Prologue

The neon lights flickered against their faces, casting strange, shifting shadows as they stepped forward. The distant sound of laughter and the whirring of machines underscored their song, a symphony of anticipation that swelled with each note. The air was thick with the scent of spun sugar, fried dough, and something else—something metallic, like the faint whisper of rust on the tracks of a long-forgotten ride.

The roller coaster loomed before them, its towering frame silhouetted against the darkened sky. They moved toward it as if drawn by some unseen force, their voices intertwining in harmony with the creaking of the steel structure. The lap bars clamped down with a final, resolute click, locking them into place. A mechanical groan rippled through the ride, and then, with a sudden jolt, it lurched forward. The ascent had begun.

Noel gripped the sides of his seat, his heart pounding in time with the steady clanking of the chain lift. His breath came shallow, eyes fixed on the world shrinking beneath him. The town, with all its smallness and its sameness, became nothing more than a collection of twinkling lights, ants scurrying in their endless, predictable routines. He turned his head slightly, catching glimpses of the others—Mischa’s hands clenched into fists, Ocean’s brows furrowed, Constance’s lips curled in nervous exhilaration, Ricky’s eyes wide with fear.

The choir’s song built with the climb, a crescendo of voices rising higher, mirroring the relentless pull of the coaster. The cold wind stung their faces, their bodies pressed back against the seats as they neared the peak. For a moment, everything stood still. The laughter of the carnival below seemed distant, insignificant. The town, the rides, the people—it all blurred into the background, as if they had stepped outside of time.

Then came the drop.

A collective scream tore through the air as the coaster plummeted forward, gravity snatching them from their moment of stillness. The wind roared in their ears, a deafening rush that swallowed their voices. Hands gripped the safety bars tighter, stomachs lurched, and the world became a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and rushing air. The ride twisted, jerked, spun them into a dizzying dance, sending them hurtling through loops and turns that defied reason.

Noel’s heart pounded against his ribs, his breath hitching as the track blurred beneath them. The thrill, the chaos, the wild, reckless abandon of it all—it was intoxicating. And yet, something in his gut twisted, something that had nothing to do with the stomach-turning drop. The track felt wrong beneath them, the ride’s movements just slightly off, a fraction of a second delayed.

A flicker of unease passed through the group, the high of the moment tinged with something darker. Ocean’s fingers dug into the metal bar, her knuckles pale in the flashing lights. Mischa stole a glance at Noel, as if silently asking if he felt it too. Constance’s laughter faltered, the euphoria giving way to something like doubt. Ricky ,unable to move or speak, sat there silently waiting for the drop, but beneath his skin his brain flared with fear like he knew they were never coming back. 

Then, the track beneath them shuddered.

Bright lights exploded ahead, a blinding yellow flash that swallowed everything. The choir’s voices pitched into a final, desperate cry as the coaster gave one last, violent lurch. And then—blackness. The ride, the carnival, the world itself seemed to vanish.

And somewhere, beyond the void, a voice spoke.

“Your lucky number is 5. You will have good fortune. You should ride the Cyclone.”

And as the echoes of Karnak’s words faded into the dark, they knew—nothing would ever be the same.

Chapter 1

The Amazing Karnak had seen the end of many. It was his purpose, his function—the singular reason for his existence. His name suggested grandeur, yet there was nothing amazing about what he did. He predicted death—its cause, its time, its place. But now, he had been set in family fun novelty mode. Abandoned, he sat in the ruins of a forgotten amusement park, just another relic in a graveyard of laughter and sorrow, surrounded by the skeletons of joys long past. Yet, he remembered everything.

The warehouse that housed him was a mausoleum of silenced delight. The air was thick with mildew, dust, and the decay of what had once been bright and full of life. The remains of rides lay in heaps, their once-vibrant hues faded to muted ghosts of themselves. Among them, the twisted iron girder of the Cyclone roller coaster loomed large—a grotesque monument to tragedy, its rusted bend a frozen scream of metal and fate entwined. Vines had begun to claim it, their tendrils threading through the fractures of steel as if nature itself sought to repair what humanity had left to ruin. Below, the marquee still clung to its place, though just barely. The word "CYCLONE" tilted at an odd angle, its once-bold letters peeling and cracked, a final whisper of a thrill long past. The weight of time pressed heavily upon the forsaken space.

Once, Karnak had been part of the spectacle. Families gathered before him, their faces bright with anticipation, waiting for their fortunes to be revealed. Or what little he was allowed to tell them. When the Saint Cassian Chamber Choir had approached him, their laughter effervescent with youthful joy, he had known. He had known what awaited them, and yet, he had spoken. He had even suggested they board the doomed roller coaster, fully aware of what lay ahead.

Six voices, once harmonious, now silent. At 6:17, they had bought their tickets. At 6:18, they had fastened their restraints. The wheels had rolled forward, the steel had groaned, the ride had begun its ascent. Excitement filled the air—the thrill of the unknown. But Karnak had known. He had known all along. A snap. A fracture in the frame. The sickening twist of metal. Their cries had mingled with the groaning of the coaster, their young lives swallowed in an instant. The Cyclone had done its duty, and Karnak had done his. Now, he sat rusting in the silence, the echoes of their laughter lingering in the empty space around him.

He was Karnak, the abandoned, the forgotten, the omniscient. His predictions had never been wrong, though no one wished to hear them now. Left alone, he remembered what the world had chosen to forget. The warehouse crumbled around him, yet he endured, as memories do. Time, it seemed, had no power over regret. He did not weep, for he could not. He did not scream, for he had no voice beyond the echoes of those he had doomed. But still, he watched, and he waited, because he knew one final truth—he, too, had seen his own end. And it was coming, soon.

Tonight, he brought forth the Saint Cassian Chamber Choir. A last encore, if one willed it. To show them as they were, not as they had been perceived. Their voices stirred in the darkness. He could hear them now.

