Mike's death hit me like a rogue wave at a beach party. Two people I cared about, Emily and Mike, were now colder than a popsicle in a deep freezer, and I was stuck in the middle of a nightmare that felt like Stranger Things meets Final Destination. Detective Ryan Carter was as baffled as a cat watching a Roomba, but he wasn't giving up. Neither was I. That USB game was the key to this madness, and I was done running from it.
Ryan stayed at my place until dawn, both of us too wired to sleep. The birthday cake from "Emily" sat on the table, mocking me with its blood-red frosting. I couldn't shake the image of Mike's panic-stricken face, screaming about Emily's ghost, or the fact that he'd been strangled just hours after playing that cursed game. My gut told me the answers were in the code—because if there's one thing I'm good at, it's sniffing out bugs in software, and this game was buggier than a roach motel.
"Ryan, I'm cracking open that USB," I said, booting up my laptop. "This game's gotta have something—logs, data, anything that explains why people are dropping like flies."
Ryan raised an eyebrow, sipping coffee that smelled like it'd been brewed in a gym sock. "You sure that's a good idea, Jake? Last guy who played it ended up with a necktie he didn't ask for."
"Yeah, well, I'm not planning to join the choke-a-lad club," I shot back, trying to sound braver than I felt. "Besides, I'm a coder. If this thing's got secrets, I'll find 'em faster than you can say 'blue screen of death.'"
I plugged in the USB, and the game's hellish interface flared to life. The same blood-red text taunted me: "How Deep Can You Plunge Into Hell?" The graphics were disturbingly lifelike—flames licking at the edges, shadowy figures writhing in the background like they were auditioning for a zombie flash mob. I skipped the intro (thankfully, it let me this time) and dove into the game's files, my fingers flying over the keyboard.
Ryan peered over my shoulder, looking as out of place as a nun at a rave. "So, what's the plan? You gonna hack this thing like you're in The Matrix?"
"Something like that," I muttered, pulling up the game's source code. It was a mess—encrypted in parts, written in a mix of Python and some obscure language I'd never seen. "This isn't your average indie game. Whoever built this had serious skills… and a serious grudge."
As I dug deeper, I found a hidden log file buried in a subdirectory labeled "Inferno." It tracked every user who'd played the game, complete with timestamps and device IDs. My stomach churned as I saw Emily's name, logged the day she died, followed by Mike's, just hours before his death. But there was a third entry—a device ID I didn't recognize, active right now.
"Ryan, someone else is playing this game," I said, my voice tight. "Like, right this second."
He leaned in, his coffee breath assaulting my senses. "Can you track it? Find out who it is?"
"I'm trying," I said, running a trace on the ID. The game's network traffic was routed through a maze of proxy servers—someone was covering their tracks like a pro. But I wasn't a slouch either. After a few minutes of digital sleuthing, I pinned the signal to a location: an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, about ten miles away.
Ryan's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. "That's our lead. Let's roll."
"Whoa, hold up, Starsky," I said, throwing my hands up. "You're telling me we're gonna storm a creepy warehouse because of a game ping? What if it's just some hacker kid eating Hot Pockets in his mom's basement?"
"Then we'll ask for a snack," Ryan quipped, grabbing his jacket. "But if this game's killing people, we need to shut it down before it picks its next contestant. You in or you out?"
I hesitated, glancing at the USB. Emily's voice echoed in my head: "I'll be waiting for you… in Hell." If this was my shot to find her killer—or whatever was using her name to torment me—I couldn't back down. "Fine. But if we die, I'm haunting you first."
The warehouse was straight out of a horror flick: rusted walls, broken windows, and an eerie silence that screamed "bad idea." Ryan had his gun drawn, looking like he was ready to star in Die Hard 6. I clutched a flashlight and my laptop, feeling about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint smell of burnt electronics. We crept through the shadows, following the signal on my laptop. The game's network activity was spiking, like it was gearing up for something big. My heart pounded louder than a bass drop at a rave.
"Over there," I whispered, pointing to a flickering light in the corner. We approached a makeshift setup: a server rack humming with activity, connected to a monitor displaying the game's hellish interface. The red text pulsed: "Welcome, Player 3. Ready to Descend?"
Ryan nudged me. "That's the active player, right? Who the hell's playing in this dump?"
Before I could answer, the monitor flickered, and a new message appeared: "Jake, You Found Me. Let's Play." My blood froze. The screen shifted to a live feed—of me and Ryan, standing right there, captured by a hidden camera.
"Son of a—" Ryan started, but I cut him off, my eyes glued to the screen. A figure appeared in the game's background—a ghostly silhouette that looked disturbingly like Emily, her eyes hollow, her smile cold. The text changed: "Finish the Game, Jake. Or Join Us."
I stumbled back, my laptop nearly slipping from my hands. "Ryan, this isn't just a game. It's… it's targeting me."
He scanned the room, gun raised. "Stay sharp. Someone's watching us, and I'm betting they're not just streaming this on Twitch."
I forced myself to focus, plugging my laptop into the server to dig deeper. The game's code was a labyrinth, but I found a backdoor—a hidden function that triggered when a player reached the "final level." It wasn't a victory screen. It was a kill switch, designed to send a signal to an external device. My guess? Something that caused the strangulation marks on Emily and Mike.
"Ryan, this game's rigged," I said, my voice shaking. "It's not about winning—it's about dying. Whoever's behind this is using it to pick off players."
Before he could respond, the server sparked, and the monitor blared a new message: "Time's Up, Jake. Hell Awaits." The warehouse lights flickered, and a low hum filled the air, like a machine waking up. Somewhere in the shadows, metal clanked, and footsteps echoed.
Ryan grabbed my arm. "We're not alone. Move!"
As we bolted for the exit, my mind raced. The game wasn't just software—it was a murder weapon, and I'd just walked straight into its trap. Emily's ghost, the cake, Mike's death—it was all part of a sick plan. But whose? And why me?
The footsteps grew closer, and I realized one thing: if I wanted to survive, I had to beat the game at its own twisted rules.