Like Eric, many players rushed to the second floor. He estimated that nearly half of them had gone upstairs—after all, with more rooms, locking the door added a layer of safety, and the windows offered a potential escape route. Leaping from the second floor or climbing onto the roof was hardly a challenge for players.
Cynthia shared this reasoning. Just as Eric was about to lock the door, he saw her running toward him and had to wait a moment.
*Click.*
The door locked.
Breathing heavily, Cynthia yanked out the hairpin that had slipped down: "Why has this turned into hide and seek again?!"
"Give me a hand—we need to move the bed against the door," Eric said.
Together, they hoisted the bed upright and wedged it diagonally behind the door. The window was shut, and outside loomed an impenetrable darkness—so thick not even a breeze could penetrate.
The two said nothing more, slowing their breathing to listen for any sounds from outside.
In the dining room, after the players scattered, Miss Sweet nonchalantly scooped some cake with her fingers and licked it. After about ten seconds, she leaned in and gently blew out the candle.
Darkness swallowed the room. Only the dull scrape of a chair on carpet was heard, followed by rhythmic *tap-tap-tap* footsteps.
Beneath the pink tablecloth, in the enclosed space under the table, crouched a shadow swathed in black.
The figure clasped hands over mouth and nose, trying to erase all signs of existence.
It was Donald. A man of schemes, his mind had erupted with plans the moment Miss Sweet announced the start of the game. Amid the clamor of fleeing footsteps, he made a bold decision.
As the old saying goes: *the most dangerous place is often the safest.* He hid closest to Miss Sweet herself, beneath the dining table, wagering that she would leave to search elsewhere. If she did, he'd be the last person she'd suspect.
It was a desperate gamble—one that, if won, would grant him momentary peace.
But now, curled beneath the table, Donald regretted his choice.
What if the gamble failed? He had no escape route.
He was about to crawl out when he heard the soft *fwoosh* of candles being extinguished.
No time.
He stayed still.
The footsteps came closer, each step pounding like a drumbeat against his heart. But then… they began to move away, heading for the dining room's exit.
His plan was working!
Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief—the footsteps stopped.
Donald's eyes widened, his ears strained for any hint of sound. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind:
Why had she stopped? Did she hesitate on which direction to go?
Or… had she found him?
Cold sweat beaded on his brow, two drops slipping into his eyes with a sting. He dared not lift a hand to wipe them. He dared not move.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
In the darkness, Donald's face turned ghostly pale.
The footsteps returned—this time, heading *back*.
Cursing his own cleverness, he seethed, *Why did I think hiding here made me smart? Now I'm cornered with no way out!*
The steps grew louder. Donald braced himself, ready to roll out the other side the moment the tablecloth lifted. He still had a tool—a carefully chosen item. If need be, he'd activate it and force Miss Sweet to retreat.
But Miss Sweet didn't act according to his script.
With a crash, she flipped the table over.
Donald reacted swiftly, rolling out and scrambling into the adjacent kitchen.
A dim orange light flickered overhead. He spotted the window immediately—and his heart sank. It had been open earlier. Now it was shut.
He lunged forward, straining against it. The pane budged only slightly.
Footsteps closed in.
With a final heave, he slammed his body against the window. It gave way. But Miss Sweet had already appeared in the kitchen doorway.
She laughed, delighted. "Found you!"
Donald's blood turned to ice.
He clambered onto the windowsill, about to leap—but his body locked in place.
*No!*
Elegant and composed, Miss Sweet approached. With a gentle tug, she sent him crashing like a lifeless stone onto the cold kitchen floor. No carpet cushioned the blow—his head struck the ground with a sickening thud, his vision spinning.
Toppled backwards, he landed staring upward.
Miss Sweet leaned over him, as though inspecting a curious toy.
Then, from the folds of her voluminous skirt, she drew a gleaming axe, lifted it high, her lips curled into a cruel smile—and brought it down.
Donald's pupils dilated.
Though paralyzed, his mind remained free. *Let it respond to will!* Desperately, he bound a long-prepared item clenched tightly in his hand.
A sword-shaped pendant—a gift titled: **\[Item: Miss Sweet's Birthday Present · Miniature Sword Pendant]**. He had long suspected it was a powerful offensive tool.
**\[Binding successful.]**
Instantly, a new tab labeled \[Item] appeared in his personal interface.
"Use it! Use the item!" he screamed inwardly. No time to read its effects—this was all or nothing!