The choir appears in a sudden, breathless instant beneath the rusted "Cyclone" sign, their collective horror frozen on their faces as if they had been yanked from the very edge of oblivion. Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg stands rigid, her freshly pressed uniform still crisp despite the shock. Her red hair is slightly askew, but her wide, terrified eyes give away the silent scream still caught in her throat. Beside her, Constance Blackwood shakes where she stands, her hands gripping at the fabric of her skirt as though anchoring herself to reality. Her usual composure is nowhere to be found—her breath comes in quick, uneven gasps, her full frame trembling as she fights to steady herself. Her polished uniform is pristine, but she looks lost inside it, like a child drowning in fabric, unable to piece together how she got here.

Mischa Bachinski, in stark contrast, looks as though he has barely survived a bar fight with gravity itself. His untucked shirt flutters slightly in the eerie stillness of the warehouse, and his baseball cap sits crooked atop his head. His wild, dark eyes dart around, fists clenched as if bracing for another unseen impact. Noel Gruber, ever the composed one, is visibly rattled but still standing with as much dignity as possible. His hands shake slightly at his sides, his uniform impeccable save for the faintest crease at the collar—an unforgivable imperfection that betrays the nightmare they all just escaped. His mouth is slightly agape, his breath uneven, but he swallows hard, forcing himself into some semblance of composure.

Ricky Potts is still in his wheelchair, but his body is slumped forward as if he had just been thrown back into it. His tie, already loosened, is askew, and his disheveled appearance is made all the more pitiful by the sheer terror in his wide, unfocused eyes. His breathing is ragged, his fingers twitching as if grasping for something that isn’t there. The group stands together, silent except for the sound of their collective gasps, the flickering light overhead casting long, trembling shadows against the warehouse walls. The air is thick with the scent of rust and dust, yet none of them move. None of them dare speak. The thrill of the fall still lingers in their bones, and the amusement park around them—abandoned, hollow—seems to whisper that their descent is far from over.

Ocean exhales sharply, shaking her head, and turns on her heel. She mutters under her breath, straightening her tie as she walks away from the group. The weight of the abandoned warehouse presses down on her, and for the first time since they appeared here, she allows herself to really take in their surroundings. Rusted beams loom overhead, dust thick in the air, and the faded "Cyclone" sign flickers dimly with dying bulbs. Her pulse quickens. She doesn’t like not knowing where she is. She doesn’t like not being in control. Without another word, she starts trying the doors lining the walls, her movements sharp and purposeful. Locked. Locked. Locked. Her frustration grows with every failed attempt. "We need to get out of here," she says, mostly to herself, before turning back to the group. “Are you all just going to stand there, or is someone actually going to help?”

That’s what sets Noel off. He scoffs, crossing his arms. “Oh, look at you, taking charge like always,” he says, voice laced with mock admiration. “Of course Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg is the one who has to be in control of the situation. I’m shocked.” His eyes narrow. “What, you think you’re the only one who wants to get out of here? Or do you just like being the one to tell everyone what to do?”

The atmosphere crackles with tension as Noel Gruber’s sharp voice cuts through the heavy silence. His gaze locks onto Ocean’s, his tone dripping with disdain. "And while you’re at it, nice job looking so perfect, as usual," he sneers, crossing his arms. "Is that your way of coping? Pretend like nothing’s wrong, like you’ve got it all figured out?" Ocean stands tall, her posture a little too straight, as though she’s used to commanding attention, to being the one in control. She’s the leader of the choir—always confident, always knowing what to do, what to say. And she’s done this long enough to know how to throw a sharp retort back without skipping a beat.

Ocean’s eyes narrow, the confidence she wears like armor shifting into a sharper edge. "What’s your problem, Noel?" she shoots back, her voice steady but cutting. "If you’ve got a problem with me being the one who’s in charge, maybe you should try stepping up instead of throwing stones from the sidelines." She knows exactly how to deflect his attack, how to make herself seem untouchable in the face of his petty criticism. He’s just mad that she’s always the one with the answers, always the one taking charge, while he can’t seem to stop complaining about the smallest things.

Noel’s lips twist into a sneer, the challenge in his voice only escalating. "Oh, I’m sure you think you’re all perfect, don’t you?" he spits, his eyes flicking over her pressed uniform, her immaculate appearance, and the way she holds herself like she’s untouchable. "You’re just like everyone else who thinks they can fake their way through this. You act like you’re the only one who knows what’s going on, but guess what? You’re just like the rest of us, scared out of your mind." His words are sharp and deliberate, meant to pierce through the confidence she’s always so carefully cultivated.

Ocean steps closer to him, her face a mask of cool confidence, though a flicker of irritation flashes in her eyes. "You’re so desperate to tear me down," she retorts, her voice smooth but with an edge that only someone used to commanding could wield. "I’m the one who will get us through this mess, and if you can’t handle that, maybe it’s time you took a good look at yourself instead of blaming everyone else." She stands taller, her posture straightening further as she looks down on him, knowing that her place as leader is not something Noel can easily undermine.

Noel doesn’t back down. "You’re delusional," he snaps, stepping closer, not even trying to hide the anger simmering beneath his words. "Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you’ve got it all figured out. Maybe you think you’re better than the rest of us, but I can see through it. You’re just scared, hiding behind this perfect image because you’re terrified of being just like the rest of us—human." The venom in his voice makes the air seem thicker, the weight of his words landing heavily between them. Ocean stands there, unflinching, the leader who holds the facade of control even as the cracks in her composure start to show.

Ricky Potts shifts in his wheelchair, his wide eyes darting between Ocean and Noel as their argument escalates. His fingers tighten around the wheels, and he clears his throat, trying to speak up. "Guys?" His voice is shaky and raspy as if he hadn’t spoken in years, but there’s an urgency to it. No one acknowledges him. Ocean and Noel are too locked in their battle of words, and the others—Mischa, Constance—stand frozen, watching with tense expressions, as if afraid to interrupt. Ricky swallows hard, then tries again, a little louder. "Uh… maybe we should focus on where we are instead of—"

But his words are swallowed up by the rising intensity of Ocean and Noel’s bickering. The air between them crackles with hostility, their voices overlapping, sharp and fast. Ricky shifts uncomfortably, his hands gripping the arms of his chair now, his breathing uneven. Something is wrong here—more than just their usual drama, more than just their lingering terror from whatever just happened. He can feel it. He can feel everything, once a paraplegic and non-verbal teenager, he can now speak and is even beginning to regain movement. But no one is listening. No one ever listens. He glances around the dimly lit warehouse, the rusting metal beams, the distant creak of something unseen moving in the shadows. His stomach twists, but he doesn’t know if it’s from fear or frustration. "Guys," he tries one last time, voice strained. But it’s no use. Noel’s words are cutting, Ocean’s replies sharper, and the rest of them are too wrapped up in the spectacle to notice him at all.

