Page 137
No barriers separate us from the floor below. Just a waist-high iron railing runs around the edge of the gallery, and from here, we can see everything.
A large poker table sits beneath an enormous chandelier, the emerald felt perfectly clean, as an urban bar with chairs sits off to the side next to a fireplace. Most of this is merely ornamental.
Russian Roulette has always been one of the Watchers’ favorites. Not because it’s bloody, but because hope dies slower than people do.
Marcos comes to a stop beside me, all masked up, resting his forearms on the iron railing. “Shit, I was really hoping they wouldn’t pick Russian Roulette this season.”
“So was I.”
Despite Adrian freezing up when he saw me, I know he is more than capable of handling himself. I mean, fuck, he held his own against me outside of Kill Feed. Ok, well, with that said, I was definitely holding back, but still. Here, with Russian Roulette, the situation is different.
Most of Kill Feed’s games reward instinct, awareness, speed, and intelligence. It is all about the ability you possess and whether you can stomach it.
The thought of Adrian standing at that table with the barrel pressed against his temple makes something tighten in my chest. If luck decides today’s outcome…
If the chamber stops on the wrong round and that bullet tears through his skull. There’s nothing I can do.
I despise that feeling. More than that, I hate the fact that I still don’t know how to fix this.
With a mechanical hiss, one of the large doors slides open and pulls the hunters' attention towards the group of players spilling in, eyes wandering over the mix of classic-meets-urban decorations.
Some keep close to the walls. Others instinctively drift into small groups, shoulders brushing as though proximity alone might keep them alive.
Then they look up, realization spreading almost them simultaneously.
A grin pulls at Yara’s lips. “Morning!” she calls cheerfully, giving the room below an enthusiastic wave. A few hunters laugh. Someone whistles. Another cups his hands around his mouth, yelling out, “Don’t look so scared!”
Adrian finally steps through the doorway. Lucas and Amani are so close to his side they may as well be tied together with rope. His gaze sweeps over the room with the same measured calm I’ve come to expect before finally lifting toward the gallery.
My fingers tighten around the railing, letting my gaze flick between the trio searching for Leo. The four of them kept close to each other in the previous game. Now it seems like Leo’s trying to stay as far away as possible.
Adrian keeps his attention pinned on me, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Those green eyes—almost jade beneath the violent glow spilling across the room—lock onto mine with an intensity I haven’t seen before, and it refuses to break even when I’m clearly studying the room instead of him.
For-fuck-sakes. When I finally get him alone, it’s going to take one hell of an explanation to convince him I didn’t orchestrate this.
Another chime echoes through the chamber as a door opposite the players slides open and a person enters. She’s dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, every crease immaculate. A plain black mask conceals her face completely, stripping away any hint of identity. At least for them, that is. Kamala has always enjoyed being part of Selene’s spectacle whilst keeping to the background, giving a whole new meaning to the word wallflower.
She doesn’t acknowledge anyone. The woman simply walks to the center of the room with measured, almost mechanical precision before stopping behind the oversized poker table, folding her hands neatly behind her back.
“Welcome to the third official game. The Watchers have selected: Russian Roulette.” The mechanical voice claims all chirpy. Kamala reaches for the deck of cards and begins to shuffle.
“The rules are simple; each contestant will draw one card. There are only three possible roles. Lamb. Wolf. Or Shepherd.” The cards continue to glide effortlessly between Kamala’s fingers.
“The Kings are Lambs. The Queens are Wolves. All remaining cards are Shepherds. Shepherds reveal themselves immediately and will collectively decide which hidden player reveals their card first. If a revealed player is a Lamb, they must place the revolver against their own head and pull the trigger. If a revealed player is a Wolf, they may choose any contestant at the poker table as their target before pulling the trigger.” A brief pause stretches, and the woman in black’s hands come to a still, gripping tight onto the shuffled deck of cards. “The game continues until half the contestants at the table have been eliminated.”
This is exactly the sort of shit the Watchers eat alive, and judging by the players’ facial expressions, they’re more than disappointed that this game doesn’t require any skill whatsoever.
Even the guy from dinner I watched on the screen has finally shut the fuck up.
Kamala steps around the poker table and one by one, she places each card face down around its edge. Every card lands with the same soft tap against the green felt.
And I pray to the Gods, anyone willing to hear my plea, that Adrian picks up a shepherd card.
“Contestants may now approach the table,” the voice announces, and the players move in an instant, eager to grab their cards.
“Those who are shepherds may reveal themselves and move over to the pool table.”
Without second thought, twenty players turn their cards over, and fucking–hell, fuck me. No, in fact, fuck this game and fuck this place and fuck the card Adrian picked up because it certainly wasn’t a shepherd.
