𝐃𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐀'𝐒 𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐏 ¦| Oяv х м.Яєαɒєя |¦

2🍂 - Main Scenario #1 (2)

"........," 

As the Dokkaebi chuckled, a chilling realization dawned on him.

This scenario wasn't just about survival; it was about conditioning them.

Soon, the fear, the desperation, would turn them against each other.

He glanced around the remaining passengers.

Some huddled together, eyes wild with terror.

Others, fueled by a delusional sense of control, started dialing their phones.

'Calling the police? The news? They wouldn't believe it,' he thought grimly.

He could already picture the news report - a chaotic one, panicked citizens, dismissed as mass hysteria by some authoritative figurehead with a perfectly coiffed hairdo. (Seriously, what kind of apocalypse allows for such perfect hair?)

Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

A woman was holding up her phone, frantically recording the Dokkaebi.

A sick feeling churned in his stomach.

The Dokkaebi wouldn't hesitate to make an example of her.

"[Give me a show, won't you! Entertain my dear constellations! Make it a spectacle they won't soon forget!]" The Dokkaebi's voice boomed through the train car, its amusement laced with a hint of sadistic glee. "[Remember, snacks, failure is never an option. Disappoint me, and things will get... messy. A trigger won't be bad. Now, get to it! Make this interesting!]"

With a final, chilling chuckle, the Dokkaebi vanished in a poof of displaced air.

A thick silence and a lingering sense of dread, were all what was left behind.

[Your Name]'s hand instinctively reached for his backpack, his fingers brushing against the familiar, smooth handle of his pocketknife that he kept around for emergencies.

He knew what he had to do.

It wasn't a choice he wanted to make, but words echoed in his mind: "Kill or be killed."

He wouldn't let himself be another sacrifice, another (H/C)-haired side character doomed for the sake of plot development. (Come on, author, can't you be a little more creative with the character deaths?)

He stole a glance at Claws, peeking nervously out of his backpack with a tiny pincer raised in a surprisingly human-like shrug.

Guilt gnawed at him, but a desperate hope flickered in his eyes.

Claws wouldn't understand. It was a small creature, meant to be a pet (More like fresh meat-), not a sacrifice.

Besides, pretty sure crustaceans weren't considered living beings by the scenario rules. (Right? Right?! This whole thing is a mess, author, get your fictional apocalypse together!)

Claws, as if sensing his internal debate, scuttled closer to the zipper, a single oversized pincer waving emphatically.

'[Your Name],' a tiny voice seemed to whisper in his head (or maybe he's just going crazy. More likely so.), 'don't even think about it. I may be a delicious-looking hermit crab, but I'm your emotional support animal, remember? Besides, who would you talk trash about the author's questionable plot choices with later?'

(WHY THEY BE TALKING SHIT ABOUT ME?!)

A surprised laugh bubbled up in [Your Name]'s throat.

Claws (...?) was right.