Flicker: The Game Of Chance [Legacy]

Prologue

The Game of Chance.

The name suggests something innocuous—an amusement park attraction, perhaps, a cheap thrill. But that couldn't be further from the truth. It wasn’t a game. It was a nightmare, one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even my worst enemy.

Imagine a fate worse than death—a brutal contest where survival meant playing against your morality. Where suspicion festered among strangers. Where trust was a gamble you couldn’t afford. That’s the reality I lived in. That’s what haunts me, even now, four years later.

We were forced into it—dragged into a grotesque game, pitted against each other by forces that took pleasure in our fear and suffering. Thinking about it now makes me feel sick.

The weight of what we were made to do... the innocent lives lost... I still find it hard to face. The urge to purge those memories, to rid myself of the guilt... it’s overwhelming at times.

They told us—"the survivors"—that we shouldn't talk about it. Secrecy, they said, was for our protection. But I’ve got to let it out somehow, and words on a page are all I have.

It’s funny, isn’t it?

You can despise reading, hate writing, but when there’s no one left to confide in, a blank sheet of paper might be the only salvation.

Salvation. The irony of it doesn’t escape me. That was my role in the game.

Savior.

It wasn’t a title I ever asked for, but one that was thrust upon me. My task was to perform occult rites to bring back one person—a single person—from the dead. But only once. Any more, and I would meet the same fate as those I tried to save. That's what the paper in my hand told me when I first stepped into the nightmare.

We each received one—a slip of paper that named our role, outlining who we were supposed to be in this twisted game. And we were told to guard that information with our lives. The roles were too important, too easily weaponized. Reveal them, and you might as well be offering your throat to the killer. Especially if you were something crucial—like the detective. Once identified, they became a target, a liability. I understood that immediately.

But not everyone did. Some were too eager, too desperate to believe that sharing their roles would save them.

Fools, they were. The real survivors—the smart ones—kept their mouths shut, just like I did.

The game itself was deceptively simple. Two sides: Good and Evil. The Good Side, led by the detective, and the Evil Side, led by the murderer. Sixteen of us were divided among these teams, forced to hunt each other down. The trick? None of us knew which side the others were on. Even the murderer could accidentally eliminate an ally; it was chaos by design.

Why? What was the purpose of all this?

Entertainment, at least that's what we were told. But... in reality, it wasn’t that simple. There was something deeper, something more, lurking beneath the surface, though I’ll get to that in due time.

The puppet master—the mastermind—claimed to do it all for fun. To watch us squirm, to see us tear each other apart for their amusement.

By the end of the first night, any illusions we had about survival and companionship were shattered. In a game like this, emotion is a weakness. Logic is the only thing that can keep you alive. Cold, hard reasoning. But logic was in short supply.

I learned quickly not to trust anyone. Trust was a luxury none of us could afford. I spoke only when necessary, keeping my thoughts to myself. Anything more and I’d become a suspect. Or worse. The tension was palpable, paranoia suffocating.

We were trapped, sealed inside with no way out. Every possible escape route was blocked—reinforced doors, unbreakable windows, air ducts too small for anyone to squeeze through. No cell service. No contact with the outside world. Just us, and the bloodstained walls closing in.

Each of us had a journal, a personal account meant to be discovered only after death. It was meant to be a last breadcrumb, a final revelation to those left behind. But even then, most of what we wrote was steeped in lies or half-truths. In the end, the journals only added to the confusion.

What else...? Each of us had a 'unique participant identifier,' too... but if you were to ask me the significance of it, I still wouldn't know. Thinking back on it now, it was probably most likely used as some sort of codename.

We had supplies—food, medicine, shelter. Enough to last us a couple of months, but I never cared about any of it. I focused on survival, on keeping my head down and my mind sharp. No one could deceive me, no one could manipulate me. That’s why I’m still here. I kept my distance. I didn’t form bonds. I didn’t make friends.

But... I didn’t always hold true to that.

There was a moment—just one—when I let my guard down. And that single moment... led to the next, when I stopped being "Veronica."

But that story... that will come later.

For now, we start at the beginning.