Noel rolls his eyes, still fuming. "Oh, I think I know what’s going on here," Ocean suddenly announces, cutting through the tension with an air of certainty. She turns toward the group, arms crossed, her voice dripping with accusation. "Mischa slipped us drugs." Her words hang in the air, absurd yet confident, as if she’s already pieced together a logical explanation for their bizarre circumstances.

Mischa lets out an exasperated scoff, his hands shooting up in defense. "If I had drug, I would not share them with you," he fires back, shaking his head. His thick Ukrainian accent makes his irritation all the more pronounced, and his expression shifts from frustration to something bordering on amusement. Even in a moment like this, even when they’ve just been arguing moments ago, Ocean’s sheer arrogance is almost impressive.

Before anyone else can respond, a sudden, mechanical voice echoes through the warehouse, reverberating off the rusted walls. "You have inserted t-t-t-two loonies!" The voice stutters slightly, like an old machine forced back to life after years of disrepair. The group collectively tenses, eyes darting around the room, searching for the source of the sound.

A chorus of eerie, robotic voices suddenly chimes in, the sound overlapping in an unsettling harmony. "Karnak! He sees the future." The words send a chill up Ocean’s spine, and for the first time since their arrival, she feels truly unsettled. A flickering light sputters from the shadows, illuminating a looming, ancient fortune-telling machine standing against the far wall. Its faded paint peels, its glass screen clouded with dust, yet its eyes glow unnervingly bright.

"Greetings, children, it’s time to play," the machine declares, its voice smooth yet unnatural. 

Ocean steps forward cautiously, recognition flashing in her eyes. "Play? What is this, who are you?" she demands, but then her breath catches as something clicks in her memory. "Wait… you’re that machine that told our—" Before she can finish, the machine interrupts, its voice firm and commanding. 

"Meet Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg. Catchphrase:"

The machine pauses and without warning, Ocean’s body jerks forward as if yanked by invisible strings. She moves stiffly, unnaturally, as she plants one fist on her hip and raises the other in the air in a forced, triumphant pose. Against her will, her voice rings out, clear and unwavering: "Democracy Rocks!" As soon as the words leave her mouth, she gasps, stumbling back, shaking her hands as if trying to rid herself of whatever had just taken control. "What the heck was that?!" she exclaims, panic creeping into her usually confident voice.

Ocean stares at the machine, still shaking from the bizarre force that had taken control of her body. Before she can demand an explanation, Karnak’s voice hums to life again. "Your catchphrase," the fortune teller intones smoothly. "In the interest of the expedition of time, I’ve taken the liberty of choreographing a few of your moves in advance." Ocean’s stomach churns at the implication, but Karnak doesn’t pause. "Don’t bore us, get to the chorus. Our time together is limited."

Ocean’s hands clench into fists at her sides. She hates feeling out of control, hates not having the upper hand. "Why?" she demands, her voice sharper than before, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty beneath her usual confidence. She doesn’t like this, whatever this is. She doesn’t like that Karnak seems to know things she doesn’t.

"Meet my executioner," Karnak continues, as if she hadn’t spoken. "A rat I’ve named Virgil." The air in the warehouse feels heavier as Karnak explains, "For the last two years, Virgil has been steadily chewing on my power cable. In a little over an hour, Virgil shall chew his way through the rubber, biting down on 240 volts of electricity—instantly killing us both. As there is nothing more ‘bass’ than death, I have decided for tonight’s concert, Virgil shall play the bass."

As if on cue, from somewhere in the darkness, a snazzy bass solo fills the warehouse. The group collectively flinches, eyes darting around in disbelief. A rat—small, scruffy, and oddly self-assured—perches atop a dusty speaker, plucking the strings of a miniature bass guitar with unsettling precision. The absurdity of it all is too much to process.

"Oh, so everybody saw that? Not just me for once? Cool," Ricky Potts says suddenly, his voice clear, confident. The entire group whips around to face him, jaws dropping. Constance gasps. "Ricky! Since when can you talk?" she exclaims, eyes wide with shock. Ricky glances down at his hands as if just realizing it himself. "Since now, I guess," he says with a shrug. But before anyone can properly react, Karnak’s voice cuts through again, unwavering. "Meet Richard Potts. Catchphrase:" Ricky suddenly sits up straighter, his eyes widening as if something unseen is gripping him. Then, with a burst of energy, he throws his fists into the air, his voice ringing out with an enthusiasm he never knew he had: "Level up!"

Ocean barely has a second to process what just happened before she snaps her attention back to Karnak. The machine’s words claw at her brain, each revelation more bizarre than the last. Ricky can talk, a rat named Virgil is apparently on a ticking time bomb to his own doom, and now—now—they’re apparently about to play a game? She takes a step forward, her confidence shifting into frustration. “You said ‘play’ earlier,” she says, voice firm. “What exactly are we playing? Is this a game?”

Karnak’s mechanical eyes flicker, the glow pulsing in a rhythmic beat. “Ocean has selected ‘Game Mode,’” he announces in a hollow, singsong tone.

Ocean stiffens, eyes widening. “What?” she blurts, whipping around to the others for confirmation. “Guys, really, I didn’t! I didn’t select anything!” Constance and Ricky look just as confused as she is, Mischa crosses his arms, unimpressed, and Noel simply gives her a smug glance like he’s enjoying watching her lose control of the situation. She turns back to Karnak, voice urgent. “What game?”

The machine hums, gears clicking inside its casing, before its monotone voice responds. “A game with fabulous prizes: like a stale pack of Menthol Kools. A deep-fried Hello Kitty cupcake. This limited-edition Iron Maiden t-shirt, still ripe with the pong of the carnie that wore it.” The list is absurd, a mockery of real stakes, but Ocean isn’t amused. Her fingers twitch at her sides, her breath quickening.

