Mike wheeled the gurney closer, its wheels squealing like dying rats. The shriveled corpses shifted under a stained sheet.
"Don't hate me," he muttered, not meeting Holmes' eyes. "We're all just trying to survive this meat grinder."
Holmes watched him heave a child-sized bundle onto the cart. "Yet here you are. Alive. How?"
The question hung heavy. Mike was male. The Hungry Widow devoured men. So why spare a corpse-hauler?
Mike froze. For a second, his knuckles whitened on the gurney's handle. Then—a too-casual shrug. "First week here, I woke up sharing her bed. You think I had a playbook?" He laughed, sharp and hollow. "Pure dumb luck."
Holmes' gaze didn't waver. "Luck doesn't last three months in hell."
"It does when you're useful." Mike yanked the sheet over a protruding arm. "She hates touching the… leftovers."
Bullshit. Holmes saw it now—the tremor in Mike's hands. The way his eyes darted toward a padlocked door down the hall. He knew something. Something that kept his guts inside his body.
Mike caught the scrutiny. "Stop looking at me like I've got answers." He shoved the gurney forward. "Surviving her? There's no trick. Just… don't be interesting. Don't be tasty."
Holmes frowned. "you have Dumb luck?"
Mike grinned, weirdly proud. "Yeah. Got the worst Talent grade: D-class. Called 'A Special Gift'."
He leaned closer. "Guys to guys? You get what kind of 'gift' that means." He tapped his hip. "Totally useless for fighting here. But..." His pride showed. "Turns out I'm a rare specimen. Seriously record-breaking material."
He pointed a thumb towards the room. "She upstairs decided sucking me dry would waste a... novelty act. Gave me this shit job instead." He gestured at the corpse cart. "Hauling her leftovers beats being one."
Holmes was silent. Surviving because of that? This game's Talents were wild.
"You're weirdly calm," Mike noted. "Most guys piss themselves by now."
Holmes shrugged. "Screaming doesn't help. Dying here just sends you to another nightmare. I barely started this one. Nothing to lose."
Mike chuckled. "Damn, ice cold. Okay, when you pop, I'll toss you somewhere nicer." He sounded almost respectful.
Holmes ignored him, eyes fixed on the creepy tools laid out on a metal table. "What about those?"
Mike glanced over. "Her toys. For when she wants to 'play'." His voice darkened. "Trust me, her idea of fun? Soul-destroying." The items spoke for themselves: leather straps, chains, needles... then the nastier stuff: spiked knuckles, a stun baton. Just looking made you feel sick.
But Holmes didn't look sick. He looked intensely interested. "Used?"
"Very," Mike said, pointing at wet stains. "Fresh off the last victims."
Mike blinked as Holmes, chains rattling, walked right up to the table and started picking up the tools.
"What are you doing?" Mike demanded.
"Checking them out," Holmes said calmly.
Mike coughed in disbelief. Holmes turned each item over, fingers tracing surfaces, examining details closely. Then Mike saw it – a flash of pure excitement on Holmes's face. Actual excitement.
Mike stared. Then shook his head, grinning despite himself. "Jesus. Thought she was the sicko." He pointed at Holmes intently studying a spiked gag. "You just became contender number one."
Inside Holmes's mind, excitement surged. Touching those twisted tools had triggered his talent: [Omniscient Perception]. Hidden information about the Lust Specter flooded his thoughts. Secrets mean there must be another way to survive this! As he rapidly processed the data, his expression shifted dramatically—part grim understanding, part reckless hope.
The door at the end of the hall swung open far too soon.
"Already?!" Mike stammered, barely five minutes having passed. He dropped the half-loaded corpse and scrambled towards the door.
Just as he arrived, a withered figure was tossed out onto the concrete. Center-Part. Skin stretched taut over bone, gaunt and wrinkled, yet horrifyingly alive. A dry, rasping whisper escaped his lips: "No more... please... nothing left..."
From the blackness within, the Lust Specter's voice trembled, thick with insatiable need: "Not enough. MORE. Bring me MORE sustenance!"
