I was trapped in a survival horror game with the heir to New York’s most ruthless empire—the same man who had humiliated me in the real world. Only here, the script was flipped. He was forced to play an NPC hopelessly, tragically obsessed with me. Dean Payne. In reality, he was aloof, arrogant, untouchable. Right now, he was on one knee, trembling so violently it looked like he might shatter. “Please,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “Just give me…” The System flashing in my peripheral vision demanded that I say yes. But it didn’t give me a script. I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You look absolutely pathetic like this,” I whispered. “It’s sickening.” 01 I won’t lie. Having Dean Payne looking up at me from his knees felt incredibly good. I wanted to savor it for just a second longer. But the translucent red text of the System hovered in the air between us, blinking with escalating urgency. [Say yes.] [Say yes say yes say yes…] I waved a hand through the holographic text, dismissing it. All around us, the eyes of the crowd tracked my movement. Some of them were actual Players; others, like me, were just NPCs. We were all dressed in identical elite prep school blazers, standing in a suffocating circle, staring blankly. This was a high school battle-royale instance. [Love or Death] The lore was simple: A vampire boy falls at first sight for a human girl, pursuing her with terrifying intensity. Because of the barrier between their species, she rejects him, over and over. Finally, crushing under the weight of his obsession, she fakes a confession of love, only to flee and hide among the student body. The boy goes utterly feral. The vampire clan uses her betrayal as an excuse to hunt humans. By day, the campus is a facade of peaceful, tension-filled interactions. By night, the masks drop, and the slaughter begins. The Players were assigned factions. Their only goal was survival. As for Dean and me? Our job was to act out the prologue. We were essentially the unskippable live-action cutscene. Inside the cavernous gymnasium, thousands of white roses had been arranged into a massive, suffocating heart. Dean knelt in the center of it, his head tilted back. The corners of his eyes were flushed with a feverish, sickly red. As his lips parted, the sharp points of his fangs caught the overhead lights. He looked entirely unraveled. Agonized by unrequited love. It was a staggering contrast to the man he was in the waking world. Dean was seven years older than me. The crown prince of the Payne family, a man who looked at the rest of the world as if it were gum stuck to his Oxford shoes. Normally, a scholarship kid like me wouldn’t even breathe the same air as him. But his younger sister, Brooke, happened to be my desk-mate and my only real friend. Right after our final exams, Brooke invited me to the family’s sprawling Hamptons estate to celebrate her birthday. The crushing weight of high school was finally off my shoulders. I let my guard down. I drank way too much champagne, got entirely lost in the labyrinth of their mansion, and stumbled through the wrong oak door. I crashed right into Dean, who had just stepped out of the shower. My face was instantly smothered in damp silk and the heavy, expensive scent of sandalwood body wash. Rubbing my bruised nose, I slurred a dizzy apology, backing away. But Dean didn’t see an accident. He saw a gold-digger playing a cheap trick. He looked down his perfectly sculpted nose at me, his eyes freezing over. “If you’re going to try and climb into my bed, you could at least use a strategy that isn’t so painfully cliché. Is this what they teach you in public school?” Brooke had run in right then, breathless, stepping between us. “Dean, stop! June isn’t like that,” she defended me. “She’s brilliant, she works three jobs, she tutors me for free. She’s my best friend. You don’t get to talk to her like that.” Dean had simply scoffed, a short, ugly sound. “Brilliant indeed. She figured out exactly how to use you to get to me.” The anger had hit me so fast it completely incinerated the alcohol in my blood. I stood tall, looking him dead in the eye, and made a vow right there on his imported rug. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Payne. I could be utterly alone for the rest of my life, I could be blinded, I could throw myself off the balcony of this ridiculous house, and I still wouldn’t look twice at a man like you.” That very night, we both went to sleep and woke up trapped in this godforsaken Game. Back in the gym, Dean was still waiting for my answer. His muscles corded and jerked as he fought his programming. The same mouth that had dripped with aristocratic disdain in reality was now reduced to a broken loop of begging. “Love me. Please. Just love me.” “If I can’t have your love, I’ll wither away and die.” Listen to him. He was practically reciting bad poetry. The System prompt was flashing violently now, demanding I say yes to trigger the bloodbath. But I noticed there was no countdown timer. I reached out, hooking a finger under Dean’s rigid jaw, and forced him to look at me. I leaned in slow. “You really want me to say yes, don’t you?” I murmured. “But every word out of your mouth makes my skin crawl.” “And looking at you like this? It’s repulsive. I wish I had my phone so I could record this and show the board of directors. The great, untouchable Dean Payne, reduced to this.” I smiled, letting the words drip like acid. “You look like a dog, begging for scraps.” All the color violently drained from his face. The heavy knot of resentment in my chest finally loosened. Satisfied, I straightened my spine, ready to deliver my line and advance the plot. But before I could open my mouth, the System prompt expanded, bleeding across my entire field of vision in jagged crimson letters. [Warning: Out of Character behavior detected. NPC [June] task failed. Initiating Punishment Sequence.] [Brace yourself. 