On the rooftop of the villa, Eric encountered Amy and Andrew. No greetings were exchanged—each quietly claimed a corner for themselves.
Holding her breath cautiously, Eric gazed toward the woods. She had seen Cynthia run in that direction earlier. It seemed a poor decision to her—the villa was an ideal refuge, vast and solid, offering ample cover for stealth and movement. Outside, Paul had died mysteriously after leaving the safety of the house. Unless absolutely necessary, she had no intention of leaving.
Worried her voice might draw Miss Sweetie's attention, Eric hadn't dared call Cynthia back. Everyone made their own choices; perhaps Cynthia's was the wiser one. But Eric couldn't afford to shoulder the consequences of another's fate. Within the game's replica, she was coming to understand this deeply: players always scattered down diverging paths—some toward survival, others toward doom. There was never a fixed answer.
She strained to hear movements inside the villa. The banging on the doors had ceased—Miss Sweetie had likely moved on from the second floor.
What unsettled her most was her inability to track Sweetie's current location. The woman had, it seemed, removed her signature high heels and now wandered the villa like a silent ghost.
The thought made Eric shudder. Hyper-aware, she glanced around and pressed herself even tighter against the roof, afraid Miss Sweetie might appear silently above.
The sheer psychological pressure of her soundless movement was suffocating.
Even the air atop the roof felt frozen in place, so oppressive it made one want to scream just to break the tension. Eric didn't dare move, even her breath was restrained, terrified the faintest sound might give her away.
While listening intently to the house, a sudden, abrupt scream pierced the silence.
It came from the third floor!
Someone had dared to hide on Miss Sweetie's personal level—who?
Mark had taken refuge on the third floor. He'd found a spot that offered both retreat and defense and hadn't moved since. He had clearly heard the banging on the second floor earlier. When the noise stopped, he grew even more vigilant.
On his way up, he had discreetly scattered some raffia at the stair landing—the same material used earlier in the day when unwrapping birthday gifts. It blended into the floor but would emit a faint rustling when stepped on.
That faint sound would be enough to alert him.
The third floor, divided into a guest salon and a private room, was surprisingly spacious—so spacious that even a thorough search would not reveal the villa's hidden mechanism.
It was an escape tunnel, its entrance a small door beside the fireplace in the room. The tunnel led directly to the shed in the rear garden.
Unbeknownst to Mark, after dispatching one of the players hiding in the garden, Miss Sweetie had elegantly pushed open the shed door. Moments later, the small door beside the fireplace creaked open. Having removed the bustle from her dress, her skirt was no longer voluminous. Bending low, she slipped through the hearth like a dainty phantom.
Mark heard a soft rustling and instinctively glanced back.
He had switched off all the nightlights upon arrival, leaving the third floor in darkness. As he peered into the shadows, he saw nothing.
But as he turned back—
A hand touched his shoulder.
A jolt of dread surged through him.
Reacting instantly, Mark attempted to flee along his prepared route, but then a chilling voice whispered:
"I found you."
The words were like an incantation, binding him in place. He became a statue, powerless to move, all escape plans crushed.
Like Donald before him, Mark was stricken with horror—so this was the true horror of the game: once Miss Sweetie laid eyes on you and spoke those words, there was no escape.
He stood frozen in the dark, watching in horror as Sweetie raised her weapon high. At the critical moment, he activated an item.
An old-fashioned marriage certificate—an item he had bound earlier. It could repel ghostly harm.
\[Item: Cuilan's Marriage Certificate]—the weapon halted mid-swing.
Two opposing spectral forces clashed. Mark struggled to reclaim control of his body but remained immobile.
Anxious and desperate, he watched as Sweetie, smiling, brought her axe down again.
The marriage certificate cracked, then shattered.
Heart aching, Mark reluctantly used up his points to bind a second item he had selected earlier that afternoon.
\[Item: Miss Sweetie's Birthday Gift—Pocket Watch]
He deployed the new item in time to block the next attack. A breath of relief escaped him—thankfully, it worked. Being new, it should endure several more blows. He had to flee—now—
*Crack.*
The pocket watch splintered, its pieces tinkling to the floor.