“Look, what is going on?” Ocean demands, her voice rising now, her patience fraying at the edges. She’s used to having control, to making sense of situations, but nothing here makes sense. The flickering lights, the eerie mechanized choir, the feeling that something much bigger is happening just beyond her grasp—it’s all too much.

Karnak’s response is different this time. Slower. Measured. The glow in his eyes dims slightly before intensifying, his voice dropping to something almost ominous. “Perhaps you might be interested in the Grand Prize, Ocean.” The air in the warehouse seems to still. “One worthy contestant will be brought back to life… to live beyond the Cyclone accident.” The words send a cold wave through the group. Brought back to life. Beyond the Cyclone accident. Ocean’s breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t want to believe what he’s implying, but the weight in the air tells her it’s the truth. And suddenly, for the first time since they arrived, the real horror begins to set in.

Ocean forces herself to push past the dread creeping into her chest. She squares her shoulders, gripping onto control where she can. Fine. If this is a game, then she’ll play to win. "What do we have to do?" she asks, her voice steadier now, demanding. "How does someone get brought back to life?"

Before Karnak can respond, a deep, metallic groan echoes through the warehouse. The group jumps as one of the massive, rusted doors on the far end of the room suddenly creaks open, revealing something beyond. Ocean’s breath catches as she steps forward, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Beyond the door, a long tunnel stretches ahead, dimly lit by flickering bulbs lining the walls. At the very end, barely visible, a soft, golden light glows, warm and inviting. And the choir recognizes it as a new chance at life.

"The Grand Prize," Karnak intones, his voice vibrating through the cavernous warehouse. "To live… again."

A hush falls over the group. The words hang heavy in the air, undeniable now. The tunnel, the golden light, the unsettling game Karnak seems to be leading them into—it all has one, singular purpose. One of them will get to leave. One.

Constance, still staring at the open door with wide eyes, finally breaks the silence. "That’s way better than a Hello Kitty cupcake," she murmurs, her usual warmth dulled by the weight of the moment.

Karnak’s eyes flicker, shifting his attention. "Meet Constance Blackwood," he announces, his voice as cold and impersonal as ever. "Catchphrase:"

Without warning, Constance jolts forward, her body moving in the same unnatural, puppet-like way that Ocean had. Her hands clasp together in front of her chest, and her voice blurts out in a high-pitched, nervous squeak: "Sorry!" As soon as the word leaves her mouth, she stumbles back, her hands flying to her lips. "Oh my God," she breathes, looking horrified. "What was that?"

Ocean barely acknowledges her, her sharp mind latching onto something Karnak had said. She steps forward again, crossing her arms. "Why only one of us?" she demands, her voice forceful. "Why not all of us?" It isn’t fair. If Karnak has the power to undo whatever happened to them, why should it be limited to a single person?

Karnak’s response is immediate, as if he had been waiting for the question. "Sadly," he drones, with no real sorrow in his tone, "I have only ever possessed the power to bring one back to life." His glowing eyes remain unblinking, unreadable. Ocean’s stomach twists, frustration curling in her chest. She doesn’t do helplessness. She doesn’t do losing. She steels herself, straightens her back, and lifts her chin. "What do we have to do to be brought back to life?" she demands again, determination burning in her voice. If this is a game, she intends to win.

"The one who wants to win it the most shall redeem the loser in order to complete the whole," Karnak declares, his voice ringing through the warehouse like a twisted sermon.

Ocean’s brows furrow, irritation flickering across her face. "That doesn’t make any sense," she snaps, crossing her arms. She hates riddles, hates anything that keeps her from having a clear path forward. "What does that even mean? Who’s the loser? How do we—"

Karnak interrupts, his tone unwavering, his mechanical eyes flickering. "I trade mostly in prophecies that don’t make any sense—until they actually do."

Ocean exhales sharply, grinding her teeth. This machine is infuriating. Every answer only raises more questions, and she doesn’t like feeling like she’s being led somewhere blind. But she’s already piecing it together—wants to win the most, redeem the loser—this isn’t just about luck or fairness. It’s about competition. The realization sends a shiver down her spine. Slowly, she lifts her gaze to meet Karnak’s glowing eyes. "I take it you’re the judge?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady.

There’s a pause, and then Karnak hums again, the whir of his inner mechanisms filling the silence. "It appears Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg has used up the group’s three questions for this evening."

Before Ocean can protest, Noel throws his hands in the air dramatically. "Even in death, I can’t escape her!" he groans, glaring at her like she’s personally responsible for this nightmare. "She’s followed me to the afterlife! Well played, Satan, well played!" His voice drips with theatrical despair, but there’s an edge to it—a nervous energy barely concealed beneath the sarcasm. He’s joking, sure, but deep down, they all know the truth. If Karnak is telling the truth, then this really is the afterlife. And now, the real game is about to begin.

Karnak hums again, its mechanical voice buzzing as the glow in its eyes flickers. “Meet Noel Gruber, aspiring poet laureate. Catchphrase:”

Noel barely has time to react before his body moves on its own, stiff and unnatural, like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. His hands gesture dramatically, his voice coming out smooth and rehearsed, yet completely beyond his control. "Being the only gay man in a small, rural high school is kind of like having a laptop in the Stone Age. I mean, sure, you can have one, but there’s nowhere to plug it in." As soon as the words leave his mouth, his body slumps forward slightly, and he shudders. “That felt invasive,” he mutters, rubbing his arms as if shaking off the lingering sensation of being puppeteered.

Ocean, however, is too busy fuming. She turns sharply back to Karnak, her hands on her hips. “But that’s not fair!” she exclaims, her frustration finally boiling over. “You didn’t tell us there were only three questions!” She doesn’t like being played, doesn’t like being tricked into wasting their chance at getting real answers.

Karnak whirs in response, completely unfazed by her outrage. “I believe I did,” he states matter-of-factly. There’s a pause before he adds, “After the fact.”