10, 9, 8, 7…] I froze. “Wait, what the hell—” “It’s too late.” I didn’t even see him stand up. Suddenly, Dean was just there, towering over me. I took a panicked step back, but he matched it, stalking forward. His eyes were glowing a dim, terrifying crimson. The fangs I had mocked were now fully elongated, resting against his lower lip. “If you refuse to love me,” he whispered, his voice dark and entirely devoid of the game’s programming, “then you can die with my love instead.” And then, he lunged. 02 Night fell instantly. The prep school warped into a hunting ground. I shoved my hands hard against his chest, breaking his grip, and turned, running as fast as my legs could carry me. Screams erupted behind me. Players and NPCs were already scattering as the slaughter began. I blended into the panicked herd, taking sharp lefts and chaotic rights until I found myself in an abandoned music room in the old wing of the campus. I threw myself behind a rotting grand piano, pressing my back against the chipped wood. My heartbeat was a physical assault against my eardrums, throbbing with a sickening rhythm. My chest heaved. I pulled my knees to my chin and clamped both hands over my mouth, terrified to even draw breath. I stayed completely frozen until the sounds of tearing flesh and screaming faded into the distance. Only then did I let out a shaky exhale. My nerves were completely fried. I needed a plan. Hiss… A sharp sting bloomed on my calf. I looked down in the gloom. I had caught my leg on something during the sprint. A thin scratch, about the length of my hand, was weeping blood. The crimson drops slid down my ankle, gathering at the bone before falling, heavy and dark, onto the floorboards. Instantly, a voice drifted down from the ceiling, light as a ghost. “Found you.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I screamed, scrambling backward on my hands and knees, desperate to run. Too late. My lower back slammed into the piano keys, unleashing a heavy, atonal groan into the silent room. Dean’s hand clamped around my ankle. His grip was absolute iron, squeezing so hard I felt the bones grind together. He leaned down, his mouth open, ravenous. A violent shudder ripped through me. I kicked out with my free leg. “Dean! Snap out of it!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Look at me! Remember who I am! If you don’t want to wake up and hate yourself, let me go right now—agh!” “Don’t—don’t bite—” It was useless. The man was gone. He was nothing but predatory instinct now. The pain hit like a lightning bolt, making me convulse. My body temperature plummeted, my strength evaporating into the cold air. The darkness pulled me under. When I opened my eyes again, the heavy velvet ceiling of the Hamptons guest room stared back at me. Was it a nightmare? I sat up, pushing the heavy duvet aside. I needed to wash my face. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and put my weight on my feet. My right leg buckled immediately, sending me to my knees. I gasped, looking down. My right calf was covered in a sprawling, angry red rash. And right around my ankle, perfectly shaped like a hand, was a ring of dark bruises. I reached out, tapping the skin tentatively. I blinked in shock. “It doesn’t hurt?” “So… last night was real. But if I died, why did I wake up here?” And what about Dean? What the hell was happening to him? I had promised Brooke I would stay the night for her birthday weekend. I couldn’t just bolt without causing a scene. I moved mechanically, showering, dressing, and heading downstairs. I walked into the sun-drenched breakfast room and froze. Dean was sitting at the head of the long oak table, dressed in soft, grey loungewear, sipping a black espresso. Thank god he wasn’t wearing a white shirt. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and met his eyes. “…” “…” Absolute silence. We both snapped our heads away at the exact same second. Perfect. That confirmed it. It wasn’t a dream, and he remembered everything just as clearly as I did. Well, this was a special kind of hell. I walked to the absolute farthest end of the twelve-seat table and sat down. A moment later, Brooke wandered in, yawning and stretching. “Morning, Dean,” she mumbled, before seeing me. “June! You’re up.” She padded over, dropping into the chair next to me and leaning her head on my shoulder. “Do you have a headache? How did you sleep?” My eyes flicked to the head of the table. I caught Dean looking our way, his jaw tight. I swallowed the heavy, complicated truth sitting on my tongue. Instead, I casually reached down and rubbed my right leg. Exactly as planned, Brooke noticed. “Oh my god, why is it so red?” she gasped, dropping to a crouch to examine my calf. Her fingers brushed the skin lightly. “Does it hurt? What happened?” “It’s fine, really,” I said, pulling her back up into her chair. I raised my voice just enough to ensure it carried to the other end of the room. “I think I was just bitten by some obnoxious, blood-sucking pest.” Dean let out a harsh scoff. He pushed his chair back, the wood scraping loudly against the tile, and stood up. He walked out without touching