Chapter 1: Times Square Trap

It was New Year's Eve, and the rec room buzzed with the smell of cold pizza, the glow of Times Square flickering from the TV, and thirty-four students trying not to look bored. The air was thick with the scent of cardboard pizza boxes and the sugary fizz of Dr Pepper, a half-eaten tray and bottles sweating on the folding tables next to a stack of Solo cups. Gold and silver streamers drooped from the ceiling. Everyone was slouched on beanbags or plastic chairs, the blue light from the TV painting tired faces. Some students scrolled through their phones, pretending not to care, but as the Ball Drop hit its final countdown, even the most jaded kids paused to watch. It was the kind of campus moment that was supposed to feel cozy, but already, the edges felt weird—like everyone was waiting for something to go wrong.

As the crowd on TV began their ten-second countdown, I glanced at my phone, feeling more out of place than festive. My mind drifted to home, to friends who’d made it back to their families, to the kind of New Year’s that didn’t smell like reheated pizza and forced fun. The advisor’s attempt at togetherness only made the homesickness sharper. I tried to focus on the countdown, but the anticipation felt hollow, tinged with a creeping cynicism I couldn’t shake.

Suddenly, a Venmo notification lit up in the class group chat. Someone had tried to microwave the pizza, but the cheese had congealed into rubber. The sound of dozens of phones buzzing at once snapped everyone to attention.

Aubrey was the first to spot it. She grinned, waving her phone. "Yo, who just dropped cash in the group chat? Are we doing Lucky Draw again?" Her words sent a ripple of excitement through the room—these cash drops had become a finals week tradition: someone would randomly send money in the group chat, and everyone would scramble to grab a share. It started as a joke, but now it was serious business.

In less than three seconds, the cash was gone.

Fingers flew across screens, and the room filled with little whoops and groans as balances updated. Even the students who acted above it all couldn’t resist the rush. Someone tossed a half-empty Dr Pepper can in the air and called out, "Drinks on Ms. Rachel next time! Better start with sodas, teach!"

The advisor, Ms. Rachel, smiled and held up her phone. "Guess I have the best luck! I actually snagged fifty-seven bucks." She flashed her screen to the group, her grin making her look almost like a student herself. A mix of claps and playful boos echoed back.

Roommate Natalie piped up, "Not bad, I got twenty-four. That’s pretty good." She twirled a strand of ombre hair, bumping Aubrey with her shoulder, as if to say, See? Luck’s on my side tonight.

Aubrey scowled. "No way, you guys got way too much. Why did I only get fourteen cents?" She shook her phone, her voice cracking in mock outrage. "Fourteen cents? That won’t even buy me a stick of gum!"

The whole room broke out laughing, the kind of laughter that’s real, just for a second. Someone snapped photos. Popcorn flew across the table. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt normal—like everyone was in on a harmless campus meme.

Then, more messages flooded the group chat.

A cascade of pings cut through the laughter, and suddenly, the chat filled with new system notifications. People glanced at each other, confused. The mood snapped from light to tense in an instant.

[The cash drop has been split by all students. The Lucky Draw game officially begins.]

A shiver ran through the group. Several people exchanged wary glances—the message was oddly formal, the kind of thing that didn’t belong in their group chat. The room, moments ago humming with laughter, went dead quiet. Even the TV seemed to dim.

[First round game rules:]

[The luckiest person can do anything they want within the classroom.]

[The unluckiest person, pick your own way to die.]

Phones lit up, faces cast in cold blue. Someone let out a nervous giggle, but no one wanted to be the first to call out the weirdness. My heart thudded as I stared at the screen, the words sinking in like ice water.

Rachel’s face went pale, her voice shaking as she tried to sound in charge. “This isn’t funny, guys. Seriously. Who’s messing around?” She pressed her lips together, but her hands trembled as she clutched her phone. "You know this kind of thing isn’t okay. Not tonight. Not ever."

Marcus, sitting closest to her, was shaking. "Ms. Rachel, it was sent by Lillian Carter." He held up his phone, as if the name alone might explain the impossible. You could almost hear the breath leave the room.

Someone whispered, "Wait, Lillian? But she—she died last week. That’s not possible."

A cold silence fell. In the back, someone muttered a curse. The TV played on, ignored. I tried to laugh it off, but my stomach twisted with anxiety. Last time I saw Lillian’s name pop up, it was in a memorial post. The memory made my skin crawl.