Ocean throws her hands up in exasperation. “Well, this couldn’t possibly get any weirder!” she declares, her voice dripping with disbelief. But even as she says it, she knows deep down that she’s tempting fate. Because if there’s anything the past few minutes have proven, it’s that this—whatever this is—is only just getting started.

As the last of Ocean's words hang in the air, Karnak hums again, a low, almost mechanical chuckle vibrating from within its frame. "I am under the firm belief that it always can," it says, its voice holding an unsettling calm. "Allow me to introduce the mystery contestant."

With that, the warehouse door creaks open once again, and a figure steps into the dim light. The air in the room shifts, a chill creeping in, as if something cold and ancient has entered. Jane Doe steps forward, her presence commanding attention. Her appearance is otherworldly, her delicate features painted in eerie perfection—she looks like an old china doll, her face smooth and unblemished, save for the unsettling black eyes that completely swallow her pupils, the absence of any white making them appear like endless voids. Her blond hair is coiled and curled in perfect ringlets, but it’s her outfit, her whole being that makes everything about her feel wrong. Her Saint Cassian uniform is pressed so impeccably that it seems almost too pristine for the setting. In her hands, she cradles a beheaded china doll, its neck severed cleanly, and its body hanging limp in her arms.

When she speaks, her voice is soft and melodic, almost as if singing the words rather than simply saying them. "Jane Doe is what the coroner said they found my body, not my head." Her words cut through the tension in the room like a whisper from another time, her haunting rhyme echoing through the warehouse. She holds the headless china doll tighter against her chest, its lifeless body hanging in her arms as if it were an extension of herself. “No parents came, and so they never learned my name or who I used to be,” she continues, the melody growing softer and slower. Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t falter, as if it’s a song she’s sung for lifetimes.

The rest of the group stares, unsure whether to speak, or even move, as Jane’s chilling words ring through their minds. “My life, an unsolved mystery,” she finishes, her voice echoing in the silence. “From ashes I was made and ashes I return and so, I walk alone and wonder why.” The last phrase lingers in the air, heavy with a sense of finality, and the warehouse seems to grow colder. As Jane Doe’s eerie presence settles among them, Ocean feels her earlier frustration slip into a new, deeper sense of unease. She couldn’t remember this 6th member of the choir but Ocean knew she was indeed once part of it.

As Jane finishes her eerie rhyme, her body jerks slightly, her movements unnervingly stiff and uneven—like a broken doll, its joints refusing to bend properly. She takes slow, jarring steps toward Constance, each motion giving the impression that she’s about to fall apart entirely. Her gaze, with those black, empty eyes, never strays from Constance as she gets closer. The room feels colder still, and the unsettling sound of her footsteps echoes in the silence. Finally, stopping just in front of Constance, Jane tilts her head to the side with a slow, deliberate motion. "Would you like to brush my Dolly's hair?" she asks, her voice unnervingly sweet and childlike, as if she were inviting Constance into some twisted game.

Constance stares at Jane, her face pale, her body stiff with unease. Her eyes flick from Jane to the headless china doll she’s holding, and then back up to Jane’s dark, unblinking eyes. She takes a small step back, her hands instinctively gripping the edges of her skirt. "I’m really freaked out right now," she mutters, voice barely above a whisper, the words heavy with the weight of her fear. Her heart races, the room closing in around her as she fights to steady her breathing, but no matter how much she wants to run, she knows she’s trapped.

Jane stands perfectly still in front of Constance, her head tilted slightly as if contemplating the response. The silence between them is thick, but Jane’s next words break it with a chilling calmness. “Do you want to know what really freaks me out?” Her voice is strangely earnest, her black eyes piercing into Constance’s. The words hang heavy, a strange, unsettling invitation to something darker.

Constance instinctively takes another step back, her mouth dry. She glances nervously at the others, but they’re all just as frozen, unable or unwilling to move. “Not really, ever at all, really. Sorry,” she responds quickly, her voice shaky as she pulls her hands tighter against herself. She feels the weight of Jane’s gaze, and it presses against her like a physical thing, suffocating her. She doesn't want to hear more, but it's clear Jane won't be deterred.

Karnak’s voice interrupts, sounding almost too cheerful given the circumstances. "Meet Jane Doe. Catchphrase:" It feels more like an announcement than a mere introduction. Jane's presence only grows more unsettling as she steps closer to Constance, her movements jerky, her doll-like body giving off an unnatural stillness.

Then, without warning, Jane speaks again, her voice taking on a hauntingly poetic tone. "When a lioness has children, she stops making love to the lion. The lion gets jealous. Sometimes so jealous he eats the children. You’d think this would upset the lioness. Far from it. They make love again like the children never existed." Her words seem to hang in the air, each one colder than the last. "I find that idea terrifying," she finishes, her voice soft, yet chilling, as if it were some revelation from a faraway nightmare. The room grows colder still, and Constance shudders, her breath caught in her throat.

Constance takes another cautious step back, her eyes never leaving Jane as she holds her ground. “I’m gonna stand a little farther away from you, okay?” she mutters, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but her voice shakes. Jane doesn’t react, her head still tilted at an unnatural angle, black eyes unblinking. The tension is unbearable, and the room feels like it’s closing in around them. Constance’s breath comes in shallow bursts, trying to stay calm, but every instinct in her screams to run.

Mischa, who had been silently watching the interaction with a furrowed brow, suddenly pulls out his phone and taps at it absentmindedly, clearly searching for something to distract himself from the unnerving situation. After a few seconds, his fingers freeze on the screen, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “There’s no wi-fi up in this bitch!” he exclaims loudly, holding up the phone as if it’s a personal betrayal. The words slice through the tension in the room, but his frustration is met with silence. The others glance at him, confused by his outburst, but in a strange way, it’s almost a relief to have something else to focus on.

Karnak, ever the detached commentator, doesn’t miss a beat. Its mechanical voice rings out, “Meet Mischa Bachinski, Ukrainian bad boy. Catchphrase:" Mischa rolls his eyes, clearly not impressed by the machine’s theatrics, but he’s already moving to deliver whatever his catchphrase might be. He steps forward, a dramatic flourish as he shifts his weight.