his food. Ah, the luxury of the rich. Unlike us working-class mortals, who couldn’t afford to waste a meal. I took a massive bite of a warm dumpling, washed it down with sweet soy milk, and closed my eyes in pure, carb-induced bliss. “Maria.” Dean’s voice cut through the room. He had turned back in the doorway. “Bring a plate of dumplings and coffee up to my study.” Me: … Suddenly, the dumpling tasted like cardboard. Dean turned on his heel, his footsteps noticeably lighter as he took the stairs. He would never admit it out loud, but just a few moments ago in that dining room, he had almost lost the war with his own body. He curled his hands into fists as he walked, but the phantom sensation of soft, bruised skin beneath his fingers refused to fade. The memories of the night before slammed into his brain. The dissonant, jarring crash of the piano keys. The broken, quiet sound of her crying. And that scent. That maddening, intoxicating scent. When June had walked past him toward the end of the table, it had taken every ounce of his legendary self-control not to vault over the mahogany wood and tear into her throat. Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a ragged breath. “…This is going to kill me.” 03 I politely declined Brooke’s desperate pleas for me to stay the rest of the weekend, rented a Citi Bike, and pedaled back to my reality. I say “home,” but it was a cramped, fourth-floor walk-up in Queens. I grew up in the foster system. The minute I aged out, I packed a duffel bag and never looked back. I survived high school on state grants, tips, and sheer spite. Now, I needed to build a war chest for my college tuition. My days were a blur of delivery bags, commercial dishwashers, and balancing trays of drinks. By the time I staggered through my front door, I was dead on my feet. I collapsed onto my mattress and was gone. I closed my eyes. I opened them. And I was back in the Game. After a few of these cycles, I had finally cracked the algorithm. Rule one: The transition only happened when I fell asleep at night. Rule two: An instance lasted for five in-game days. After that, we got a two-day “weekend” in reality before the next round began. Honestly, it just felt like picking up another shift, only this one offered a weekend off. Plus, Dean and I were basically glorified cutscene actors. Once we delivered our prologue lines, our shifts were over. We spent the rest of the time as background scenery, completely ignored by the Players. This time, the setting was a sprawling, Gilded Age estate. Inside a cavernous ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers, aristocrats in heavy velvet and silk milled around long tables groaning with roasted meats and overflowing wine. And me? I was standing against the wall in a stiff, itchy maid’s uniform. God, I’m so tired. I couldn’t even escape the service industry in my nightmares. The theme of this instance was a locked-room murder mystery. A wealthy Duke was hosting a private gala, but by morning, he would be found dead in his study. The estate gates were sealed. The Players—guests at the party—couldn’t leave. They had to find the killer while surviving whatever lurked in the manor’s shadows. Dean, naturally, was playing the Duke. He stood near the fireplace in a flawlessly tailored three-piece suit. A gold-rimmed monocle caught the firelight, and the pigeon-blood rubies on his cufflinks were darker than the burgundy wine swirling in his glass. He caught my eye from across the room and gave a faint, lazy nod of acknowledgment. At that exact moment, the System pinged. My cue. I picked up a silver tray. On it rested a porcelain plate holding a delicate, gold-leaf-dusted mousse cake. It smelled incredible. My stomach gave a violent, embarrassing rumble. I had been running between jobs all day in the real world and hadn’t eaten a thing. Now that I was standing still, the hunger was a physical ache. I walked over. Dean dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin and spoke, his tone unhurried and dripping with condescension. “Allow me to remind you, you are currently a maid.” “You don’t want to get punished for breaking character again, do you?” I: “…” I took a slow, deep breath. “Please.” Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Unacceptable. Where is the title? My status here is quite obvious.” He’s really getting into this, the pretentious bastard. I kept my face entirely blank. “This was prepared specifically for you. Please taste it.” Dean looked at me with faux pity. “So slow. Tell me, are you only capable of memorizing textbooks?” He leaned in slightly. “Repeat after me.” “Please enjoy, Master.” I shot him a look that could have shattered glass. This was petty, targeted revenge, wasn’t it? Dean met my glare with absolute calm. “Don’t forget the expression. You need to smile. Say it. Now.” I ground my molars together until my jaw ached. My lips twitched into a horrifying, rigid smile. “Please enjoy… M-Maste—” Before I could force the word out, the System prompt violently flashed red. [Dining phase concluded. NPC [Dean] failed to complete mandatory action. Task failed.] [Initiating Punishment Sequence. Rolling random penalty… Penalty selected.] [NPC [Dean]: Lethal Poison Experience activated.] A split second later, all the rigid aristocracy vanished from Dean’s posture. His knees buckled, and he pitched sideways. I caught him by the shoulders, plastering on my brightest, most venomous retail smile. “Do you require assistance…?” “Master?”
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