. Beautiful, even—if you’re into that sort of serenity. But if I look at the ground..." His eyes briefly flicked toward the sea of corpses littering the plaza before sharply turning away. "...or at you... well, it’s disgusting. No offence."

  His gaze avoided mine, but it didn’t escape me. He was lying. Not about what he said—about how he felt. I caught him more than once letting his eyes linger a moment too long on the bodies, on the blood-soaked boards, on the little details most would avert their eyes from in horror. He was trying to maintain a moral high ground, but it was clear—he was fascinated. The massacre intrigued him. I intrigued him.

  I let a grin curl across my bloodstained lips. "Oh my," I said sweetly, clasping my hands behind my back like a schoolgirl caught in mischief. "I suppose I did go a little overboard… but hey, at least my dress is finally the right color." I laughed and casually tossed the axe over my shoulder. It spun once in the air before landing with a dull thunk, embedding itself into the shoulder of a bloated corpse near the top of the pile. It was poetic in its own way.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “So,” I continued, my voice almost playful now, “I don’t have all night—well, technically I do—but I’d still like to wrap this up sometime before sunrise. What’s your preferred weapon?” I let my eyes wander across his frame. No blades. No bows. No telltale bulges beneath his clothes that might betray a hidden dagger.

  He met my gaze, his expression unreadable. “Cards,” he said simply.

  That broke me. I let out a small, incredulous laugh, then chuckled deeper as it echoed into a giggle I couldn’t quite control. I clutched my stomach and bent forward slightly. Cards. Of all things. “Cards?” I repeated between gasps. “You’re going to defend your life… with cards?”

  It was absurd. It was brilliant.

  It was exactly the kind of madness I had been waiting for.

  Finally, after countless dull, groveling worms, here was something different. Someone clever. Unshaken. Unpredictable. He was the kind of soul I could mold into something extraordinary—or at the very least, entertaining. My trip to this forsaken camp had been more than just a slaughter; it was a recruitment effort, a way to test the minds of men in the most brutal interview possible. So far, they had all failed… except him.

  “We play blackjack,” he said, undeterred by my laughter. “Best of five. I deal first. Then we switch.”

  I couldn’t help myself—I stepped forward, hooked my bloody fingers under his chin, and tilted his head upward to force him to look into my eyes. “Perfect,” I whispered, voice dripping with delight. “You're absolutely perfect.”

  He didn’t recoil. He didn’t even blink. Oh, how I wanted to keep him.

  “Fine by me,” I said, releasing him at last. “Do you have cards?”

  Wordlessly, he reached into his coat and produced a weathered deck, the edges curled and darkened from years of use.

  I took one look at them and wrinkled my nose. “No. Not those.” With a flick of my wrist, I threw them behind me. The wind caught the top few and scattered them like blackened leaves. “Another set. And hurry—I’m feeling playful, not patient.”

  He left without protest and returned a few minutes later with a fresher deck—still worn, but less suspicious. I examined each card carefully under the firelight, checking for hidden marks, imperfect cuts, weight discrepancies—anything that might scream cheat. Satisfied, I slid them into my hand and gestured toward a crude table I had prepared earlier. It was stained with old blood and fresh splinters, a single dagger resting atop it like a silent judge.

  “May I mix them first?” I asked, though I didn’t wait for permission. I splayed the cards out across the table, shuffled them with slow, deliberate movements, letting the blood on my fingers streak the backs of a few. It was beautiful—almost sacred.

  Once I was finished, I handed the deck back to him and watched as he reshuffled them with the deft fingers of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. We sat, the firelight casting dancing shadows across our faces, and began the game.

  He dealt.

  Two cards landed in front of me—a two and a ten. A respectable twelve.

  He turned his own.

  A four.

  The game had begun.

  And this, finally, was a game worth playing.