Mud from the soles of his shoes stained the floor as Ethan Hale shut the security door and locked it from the inside.
Hidden beneath his raincoat, his fingers dug into his nails. His breathing grew heavy. The media called him the Rainy Night Killer—a name he found deeply satisfying. Cruel. Mad. Drenched in fear.
How should I thank him for taking me in?
His eyes were almost swallowed by bloodshot veins as Ethan stared at Gavin Moore's back. He loved hunting kind people—loved crushing goodness in his hands and grinding it into the dirt.
Anyone this gentle must have grown up in a happy home. Protected by loving parents. A flower raised in a greenhouse—clueless about how vile people can really be.
He didn't remove his hood. Ethan's face twisted as he considered which method would be most enjoyable for tormenting Gavin.
"Hungry?" Gavin set the drug-laced dishes on the table and poured a glass of water. "It's my birthday. I cooked extra—want some cake?"
The cake had been brought by the False Parents. Gavin believed good things should be shared.
"No thanks." Ethan touched nothing—likely afraid of leaving evidence. "Sounds like someone's calling you from the bedroom?"
"My parents are home too." Gavin forced a bitter smile. "They're not in great shape. They stay in the bedroom—can't really move."
"They keep calling you. You sure you don't want to check?" To Ethan, Gavin was already a dead man. "Maybe go say hello to Mom and Dad."
"I'm pretty introverted," Gavin sighed, limping toward the bedroom. "And they're sick. Strange symptoms. They need rest."
Ethan heard it too—the sounds from the bedroom. He followed Gavin to the door. The light warped there, the temperature dropping sharply from the living room.
Gavin gripped the handle, opened the door—and stepped back.
Curious, Ethan peered inside.
The shadows were receding. Half the room glowed faintly; the other half was thick, viscous darkness.
Where light and shadow overlapped, horrifying faces surfaced—twisted bodies knotted together. The monsters masquerading as parents saw Gavin and went berserk, dragging one another as they slammed toward the door.
The sight went beyond comprehension. Ethan felt suffocated. He'd expected two bedridden elders.
He instinctively recoiled—then turned and saw Gavin lifting a heavy vase. He vaguely remembered the man saying he was "introverted."
Crack!
Ceramic shards exploded. Blood streaked Ethan's cheek. The world spun—and as he collapsed, that kind man thoughtfully forced a cup of "water" down his throat.
The entire sequence was seamless—like it had been rehearsed countless times.
"We could've done painless chemical sedation," Gavin said, crouching beside him. "You chose physical. Don't worry—you'll lose consciousness soon. It won't hurt."
Terror flooded Ethan's eyes. He had no idea what Gavin would do next.
His gaze drifted—over a room full of bound "parents"—then back to Gavin's calm face. Horror peaked.
What kind of lunatic is this?
Deception. Control. Conquest. Pleasure. Revenge. Greed. He embodied every hallmark of a deranged serial killer—cold, complex, cunning, dangerous. Even his methods were grotesquely meticulous.
"Why does it feel like you're cursing me with your eyes?" Gavin pressed Ethan down, grabbed his hair, lifted his head, and forced him to look into the bedroom. "Before the drugs kick in, answer me—can you see them in there?"
Ethan was paralyzed with fear. Pain throbbed in his skull; shock crushed his thoughts. The drug began to take hold.
It felt like he'd crossed the Bridge of Forgetting, swallowed half the broth—then been smashed over the head. Half-dead. Half-forgotten.
"Judging by your reaction—you can see them," Gavin said, binding Ethan's limbs. "So I'm not insane. The game really did become reality—by some special means."
The bedroom shadows dissolved rapidly. The False Parents howled as they melted into darkness, as if they never belonged to this world—only slipping through when two realms overlapped.
Gavin felt the temperature rise, his breathing ease. "My game became a medium—linking reality to wherever they came from. After clearing the game, things should return to normal. But if I let it go… will these urban legends keep spreading? Until they fully merge with reality?"
Four-fifths of the bedroom filled with normal light. As the False Parents were compressed and fused, one False Mother suddenly broke free.
Her doting gaze was almost pathological. She dragged all the shadows with her and lunged at Gavin.
Caught off guard, Gavin bolted. Ethan wasn't so lucky.
At the last moment of dissolution, the False Mother dragged Ethan into the shadows. A shrill scream rang out—as if something essential was torn from him.
4:44 a.m.
The bedroom returned to normal. Gavin entered with a mop. The False Parents were gone—as if they'd never existed. The cake and candles vanished too.
Only Ethan lay there—staring blankly.
Soulless. Like a vegetable.
Where the False Mother disappeared, Gavin found two terrifying black-and-white photographs.
"Is this… the reward for clearing the game?"
The photos were old, their material unknown—like relics from decades ago.
One showed Gavin eating cake at the table, surrounded by countless False Parents—as if one man had taken a massive group photo.
Everything in the photo was black and white—the cake, furniture, parents—except Gavin, who was in color.
On the back, crooked childlike handwriting read:
To my beloved child:
At eighteen, you have come of age. From today on, you are the new Caretaker. You now hold the key to the front door.
Our home exists between being and non-being—hidden in the deepest nightmares, brushing against reality's most absurd edge. It is far from you, yet connected to the darkest corners of every heart.
As the Caretaker, you may save every family member and give them equal love—or use them as tools, or even choose more perverse methods of torment.
You have complete freedom. All we ask is simple: let more people play the game after nightfall. The energy they shed can feed certain things spoken of in rumors.
The writing was messy, stained with blood. Uncomfortable to read.
"Caretaker?"
Gavin picked up the second photo. The front showed Ethan's terror-frozen face—like a death portrait. On the back:
Family Photo:
Only those obsessed with reality, those near death, those desperate to die, those trapped in nightmares, the mentally broken, and the deeply sinful can find and enter our home—to become family.
We are the station closest to death. Our existence offers a second choice—other than dying.
However, most who arrive here regret not choosing death outright.