Hour 23

As Sasha placed her phone in her pocket, Emi had been only vaguely aware of what was going on. The next thing she knew, she was enclosed in his tight yet gentle arms, persuading her to recall how she had carried Alex to the endzone in the spelling bee game. Her eyes, barely open, could just make out that his fatigued face was subdued by a profound melancholy that she couldn't quite interpret, but a genuine sorrow deflated his cheeks and infused his voice as he whispered, "Milana... I'm, I'm so sorry." Then, all Emi saw was blackness.

Emi sat up in a luxurious king-sized bed with radiant satin sheets and pillows embroidered with beautiful, glowing artistry. She could feel her weight had returned to normal as it compressed softly in the mattress and her lungs no longer had to struggle against her body mass. A clock ticked away seconds on the elegantly varnished sable nightstand next to her signaling her hearing was back. The room around her was nothing short of lavish; the paint on the walls seemed to gleam on its own, the robust, almost red floorboards shined like porcelain, and the brilliant satin curtains with gold trim sparkled under the comfy light of a crystalline chandelier. She massaged her temples as she tried to take in all this sensory information at once, her mind felt like it was lagging behind her physical body. It paradoxically felt like no time had passed at all since she had been weighed down in the mud, and yet, somehow, that could've been a year ago. She had no way of knowing if this was a normal biological response after all she had been through or some side effect of this supernatural game. She fetched her phone from her pocket and begrudgingly waited for it to ring, for that awful voice to educate her on her new circumstances, but it remained defiantly silent. After a few minutes passed without an obnoxious call, she became suspicious, checking her texts but finding nothing new. She checked her hours and was taken off guard by the fact she had 214, but sensibly verified the most logical explanation was that the man she had shot to protect Sasha had an abundant amount of hours to spare. Wait, Sasha, where was he? She tilted her head absently as she reconciled, "No, hold on, something's wrong here." While she had 214 hours and 38 seconds, for some reason, it wasn't counting down; it was paused in an equivocal stasis. She tried to call the number that had called her last, that evil voice, but it wouldn't go through. She contemplated her next move for a bit before resolving to use her hours while she had the chance to buy a revive, something that would always be useful to have. That left her with 74 hours of valuable currency to manage. Though she wanted to save it, she could feel her pulse in the raw skin of her feet glued to her shoes beat in tandem with the insistent throbbing in her neck. She doubted she had broken anything, but her entire skeletal system creaked with pain, no doubt instilled by the time she had spent twice her weight, so she determined spending 50 hours on a heal was worth her time. It felt satisfying yet strange, her pain feathered away but she could still perceive the give of her blistered skin releasing its pressure on the inside of her shoes and the structure of her bones relaxing. She was confident, though. She had 24 hours left and was ready to overcome any obstacle. Alex had died for her to be here, she'd never forget that and never give up because of it. She bounced off the cloud-like mattress, its richly plush fabric foamy in her hands, and walked around the room. She was relieved to find her and Alex's backpacks on the floor at the end of the bed still containing what supplies they had left. While she had the time, she consolidated everything from his bag into hers. Though it hurt, she decided it was time to move on, one bag would be easier to carry.

Outside the bedroom was an affluent common room furnished with decor polished to perfection as well as a modern kitchen with all the extra accessories one could ask for. As she made her way through the common room to investigate the front door, though, she noticed pictures on the wall. It only took a moment's glance to discern they were all impossible pictures, pictures that didn't actually exist yet were framed right in front of her, displaying still shots of fond memories. One was the time she and her mother had shared her first alcoholic drink, Emi had only been 17, but they were home alone since Alex had been at a friend's house. She thought it strange, her mom didn't drink to her knowledge yet she had broken out with some expensive wine and offered her some. She hadn't pressured her at all, had told her it was fine if she wasn't interested, but sensing some kind of gravity to the offer she had accepted. As they sipped it together, Emi felt her cheeks become toasty, her demeanor lighten slightly. Her mom had revealed that this day, June 1st, was the first date she had gone on with their father 23 years ago. Emi was engrossed as her mother recounted the date, how her father had been so intelligent yet so blind to social cues, how her mother never planned on a second date but had somehow fallen for his unique charm. She had laughed as she poured herself a second glass, admitting she hated wine but drank once a year in honor of their father because he had been somewhat of a connoisseur, his favorite being Shiraz. Emi didn't know much about alcohol, but the time she spent with her mother that night brought them even closer than they already had been, she felt like she had peeled back some of her layers and understood her even more. She progressed through the photos in each frame, reminiscing with all of them, but her touch hovered over the glass of the most recent one. It was a still shot from Alex's 14th birthday, he was holding a plastic case that read in elaborate cursive, "bludgeon dungeon." It had been the project of an indie game developer he had followed for years, a limited edition physical copy she had surprised him with. These pictures had to be here to weaken her, there was no way they were placed here for her benefit, but the final portrait commanded her attention. It was the one of her father, the very same one she greeted every morning and night before bed. At this point, she had become lost in the photos and had no idea how long she had been inspecting them when the sudden chime of the front doorbell broke her trance. She remained motionless at first but approached it cautiously when it activated a second time. As she stationed herself at the Peephole, she saw a man she didn't recognize, one with olive-toned skin, bouncy black hair around his shoulders, and an almost impressively lackadaisical posture with his slack hands sealed in each pocket. It was hard to confirm through the limited visibility of the Peephole, but he appeared to have some kind of blemish on his upper lip, possibly a scar. He waved at the Peephole, but she withheld any acknowledgment, still unable to determine what to make of him. For a second, he appeared annoyed, scratched at his head, then produced his phone and fiddled with it. To her unease, her own phone buzzed in her pocket. She reluctantly brought it out to find that it indicated someone named Rico was calling. She hesitated, then answered, her inflection slick with suspicion, "How do you have my number? Who are you?" Rico said, his body language emerging from lax and embodying cheerful, "Oh, nice, you're finally up!" Emi pressured him, "Who the hell are you?" Rico sighed, "Aw, come on, that's not a nice tone. I just want to talk." Emi responded unamused, "We can talk like this." He pouted," Come on, I want to sit with you." Emi replied, "Sit on the floor." He remarked, "You're no fun," Before his manner shifted, she couldn't explain why, but suddenly, he no longer appeared laid back; suddenly, he reminded her more of Liam than anyone else. He took an apple out of the pocket opposite the one that had housed his phone and unsheathed a machete that had been hidden behind his back. As he used the lower portion of the blade that was coated in many unsavory liquids to skin the apple he commented, "I think we can help each other. I'm sure you've already noticed we're stuck, our hours aren't counting down. Right now, we can't die, but I've also found no way to progress." Emi still didn't trust him, but his words piqued her interest. Rico added as he finished peeling his apple with deadly swiftness, "I was the wild card last round, see this "W"? Emi saw his phone as he presented it happily to the Peephole after sheathing his weapon, but his aura still didn't jive well with her. Rico, growing tired of talking through the door, proposed, "you help me and I'll help you. I have some clues only I could know, being the wild card in the last game." In the back of her mind she knew she had that revive she had just bought, but would she risk it so early? Rico turned around and said, "Fine. I'll be back later when you realize you're stuck here just like me." His voice was one of annoyance, but there was an echo, a hint of desperation. Before Emi had fully committed to the action mentally she was already unlatching the door.