"Caught you, little thief," came her voice.
Like thunder striking his soul, despair swallowed him whole.
He couldn't believe this was where his game would end. He wasn't ready. He refused to accept it.
On the rooftop, Eric heard a dull thud from the third floor—then silence.
Another player down?
She remembered the daytime revelry—surely many had bound items for protection. Were the ones being killed those without?
Alas! She hadn't been in the game long. Though she had completed several replicas, she lacked the points to bind many items. What would she do if caught?
But panic served no purpose. She reminded herself: meet the spear with a shield, the flood with earth.
Still, when a soft *click* echoed nearby, she trembled uncontrollably.
What was that sound?
Dread coiled around her heart. Slowly, she turned—and under the wan moonlight, she met Miss Sweetie's eerie smile.
Her mind exploded—pure white static.
But her survival instinct surged: hands and feet moved at once.
Run—she had to escape!
"I found you."
That voice—so gentle, so final—robbed her of control. Eric froze, eyes wide as the axe rose, its shadow cold against her neck.
Was this the end?
In the corner of a supermarket earlier, she'd collected a bucket full of items. That very afternoon, she'd felt hope again. How could it end so suddenly?
The axe came down.
Amy, fleeing swiftly, glanced back just in time to see the blade descending. Shock flickered in her eyes. Why hadn't that female player run? Why wait for death? There was something about those words Sweetie said—something binding.
Amy turned away—she couldn't waste time. She must escape before Sweetie turned her attention to her.
Andrew did the same.
Neither of them saw what followed: the blade halting a hair's breadth from Eric's throat.
She stood at death's door, mind blank.
Sweetie pouted regretfully. "Hmph. You didn't steal my birthday present. I'll let you go then." With that, she tucked the axe into her skirt and vanished.
Eric twitched her fingers—she could move again.
Legs weak, she clung to the rooftop tiles, stopping herself from sliding off.
Cold sweat soaked her. Her heart beat wildly, erratically. It took time to gather herself.
Eventually, regaining her strength, she searched the spot where Sweetie had disappeared—and discovered the attic window ajar.
The skylight allowed sunlight into the third-floor salon. It was just wide enough for someone of Sweetie's slim figure.
But how had she climbed all the way up?
Eric shook her head—how foolish to apply logic to a ghost.
She remained seated. For now, she was safe.
As her thoughts cleared, she replayed the encounter—and her face drained of color.
So *that's* what Sweetie's words meant!
The third-floor items—they were traps! Her killing followed rules.
Her blood ran cold.
Players thought the props were a lifeline—but they were poisoned apples. Once used, death followed.
And who could resist using a precious item when an axe hovered overhead?
Using one sealed your fate. Miss Sweetie had proof—and justification.
Ironically, the more experienced players, flush with points, were at greater risk. Those with few points—like her—stood a better chance of surviving.
Realizing this, Eric felt both immense relief and bitter regret.
She had never been so grateful for her lack of resources.
But what about next time?
Luck had saved her—but it couldn't always.
No. She couldn't rely solely on fortune in this game.
As Eric stewed in reflection, Miss Sweetie, drawn by the scent of her gifts, hunted once more.
No matter where players hid, she would find them. And once she saw them—*froze* them.
In that paralyzed moment, those with bound items would instinctively use them—and die.
The slaughter lasted all night.
At dawn, Eric woke with a start. She stretched stiff limbs and climbed down.
The villa's doors stood open. A glowing portal hovered just beyond.
The replica had ended.
She waited, curious how many had survived.
Amy stepped out, nodded briefly, and entered the portal.
Eric waited and waited—no one else came.
She even searched the villa and nearby woods. Not a soul remained.
Only she and Amy had survived?
A chill gripped her heart. She looked upon the elegant mountainside villa—and saw the face of a ravenous ghost.
**\[Player Eric has completed the supernatural replica: "Miss Sweetie's Birthday Banquet." Points gained: 44]**