"My gangsta persona is just armor to conceal the fact that I am a naked child, wandering in the wilderness, holding in my hand my wounded, fragile heart," Mischa says, his voice surprisingly soft, almost poetic. He lets the words linger in the air before immediately dismissing them with a dismissive gesture. “...That was wack!” he adds, shaking his head in self-deprecation. The others exchange uncertain looks, unsure how to react to his vulnerability. The awkwardness between them grows, and for a moment, even Mischa seems uncomfortable in his own skin.

The room falls into a heavy silence after Mischa's awkward outburst, the weight of everything pressing down on them all. The flickering light overhead casts long, distorted shadows across the warehouse, and the air feels thick with unspoken words, each of them seemingly trapped in their own thoughts. Jane Doe stands motionless, her black eyes still fixed on the group, while Karnak’s mechanical hums in the background, a constant reminder of the strange rules they’re bound by. The tension coils tighter with every passing second, but no one moves, no one speaks. The uncertainty of what comes next settles like a cold fog around them, and as the group stares at each other, the distant light at the end of the tunnel becomes the only thing left to focus on. Whatever lies ahead, none of them are ready for it—but they know they have no choice but to step forward.

Chapter 2

The silence in the warehouse hangs heavy, but Karnak’s mechanical voice shatters it with an unsettling finality. "Ocean Rosenberg! You are first." The words feel like a command, as though there's no room for argument, no chance to change fate. Ocean straightens, her posture as commanding as ever, but something inside her coils with unease. She doesn’t want to go first, doesn’t want to be the one to break the stillness and face whatever game Karnak has in store.

"Why?" she responds quickly, her voice sharp and defensive, though she already knows the answer. She has no choice. She doesn’t like the power being taken away from her, not now, not when the stakes are higher than ever. Her eyes flicker toward the others, but none of them offer any real support, their faces all masks of uncertainty.

Karnak doesn’t waver, its mechanical hum filling the space as it continues, unfazed. "Alas, if only you hadn’t burned off those three questions right at the top," it says, its voice dripping with amusement, as if it enjoys seeing Ocean squirm. The words sting, but Ocean doesn’t show it. She hates being reminded of her impulsiveness, of the way she’d charged in, demanding answers, and now finding herself stuck with the consequences.

Ocean forces a smile, trying to mask the growing irritation. "It’s just, when you tie the room together," she says smoothly, looking around at the group, "I think Constance is gonna seem like the natural choice for the slot!" Her tone is playful, but there’s an underlying tension, a need to regain control of the situation, to make it seem like she still holds the power.

Constance, still looking uneasy, shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "You want me to go first?" she asks, her voice small, but her eyes are wide, clearly not as eager to take on the task as Ocean might hope. The idea of going first doesn’t sit well with her either, but the group is caught in a weird, unspoken game of who gets the worst end of it. Ocean, sensing a shift, quickly seizes the opportunity to regain the upper hand.

"Oh, if you insist!" Ocean says with exaggerated sweetness, turning to face Karnak. "Mr. Whatever, I think Constance and I are going to tradesies!" Her words are laced with an almost mocking lightness, but it’s clear she’s trying to avoid the task ahead. The hope that the machine will relent is evident, but Karnak doesn’t seem like the type to play by any rules other than its own.

"No tradesies," Karnak responds immediately, its voice steady, devoid of emotion. The finality in those words sends a chill through the room, and Ocean’s face hardens as she realizes there’s no negotiating with this machine. The game is beginning, and none of them are ready for what’s coming next.

Ocean straightens, putting on the confident front she’s always known how to wear. "Well, I’m happy about that actually. Sure, I’ll go first!" she says with a forced enthusiasm, her eyes flicking around the group. Her smile is a little too bright, a little too rehearsed. "I just want to say two things. First, I don’t know how it is in your culture, but in ours—playing games where people’s lives are on the table? Super illegal." She holds her chin high, as if her words alone might shift the course of this strange, terrifying game. She glances at Karnak, but the machine’s impassive gaze doesn’t flinch. Ocean presses on, determined to make light of the situation. "Second, I really like your turban!" She gestures toward Karnak, offering a smile that borders on insincere, but the machine gives no reaction, the only sound its mechanical hum.

Karnak’s voice returns, cutting through her bravado with chilling precision. "Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg, born December 22nd. Capricorn—the ambitious nature." The words hang in the air, each one hitting with the cold certainty of a fate already written. "Favorite ride: The bumper cars. Ocean was born into a family of far left of center humanists, who moved to Northern Saskatchewan to live a carbon-free lifestyle." Karnak continues, listing Ocean’s history as though it’s reading from a well-worn script. "The hemp needle-point sign above the household’s toilet read: 'If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, scoop it out with your hand and put it in the compost.' Yet in between all the drum circles, Marxist parables, and cheese sandwiches made of human breast milk, Ocean could never shake the feeling she was the white sheep of her family." The machine pauses, as if letting the absurdity of the picture settle in. "It was only at the age of 8, when she found amongst her parents’ record collection, an album called 'Up With People.' The cloying positivity of this pro-capitalist gaggle of teen crooners brought tears to her eyes. Perhaps the most dangerous thing Halliburton has ever created. Class president, top of her clubs: Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg—the most successful girl in town."

Ocean tries to keep her expression neutral, but the machine’s words cut deeper than she expected, painting a picture of her life that’s both too personal and too surreal. Her grip tightens on her uniform, but she doesn’t flinch. "Judges, student body, ominous novelty machine," she starts, her voice steady, despite the discomfort creeping into her chest. "I’ve known most of these folks since pre-K. I love them all." She looks at the group with a forced smile, but her gaze softens when it lands on Constance. "Constance Blackwood—my best friend forever, my BFF!" The words come out with the kind of certainty that only Ocean can muster, a statement of fact. But even as she speaks, she’s aware of Jane Doe sitting beside Constance, her unsettling presence hovering between them like a dark cloud.

