Doomsday Wonderland Vol. 12: New Game Launch [Complete]

1415: The Missing Baby

A large flower pot that had once been tucked into a corner of the living room now lay shattered, crushing the area where the deceased's head should have been. It fit snugly against his broad shoulders, mingling fresh blood, brain matter, dark soil, and porcelain shards across the floor.

Upstairs, Ivy's condition was just as grim. A single glance revealed the hopeless finality of the scene: the corpse face down, unshod feet sticking up, socks dusted over with grime.

Leah's voice broke the silence. "How could this happen? It's been less than an hour, and now another person is dead?"

The neighbors, gathered at the door with increasingly grim expressions, shared her dismay. Everyone was present except for Barbeque Brow and Marigold, who was notably absent.

"It's not been an hour. The blood's starting to congeal," Mr. Grant corrected. "He must have died twenty to thirty minutes after we found Ivy."

Elizabeth shut her eyes briefly. It seemed Marigold had acted shortly after her return.

"Hey, Marigold isn't here," someone said.

This reminder stirred a flurry of uneasy glances, forming a silent consensus.

"If it was her... it makes sense," Ms. Chen said, her hand covering her nose. "Didn't she always suspect her husband was out to get her?"

"That's a relief," Jessica said, sighing. Seeing everyone turning to look at her, she quickly added, "No—I mean, it's not a serial killer, thankfully, with two deaths back to back."

"We understand," Mr. Grant said soothingly.

Pink's grandma seemed perplexed, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene. As Elizabeth wondered whether the old woman grasped the gravity of the situation, she suddenly blurted out, "Where's the child?"

The room fell silent. In the commotion, everyone had overlooked the couple's infant son. It took the dazed grandmother's inquiry to remind them.

"Their child, not even a year old," she continued, her voice trailing. "He's my grandson, named Pink..."

Pink tugged on her sleeve from behind her. "Grandma, I'm here. It's Pink."

"Oh, oh," the grandma said, patting his hand.

The neighbors were silent for a moment, the house deathly still. The usual baby noises, often heard, seemed missing for quite a while.

"We should look for the baby," Mr. Grant said. "We can't just leave an infant unattended."

The neighbors, doing their best to ignore the grim scene on the floor, tiptoed around the body and dispersed to search the house. In a small storage room repurposed into a nursery, Elizabeth noticed the telltale signs of Marigold's care—or lack thereof. Dried milk splatters on the mattress, a milk bottle caked with a grimy film, and the baby crib's railing, neurotically stripped of large chunks of paint and wood, scattered debris across the floor—each detail painting a stark picture of a caretaker's deteriorating mental state.

As a pharmacist, Jetson's home was well-equipped. Elizabeth found a portable first-aid kit in the bathroom and shamelessly stuffed all the ointments, alcohol, and bandages into her pocket. While the others were distracted, she closed the bathroom door and opened her character manual.

The number of people who truly believed in her psychic abilities had, predictably, decreased to three.

Those who passed away no longer counted as a target, so even if they believed in her when alive, they were deducted posthumously from her completion progress. Quite disheartening. Elizabeth snapped the manual shut and glanced behind the shower curtain to find it empty. Annoyed, she opened the door.