POV: Heather
You’re the only one still by the board.
The room feels too large now, like the silence is pressing in from every corner. Kayla and Emma are still clinging to each other in the kitchen, locked in a slow, wordless tremble. You can see the back of Emma’s leotard, the gentle rise of her tail curling protectively behind Kayla’s thigh. Neither girl moves.
Down the hall, the door to the guest bedroom is cracked just enough to show light. Tyler’s in there somewhere, hiding. You can still hear the wet hiccups of his breathing.
Rick never came back.
You press your palm gently to the table’s edge. The board hums beneath the glass. Not noise—a vibration. Like it's… impatient.
You wonder, briefly, if it will wait.
It doesn’t.
The voice comes like a pressure drop—not a sound, but a shift in gravity.
“You were warned.”
Then the light explodes.
Not in color, but in force. It rushes outward from the center of the board like a shockwave of heatless flame—blinding and silent. You flinch. Your legs tense, heels half-lifting from the floor. You feel the light pass through you, like your breath is pulled out mid-inhale.
When your vision clears—
They’re back.
In a blink, without flash or fanfare, all four of them are exactly where they were when the game began.
Kayla stumbles away from Emma, caught mid-hug. Her arms jerk reflexively around her chest as if to cover the leotard’s bulge. Emma gasps and looks down—her tail twitching sharply at the unexpected distance.
Tyler is back on the couch. Knees curled to his chest, eyes swollen. His chest rises in a sharp, panicked breath like he’d just been dropped from the ceiling.
Rick is standing. Half-buttoned jeans, pale blue cotton waistband just visible. His expression is frozen somewhere between shock and shame, like he was caught mid-thought. His arms are slightly raised, like he meant to reach for something that’s no longer there.
But for a moment—no one speaks.
Then Kayla’s voice cuts through, brittle and dry.
“It brought us back.”
She’s not asking. She’s just trying to understand out loud.
“Even when we weren’t touching it.”
Emma’s eyes dart around the room. “We weren’t even in the same—”
She doesn’t finish.
Heather stares at the floor, at her bare feet on hardwood, heart still hammering.
“I didn’t feel anything. Just—”
She lifts a hand, like motion alone will explain it.
Tyler is the one who breaks it. His voice is low, almost matter-of-fact.
“It moved us like pieces.”
He’s not curled in fear now. He’s watching. Really watching.
Kayla exhales a bitter breath, half-laugh, half shiver.
“Guess hiding’s off the table.”
Emma looks at her, voice quiet.
“It’s not going to let us go, is it?”
No one answers.
The board pulses once.
A deeper red light fills the etching on its surface as it speaks again:
“You will remain present.”
Words carve themselves across the glass—slow, deliberate, golden letters pressed from the inside:
🪬 NEW RULES ENFORCED
• All players must remain within range of the board.
• Cards will now present multiple options.
• If a player fails to choose—all options will be applied.
The light glows brighter with each word.
You swallow hard. The air smells faintly like copper and ozone.
The room holds its breath.
Then—so quietly it almost sounds like someone whispering behind your ear:
“Next player: Rick.”
The name burns crimson across the board’s surface.
Rick doesn’t move.
You look at him. His shoulders are tense. His hands—one clenched, the other twitching at his side—slowly begin to lift, like he’s bracing for a blow he can’t see.
----------------------------
POV: Rick
The dice bounce. Once. Twice.
They land on eight.
The red piece labeled RICK moves on its own. One space after another—slow, inevitable.
When it lands, the tile beneath it doesn’t glow.
It breathes.
A spiral symbol unfurls beneath his token—etched in gold, edged in violet, and pulsing slowly, like a second heartbeat under glass. There’s no sound, but the room feels heavier. Tighter. Like air is being pulled toward the board.
From the center, a single card slides upward. It’s taller than the others, narrower, with a faint shimmer to its edges. Rick doesn’t move to touch it.
The card turns anyway.
Words begin to write themselves across its face in curling gold script.
📜 GATE CARD – The Keys of Ascent
You have reached a gate. To pass, you must trade.
There are nine keys. Each leads closer to the Heart.
Each unlocks something new.
But to take one, you must give something up.
Choose one.
Or remain in place.
Nine mechanical slots open around the edge of the board, radiating out like points on a compass.
From each, a key rises—one by one—spinning slowly in the air just above the board. They hover around Rick’s token, silent and glowing.
There are no names.
No instructions.
Just the shapes.
1. A thin silver key shaped like a feather, trembling slightly as if straining to whisper.
2. A heavy iron key with a shackle for a handle and teeth folded like praying hands.
3. A mirror-finished key that reflects Rick’s face—until it shifts into something else.
4. A smooth black key wrapped in rose-pink ribbon, warm to the air around it.
5. A carved wood key shaped like a blooming vine, a single petal unfurling at the tip.
6. A white porcelain key curved like a corset hook, faintly scented with powder and lavender.
7. A round-edged bronze key shaped like a softened torso, heavy with warmth in the air.
8. A pearl-studded key glowing pink-gold, with a tiny carved door set into its shaft.
9. A bone-white glass key with red light pulsing inside, vibrating softly like it’s holding something back.
They circle Rick’s token slowly—gliding through the air without sound.
The spiral glows beneath his feet.
The card still floats in front of him.
No one speaks.
The board is waiting.
Choose one.
Or choose nothing… and be left behind.
Rick’s eyes flick from key to key. His jaw is tight. Breath shallow.
From somewhere behind him, a voice breaks the silence.
Emma.
Soft.
Unsure.
“You don’t have to pick one.”
She says it like a kindness. Like this is still something you can reason with.
Kayla shifts where she stands, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“He has to.”
Emma turns, startled.
“We don’t know that. Maybe—”
“It doesn’t wait,” Kayla says quietly. “It didn’t wait for me.”
Her voice is firm, but low—controlled in that way you only get when you’re holding back more than words.
“He doesn’t choose, it will.”
Rick doesn’t respond.
But his hands are trembling.
And the keys keep spinning.
Waiting.
Silent.
Insistent.