Constance opens her mouth to speak, her eyes shifting uneasily toward Jane. "Ocean, she’s—" But Ocean immediately cuts her off, her tone warm and firm. "Don’t interrupt, sweetie!" Ocean exclaims, her smile growing as she turns back to face the group. "Constance is the salt of the earth, Our ‘Mary Main-Street’ looking for her ‘Joe Six-Pack’!" Ocean gestures dramatically, her confidence returning as she plays to the crowd. "Sure, she has some serious self-esteem issues—why wouldn’t she? That’s why I formed an improv duo, as a confidence-building exercise—sound off!" She finishes with an exaggerated flourish, as if the performance itself will somehow make everything easier to bear. But despite the jokes, despite the lighthearted tone, there’s a dark undertow to her words. 

Together, Constance and Ocean stand with their arms raised, grinning wide as they chant in unison, "Unlock the power of the positive! U-POP!" The phrase rolls off their tongues with practiced ease, as if they’ve said it a thousand times before. Ocean’s smile is a little too sharp, a little too forced, but Constance seems genuinely caught up in the moment, her excitement tangible. It’s an absurdly cheerful moment, and for a split second, it almost feels like they’re back in their element, performing for a crowd, playing at being the successful, unstoppable duo they’ve always tried to be.

Constance lets out a short laugh, her eyes bright with the infectious energy of the moment. "We get pretty crazy sometimes!" she says, her voice a little louder, as though trying to push the absurdity into something more familiar, something they can both grasp. She’s trying to keep things light, to keep the atmosphere from cracking under the pressure of everything that’s happening around them. But even she can’t help but glance nervously at Jane Doe, still sitting silently beside her, her unsettling gaze never leaving them.

Ocean immediately catches Constance’s words, her expression shifting from playful to stern in an instant. "Constance Eleanor Blackwood," she starts, her voice laced with mock seriousness, "You know how I find the word crazy offensive!" She says it like an old inside joke, but the edge in her voice is clear. It’s a reminder that even in moments of forced levity, Ocean’s need to control the narrative and the image she projects is never far behind. She’s built her whole life on being the composed, put-together one, and this moment, however small, is a crack in that image.

Constance, clearly aware of how Ocean is reacting, glances at the audience—if there’s even one—and shakes her head, breaking into a small, sheepish smile. "That’s why Ocean scripts our improvs in advance!" she says, her tone light and apologetic. She shrugs slightly, almost as if trying to disarm any tension with humor. The group watches them closely, some amused, others uncomfortable, as the bizarre performance plays out. The words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels like they’re pretending everything’s normal—when nothing, absolutely nothing, feels normal anymore.

Ocean’s voice rises with a practiced confidence as she addresses the group, sweeping her arms wide like a performer commanding the stage. "My time, Constance, my time!" she announces, her tone smooth and self-assured. "Look, I’ve seen enough reality TV to get what you want us to do here. 'Who’s the best?' - sure. Grades, humanitarian efforts, extracurricular activities, prestigious university, spiritual mastery of both Judaism and Catholicism—I nailed my Confirmation and Bat Mitzvah in the same week." She pauses for effect, a slight smirk playing at the edges of her lips. "And I’m not even bragging about that because it is against my Buddhist beliefs. I want no part in it!" Ocean holds her hands out in a gesture of exasperation, as though trying to convince them she’s above it all. Her eyes shift to Constance, as if checking for approval.

The words come tumbling out, faster now, as if she’s determined to prove something, or at least make herself heard. "Look, some of us are left-wing, some of us are right-wing—but last time I checked, it takes two wings to fly!" She spreads her arms wide again, eyes shining with the certainty of someone who believes they’ve cracked the code to life’s greatest questions. "We are community! We are family! We are the world!" She pauses dramatically, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her speech, eyes scanning the room as if she expects applause. But it’s met with only silence, the tension in the air thick and palpable. Karnak’s mechanical hum seems louder now, and Ocean, undeterred, stands a little taller, almost daring anyone to challenge her.

Karnak’s voice cuts through the stillness with cold finality. "Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg heroically concedes," it states, its tone almost mocking in its detachment.

Ocean’s brow furrows as she processes the words. "She does what?" she snaps, her voice sharp, her posture stiffening with indignation. The sudden shift in the atmosphere catches her off guard. She had expected resistance, sure, but this? This was something else entirely. She isn’t used to being dismissed so easily.

Karnak doesn’t offer an explanation, instead responding with unnerving calm. "I respect you taking the moral high ground. Next." The words hang in the air like a challenge, leaving Ocean with a bitter taste in her mouth. She doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or confused. Why is the machine treating this like a game? Why are they all being forced to play by these arbitrary rules?

Ocean tries to steady her breathing, frustration bubbling up within her. "But I was just trying to prove to you that I’m a good person!" she says, her voice faltering slightly, as if the weight of the machine’s judgment is starting to sink in. It feels like she’s failed, like all her carefully constructed arguments are meaningless in this twisted game. She looks around at the group, silently pleading for someone to understand, but no one meets her gaze.

Karnak’s voice is as indifferent as ever. "Duly noted. Next." The words cut through her like a blade, the finality in them leaving her stunned. Ocean’s fists clench, but she forces herself to keep calm, not wanting to give in to the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. The cold finality of the game makes her feel small.

Ocean’s frustration bubbles over as she stands there, her body tense with the weight of the moment. Her hands clench at her sides, her chest rising and falling as she takes a breath, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. The words slip out before she can stop them, the urgency in her voice clear. "No, no!" she protests, her voice wavering slightly, as though trying to convince not just Karnak, but herself. She takes a step forward, her posture sharp and commanding. "I am urging you to make the responsible choice here—for the betterment of humanity!" The last words come out in a strained, almost desperate tone, her gaze hard as she pleads with the machine, her mind racing for any solution.

Ocean straightens her posture, regaining her composure as she steps forward with renewed confidence, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. The frustration that had been bubbling beneath the surface transforms into something else—certainty. This is her moment, and if Karnak wants a display, she’ll give one. Her voice is strong, commanding, as she launches into her declaration. "What the world needs is people like me to keep it all spinning around," she proclaims, her tone filled with the assurance of someone who has spent her whole life at the top. She gestures grandly as she continues, letting her words settle over the group like an undeniable fact. "And no one’s gonna keep me down."

