My heart was doing somersaults, and Ryan's grim tone wasn't helping. The more he downplayed the park murder, the more I felt like we were starring in a low-budget Scream sequel. I pressed him for details on the crime scene, but he shut me down faster than a Wi-Fi router during a power outage.
"Jake, you've been through enough this week," Ryan said, sounding like a worried dad. "Take a breather. I'll hit you with updates when we've got something solid."
"No way, man," I shot back, pacing my apartment like a caged tiger. "Westside Park, right? Gimme the exact spot. I'm coming over. This Max Wheeler thing's got my Spidey-sense screaming, and I'm not sitting here twiddling my thumbs!"
Ryan sighed, the kind of sigh you give a kid who insists on touching a hot stove. "Fine, you win. Meet me at the park's main entrance. But don't say I didn't warn you."
I threw on a jacket, grabbed my keys, and hailed a cab faster than you can say "true crime podcast." By the time I reached Westside Park, Ryan was leaning against a lamppost, looking like he'd aged a decade since breakfast. I wasn't exactly Mr. Sunshine either—between Emily, Mike, and now Max, I felt like the universe was using me as a punching bag.
"What's the deal? Another body?" I asked, jogging up to him.
We headed toward the crime scene, Ryan's boots crunching on the gravel path. "Got a call last night," he said, his voice low. "Some small-time hustler bought it. Weird part? The 911 tip came from a burner phone—untraceable. By the time we got here, it was just the body."
"Sounds like a mob hit or something," I said, trying to make sense of it. "Maybe he pissed off the wrong bookie?"
Ryan's face darkened, and he shook his head. "Not that simple. The vic's name was Max Wheeler. And it wasn't a beating—way messier."
My brain screeched to a halt, like a record scratch in a bad DJ set. Max Wheeler. The same Max Wheeler I'd "executed" in the game last night, his tongue yanked out by a demon like it was a sick magic trick. I'd written it off as a creepy coincidence, but now? My skin prickled, and not from the chilly park air.
Ryan noticed my deer-in-headlights look. "Yo, Jake, you okay? You're white as a ghost—ironic, given the circumstances."
I couldn't spill the whole game-killing-people theory yet—it sounded crazier than a conspiracy theorist's Reddit thread. "Just… take me to the body," I said, my voice shakier than a Jenga tower.
We reached the crime scene, cordoned off with yellow tape like a low-rent movie set. Cops were milling about, snapping photos and bagging evidence. I steeled myself and peered at the body sprawled on the grass. My stomach did a backflip. Max's face was frozen in a scream, his bloodshot eyes bulging, his tongue—holy hell, it was half-severed, dangling like a horror prop. Just like in the game.
I gagged, stumbling back. Ryan grabbed my arm, pulling me to a bench. "Told you not to come, man. You're gonna need a barf bag and a therapist after this."
I sat, my hands trembling like I'd just chugged a Red Bull on an empty stomach. "Ryan, this isn't normal. The way he died—it's exactly like the game. Same marks, same… tongue thing. And it's not just him. Emily, Mike—they all played it, and now they're gone."
Ryan's jaw tightened, but he kept his cool. "I get it's weird, but we checked. Max had no connection to Emily or Mike. No mutual friends, no shared apps, nothing. It's gotta be a coincidence."
"Coincidence my ass!" I snapped, my voice cracking. I took a deep breath, trying not to lose it. "Listen, Ryan, you're my best shot here. Last night, I played the game to find clues. It made me 'kill' a guy named Max Wheeler—same death, same time you got the 911 call. I texted you about it at 12:40 a.m., right?"
Ryan's eyes narrowed. He pulled out his phone, scrolling to my message. His face went slack. "12:40… that's when the call came in. I was too slammed to reply." He looked at me, his skepticism cracking. "Jake, you're saying the game did this?"
"I don't know how, but yeah," I said, gripping his sleeve. "I was home, playing, trying to crack this thing open. I thought it was just code, but now? It's like the game's a freaking murder app, and I'm its beta tester."
Ryan stood, pacing like he was auditioning for Law & Order. "Alright, let's say I buy this—and I'm not saying I do. Where were you last night, exactly?"
"Home, glued to my laptop, fighting virtual demons," I said. "Check my router logs if you want. I didn't leave my apartment."
He rubbed his chin, then nodded. "Okay, here's the plan. You go home, lay low. I'll swing by tonight with the case files—Emily's, Mike's, and Max's. You show me this game, and we'll tear it apart. I've got techs digging into the developer already. If this is some sick coder's idea of fun, we'll nail 'em."
I nodded, feeling a flicker of hope. "One more thing—bring Lila if you can. She's been through it with the game. Maybe she's got insights we missed."
"Deal," Ryan said. "I'll wrap up here and meet you later."
I left the park, the sky heavy like it was about to drop a cosmic anvil on my head. The case was spiraling, and I was stuck in the eye of the storm. As I passed the park entrance, the usual vendors were out—balloon guys, cotton candy carts, the works. But with the murder scene on lockdown, the place was quieter than a library during finals.
Then, a raspy voice caught my ear: "Karma's a real jerk, kid. Buy a flower, keep the bad mojo at bay."
I froze. That wasn't your typical vendor pitch. I glanced at the flower stall and did a double-take. It was the same old lady I'd bumped into downtown last week—gray hair, hunched back, eyes sharper than a hawk's. She was clutching a bouquet of wilting roses, grinning like she knew something I didn't.
"Uh, you talking to me?" I asked, stepping closer. Her stall was decked out with creepy trinkets—skull-shaped beads, black candles, the kind of stuff you'd find in a witch's Etsy shop.
She cackled, her voice like gravel in a blender. "You're knee-deep in trouble, boy. I can smell it. That game you're tangled in? It's got claws, and it's hungry."
My jaw dropped. "How do you—wait, what do you know about the game?"
She leaned in, her breath smelling like menthol and mystery. "Buy a flower, and maybe I'll tell you. But careful, kid—play with Hell, and Hell plays back."
I fumbled for my wallet, my mind racing. Was this lady a psychic, a con artist, or something worse? Either way, she knew too much, and I wasn't leaving without answers.
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