Mike's blood ran cold. Six players? Six drained dry, and she's even hungrier?! His panicked gaze shot to the corner, locking onto the last remaining player: Holmes. Cold dread washed over Mike himself. Is her hunger turning on me next? Am I on the menu now?!
Before Mike could process the terrifying thought, Holmes strode past him, chains rattling. He stopped at the gaping doorway.
"Send me in."
Mike blinked. "Volunteering? Are you suicidal? Saw what she did to him!" He nudged the husk at his feet. "He was built. You? Skin and bones. What crazy confidence is this?"
Holmes didn't hesitate. "He failed. Clearly, his equipment was lacking." [Omniscient Perception] had revealed far more than Mike knew.
Mike flushed crimson. "Thirteen inches proves it met every damn specification!" His survival-identity was insulted.
Holmes offered no rebuttal. He simply stepped into the suffocating darkness and pushed the door shut behind him with a heavy THUD. His gamble had begun.
Inside Room 101
Holmes scanned the dim room. Gruesome "toys" littered the floor – bloodstained ice picks, hammers, enough to make it look like a slaughterhouse. Before he could react, a powerful force slammed him down.
A sickly-sweet smell filled his nose as a beautiful, cruel face appeared above him, radiating disgust.
"Mike scrapes the barrel now?" She traced a finger down his chest, sharp nails pricking his skin. "Such poor quality."
[OMNISCIENT PERCEPTION ACTIVATED]: Lust Specter. Feeds on male vitality. Absorbs essence to enhance power & beauty. Men = maintenance.
WARNING: Target is currently in a state of extreme, unfulfilled desire. Survival = breaking her frenzy. Strategy?
Holmes internally groaned. Since when did this F-grade talent get snarky?
Her nails dug deeper. "No suitable offerings? Send Mike in. Wasteful to finish my favorite reserve, but needs must..." Her sigh held mock regret.
Outside, Mike paled. She means ME! I'm next! His world tilted.
Holmes spoke calmly, one hand hidden. "Try me first. You might be surprised."
The Specter's gaze dropped instinctively. "You? Where is this 'great treasure' you claim?"
"Wrong direction." Holmes met her eyes. "It's up here."
As her eyes flicked upward, Holmes swung the hammer concealed behind his back. It smashed full force into her flawless face.
Holmes didn't pause. He wrenched the hammer free and brought it down again. And again. A rhythmic, sickening THUD-CRUNCH-THUD filled the room. Blood slicked the floor within moments. It looked like a psychopath butchering an innocent girl.
After twenty brutal strikes, Holmes stopped, panting. Warm blood dripped from the hammer. His right arm screamed, numb and aching. He watched the fallen Specter, tense. Not hoping she was dead – his crude tools couldn't harm a Specter permanently. The damage was superficial.
Dense white steam billowed from the horrific ruin of her face. The Lust Specter rose. Her shattered skull knitted itself before his eyes. She touched her newly healed cheek, a strange, glittering look in her eyes.
"That was your treasure?" Her voice was low.
Holmes nodded firmly. "Yes."
"Impression?"
She traced the fading injury, steam still whispering from it. "Strange. Unanticipated... stimulation." A slow smile curved her lips. "But... insufficient."
Before she finished, Holmes swung the hammer again, smashing her sideways. He lunged for the chainsaw on the table, yanked the cord. As the engine snarled to life, he leaped onto her, driving the roaring blade down.
*VVRRRRRRRRRRRRR—RRRRIPPPPPP—SCREECH*
The chainsaw's roar tearing through flesh created a horrifying symphony. Holmes showed no mercy.
His talent's revelation was key: This Lust Specter had a deep, repressed craving to be the one abused. Pain wasn't agony for her; it was euphoria, fueling a pleasure nothing else could satisfy.
Centuries of tormenting others had dulled her senses, leaving her perpetually hollow.
Holmes reversing roles… unlocked something new. It was a colossal gamble. But seeing her blood-drenched face flushed with ecstasy beneath the chainsaw's spray, Holmes knew:
He'd won.