She paces slightly, hands moving with precise, intentional gestures, as if she’s delivering the most important speech of her life. "Okay, it’s clear, I’m the top of this class," she continues, flicking her gaze across the group. "These folks here, well, they pump the gas. Fetch me a coffee, shine my shoes—some of us are winners, some were born to lose!" There’s an unmistakable edge to her voice now, one that borders on arrogance, but beneath it, there’s a deeper fear—an unwillingness to acknowledge any reality where she isn’t the best, where she isn’t the one in control.

Her words take on a sharper, more cutting rhythm as she presses on. "You’ve got the sandwich artist, the security guard, the Walmart greeter with an overdrawn credit card." She lets out a small, almost amused scoff, shaking her head. "He ‘smokes ganja,’ ooh, it’s so groovy, to stay at home and watch another Will Smith movie." The words drip with condescension, the way she spits them out making it clear that in Ocean’s mind, there’s a line drawn between her and them. She’s always been on one side of that line—successful, ambitious, destined for more. And everyone else? They’re the ones left behind.

She turns back to the imaginary crowd she envisions before her, straightening her tie as if solidifying her position above it all. "She serves me Coke and a medium fry, and no thanks, I don’t want it super-sized," she says, her voice laced with disdain. "‘Cause that’s low class—diabetes in a cup." Her arms cross over her chest, her gaze daring anyone to challenge her. "Keep your head down and things will look up." The line hangs in the air, a cruelly optimistic phrase, meant to sound like wisdom but landing more like a dismissal. 

She turns her attention to Mischa, her smirk widening. "Seriously? This one here, he’s raring to fail. He’ll rob a 7/11 and go straight to jail. Maybe steal hubcaps, maybe steal booze—expressing himself with his homemade tattoos." Her words drip with mockery, her gaze fixed on him as if daring him to fight back.

Then, shifting seamlessly, she pivots toward Constance, her tone taking on a syrupy sweetness laced with condescension. "Soccer mom. Mini van. Four little brats, no steady man. Do we really need another organ donor?" She pauses for a moment, then quickly adds with a forced laugh, "Maybe that was a little harsh—love you!"

Finally, she turns to Ricky, lowering her voice into a hushed, almost amused whisper. "Oh, Angry Birds? Candy Crush? He’s a real sweet kid, but his brains are mush. And what’s he gonna do, solve a Rubik’s Cube?" She leans forward slightly, her voice barely audible as she delivers the final blow: "How long’s he got if we feed him through a tube?"

The words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on the group. Ocean stands tall, as if expecting applause, but the tension in the room has thickened, shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

Mischa’s jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides, but he doesn’t take the bait. His glare, sharp and burning, says enough. Ocean’s smirk flickers for half a second—just long enough to betray the smallest sliver of doubt—but she quickly recovers, rolling her eyes as if his reaction was predictable.

Constance visibly shrinks under Ocean’s words, her hands gripping the hem of her skirt as if grounding herself. Her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to say something, but no words come. Instead, she glances down, her face burning with humiliation. Whatever spark of defiance she might have had, Ocean’s words had snuffed it out before it could ignite.

Ricky doesn’t react right away. He blinks, his usual soft, sad expression unchanged. But then, his fingers curl over the wheels of his chair, his grip tightening. His voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper. "That was mean." It’s simple, quiet, but it slices through the tension like a blade.

Ocean doesn’t flinch. Instead, she pushes forward, determined to hammer her point home. "And as we move through life, to find our place in the crowd," she continues, her voice lifting again, spinning the moment back into her control. She steps forward, her expression growing more animated. "Some don’t make the cut, that’s crystal clear." Her words are deliberate, slicing through the charged atmosphere with unsettling certainty.

She spreads her arms wide, as if addressing some invisible judge, her eyes gleaming with conviction. "Isn’t someone keeping score?" she calls out, the mock concern in her tone making it clear she already knows the answer. She lifts her chin, drawing in a sharp breath before driving the point home.

"Do we really need another zero?" She points sharply at Mischa. "Or zero?" Her finger moves to Constance. "Or zero?" She gestures toward Ricky. "Or zero?" She flicks her hand at Noel, her smirk deepening. "Or zero?" Finally, she turns to Jane, eyes locked onto those eerie, black voids, before scoffing and tossing her hands up. She lets each repetition land, each word pounding like a drumbeat. She turns sharply to face the others again, her smile widening into something sharper, something almost cruel.

She snaps her fingers, shaking her head in exaggerated disappointment. "Add ‘em all up, and you’ll still get zero!" The finality in her voice is undeniable, a cutting remark that lingers in the air like a slap. Then, with a grand gesture, she spreads her arms again. "What you really need is a futher-muckin’ hero!" Her voice echoes through the space, her confidence unshaken, her belief in herself absolute.

Ocean doesn’t miss a beat, her confidence unwavering as she turns sharply to Ricky, her voice laced with mock pity. "He’ll never learn to read," she declares, waving a dismissive hand in his direction as if the statement is fact, not up for debate.

Without hesitation, she shifts her gaze to Noel, a smirk playing on her lips. "He’s never gonna breed," she adds, her tone dripping with cruelty, as if reducing his entire existence to a single, unchangeable failure. The words cut through the thick air, the weight of them settling heavily over the group.

She turns next to Mischa, tilting her head slightly as if pretending to consider his fate before delivering the inevitable conclusion. "Going to jail, guaranteed," she states, her certainty chilling. The words land with a finality that leaves no room for argument, another checkmark in her tally of judgments.

As if she hadn’t already gone off on her fellow students she turned toward Jane. "And she’s a freaky monster!" The words reverberate through the warehouse, the collective force of them hitting like a wave, yet Jane remains eerily still, unblinking.

Ocean steps forward, lifting her chin higher. "Yes, there’s a problem. I’m the solution!" she proclaims, her voice swelling with self-importance. "Darwin had a theory called evolution!" She gestures grandly, as if bestowing knowledge upon them, her eyes gleaming with conviction. "He put it into words, but it’s plain to see," she continues, her smirk widening, "we need a little less of them, a little more of me!" The final words echo into the silence, the certainty of her belief hanging over the group like a storm cloud, waiting to break