The axe halted three inches from his neck.
Steel met steel—the axe clashing against the miniature sword in a shower of sparks and a shriek of metal.
Donald exhaled in relief. *He'd blocked it. He'd won!*
But the moment vanished with a sharp *crack*.
His eyes filled with horror and disbelief. The pendant in his hand shattered.
Simultaneously, the \[Item] tab dimmed, fading into nothingness.
*Why?!*
*Why did it break on the first use? Or… was Miss Sweet simply too powerful—a monstrous evil beyond reckoning?*
Miss Sweet sneered, her grin widening: "Gotcha, little thief."
The axe swung again.
A sickening *snap*—head and body parted.
As her footsteps faded into the distance, the magic paralyzing Donald's corpse lifted. His lifeless form slumped to the floor. Blood gushed freely, staining the tiles. In the crimson pool, his lifeless eyes reflected the horror of betrayal and realization.
Only in death did he understand—he had walked right into a trap.
Upstairs, Eric heard faint noises from below, but the distance made them indistinct. Tension gripped him, yet his mind spun, trying to deduce how to survive this deadly game disguised as a birthday party's *hide and seek*.
The villa was only so large, with sixteen players and limited hiding spots. Yet for seasoned players, the three-story building still offered ample room to maneuver. Climbing rooftops wasn't out of the question.
Still, something felt wrong. Deeply wrong.
"I think she's still downstairs," Cynthia whispered.
"Seems like it."
The wait stretched long and agonizing. Death loomed overhead like a suspended blade—its descent unpredictable.
After a short exchange, the two fell into silence again, ears pressed to the quiet.
From the servants' quarters came a heavy thud.
In the garden, a flower trellis collapsed.
Seconds later, the living room clock rang out in thunderous chimes.
Footsteps echoed on the staircase—*tap. tap. tap.*
Eric's face tightened.
*She's coming up.*
Their room was the third down the hall. The first might be empty; the second, Steven had entered.
Light from the corridor's wall lamps seeped through the crack beneath the door. Eric stared unblinking at the sliver.
Miss Sweet ascended without pause. The night before, she had lingered outside each room. Tonight, she made straight for the second door.
Without hesitation, she swung her axe, smashing into the door with terrifying force—as if she could see through walls and knew *exactly* where each player hid.
Inside, Steven cursed silently. He *knew* the first room was empty—so how did she?
NPCs were supposed to follow rules. Otherwise, how could players strategize? Negotiate survival? Without rules, the game was just death.
Why was she so precise tonight?
Steven flung open the window and leapt across to the first room.
No sooner had he landed than the second door burst open behind him. Yet Miss Sweet didn't enter. She turned instead—toward the door of the first room.
And began to strike.
*Damn it!*
Steven scrambled back to the window and hurled himself down to the first floor.
In the third room, Eric and Cynthia had reached the window. Cynthia was already halfway through, prepared to flee.
Suddenly, silence.
Eric's heart pounded, near bursting.
*Bang!*
The door rattled violently. Thank heavens for the bed blocking it.
*Why no footsteps? Had she removed her shoes?*
Cynthia jumped out. The window now free, Eric climbed up—but instead of down, he scaled upward.
Miss Sweet yanked her axe free and padded silently toward the next room.
On the floor, her pink rhinestone heels lay neatly side by side. In the lamp's glow, her barefoot silhouette towered, axe aloft—
*Bang! Bang!*
One by one, she struck every room with surgical precision.
Players scattered in panic.
Sharon twisted her ankle jumping from a window, stifling a cry of pain. Limping and sobbing, she fled blindly, unwilling to be caught.
Glancing back, she saw the villa shrouded in darkness, only the second-floor corridor aglow. Shadows darted in the gloom. She even glimpsed a silhouette atop the roof—awed and envious.
She lacked such agility. She couldn't survive in the villa.
She ran for the woods.
Others were already there. Cynthia, swift as ever, hid behind a large tree, panting. At the sound of Sharon's stumbling steps, she frowned.
Who was it? Whoever it was—they couldn't keep blundering about like this. They'd draw Sweet's attention and get them all killed.
She crept forward, grabbed Sharon by the wrist, and clamped a hand over her mouth. "Quiet! Follow me!"
She dragged her into a thicket and whispered, "From now on, you're on your own."
She couldn't afford to be slowed down by a newcomer.
And vanished into the shadows once more.
Sharon remained hidden, hands over her mouth, blinking back tears with all her might.