“My only plan is to play with you until I get tired, then cut your throat,” he says.
He undulates his head from side to side. I suck in a breath when I realize who I’ve seen do that before.
I examine the corners of his eyes, searching for any telltale clear ooze that could suggest Morrow somehow busted Billy out of containment, but there’s nothing. Nico stares back at me with pure hatred.
He presses the blade hard enough that it stings. My thoughts scatter, leaving nothing but animal panic.
I thrust my free leg up and brace my foot against his shoulder, shoving him back with everything I have as I twist my upper body away from the blade.
The pressure lifts enough for me to get out from under him. I fling myself on top of him before he can recover, raking my nails across his forehead to reopen the gash from the windshield. It’s terrifying how much it bleeds.
“I’m sorry,” I sob.
I scrabble to my feet and put as much distance between us as possible. Behind me, he curses, and I hear the scrape of his boots as he struggles to his feet.
0:19
Nico’s limp has worsened, and he uses one hand to wipe blood from his mouth while he grabs the scalpel from the ground.
0:14
He charges at me but stumbles and catches himself against a column.
0:09
He pushes off the column, his gaze flicking to the timer counting down its final moments.
0:05
He’s limping too much to reach me now. Every step falters, and his leg drags him down.
The timer beeps. Red digital zeroes flash on the screen.
I stand there, unable to do anything but watch blood drip from Nico’s chin onto the broken tiles. My hand goes to my throat. My fingers come away red.
“Trial one is complete,” the Game Master announces, elated. “Subject Two is the winner.”
I haven’t won anything. I wipe the tears spilling down my cheeks with the heel of my hand, then reach for Dad’s dog tags.
I really thought… As much as I wish this were all an act, I’m struggling to find even traces of the Nico I thought I knew in the person in front of me.
Good Nico could have always been an act. Even in the kitchen, he pulled away once things got really heated. Was that because he didn’t want Donny to find me in the morning with a knife buried in my skull?
I didn’t want to believe he was capable of hurting me. Blood trickles slowly from my neck.
One of Benji’s case studies that I read a couple of days ago slams into my head. He monitored a host in the year after his seven-month possession. The host seemed stable until his anger hit a certain threshold. It was like flipping a switch. The host reverted to a state similar to his possession.
Could the beating from Morrow have flipped a switch inside Nico?
“Subject Two, you will now secure Subject One to the tower,” the Game Master instructs. “Put down your scalpels.”
I march back into the middle of the room, righting the overturned table and slamming the scalpel back onto it. Nico drops his onto the floor where he stands.
Of course winning means I have to be the one to string Nico up. God forbid Alan Morrow get off his lazy ass and do it himself.
“Well?” Nico wrenches his hood out from under his leather jacket, pulling it over his head and zipping the jacket all the way up to his chin. His eyes are ablaze with intense rage. “Get it over with.”
I swallow the bile building in my throat. He walks to the pole with measured steps, even moving like Billy, and, when he reaches the base, he faces me.
