Chapter 1: The Blood-Red Rules

It was a regular Saturday at the Willowbrook Mall in Jersey—food court packed, parents wrangling toddlers, the whole place humming with summer break energy—when the loudspeaker suddenly blared to life, the sound echoing off every tile and storefront:

"Attention shoppers: Anyone not in the first-floor lobby within three minutes will face immediate death. This is not a drill."

A couple of teens by the Panda Express laughed and started filming, thinking it was just a viral marketing stunt. A few shoppers rolled their eyes. Mothers tugged their kids' hands tighter, but kept moving. A man in a Giants cap scoffed, "Yeah, right," and didn’t even slow down.

But then, exactly three minutes later, bodies started dropping. One after another, people hurled themselves over the railings from the upper floors, landing just feet from me.

Their eyes were glassy, like mannequins tossed from a display window. There was no recognition, no fear—just emptiness as they plummeted.

A sickening thud echoed through the mall with every fall. I caught sight of their faces, hollow and blank, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned them into puppets. It was like they weren’t even alive before they hit the ground.

The entire mall instantly filled with the metallic stench of blood and the shrill, raw sound of screams.

A kid’s Slurpee hit the floor, blue ice spreading under my feet as people started to scream. The air tasted like iron and panic—sharp, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

Staring at the horrifying scene of people falling like rain, I froze. My brain kept telling me this was a prank, some viral video stunt—but the blood splattering my sneakers said otherwise. My mind went blank. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my teeth. I clenched my shopping bag, knuckles white, unable to move.

What was happening?

Just seconds ago, the mall was alive with chatter and music. Now, it was a living hell. Even the top-40 hits that were playing overhead had cut off mid-song, replaced by a suffocating silence broken only by distant shrieks and the wet, awful thuds of bodies.

Except for those of us lucky enough to be on the first floor, almost nobody survived.

I felt like a survivor in a disaster movie—safe for now, but surrounded by wreckage and nowhere to run.

Bodies piled up in grotesque heaps, sending chills down my spine.

I forced myself to look away, bile burning my throat. I pressed my fist against my mouth and tried not to retch. It felt unreal—like I’d stepped into a horror flick, except the stink and the shrieks were all too real.

I whipped out my phone and dialed 911, but there wasn’t even a single bar. No signal, no nothing.

I tried every app, every contact. All I got was a cold, mechanical beep. The little red X in the corner of my phone glared back at me. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Worse, the doors behind us had sealed shut. Heavy steel security gates crashed down, louder than the last call at Macy’s on Black Friday, but twice as final. A few people pounded on them, but they didn’t budge an inch.

The mall was deathly silent, except for the escalators, which kept running, groaning and creaking like an old beast on its last legs.

I drew in a shaky breath. My head spun. Sweat prickled at my brow. Every instinct screamed at me to wake up, that this had to be some sick joke.

I’d just come out for a relaxing Saturday—how did I end up trapped in a nightmare like this?

My canvas tote still dangled from my elbow, receipt from Bath & Body Works peeking out. I’d been laughing at the ridiculous candle scents ten minutes ago. Now it felt like a different life.

Before I could even process, the loudspeaker screeched again—a metallic whine, like feedback at a high school assembly, sending a new wave of panic through the crowd. Everyone looked up, bracing for the next blow.

This time, the rules came.

"Attention shoppers: Welcome to the Blood-Red Mall. Here are the rules. Listen up, because your life depends on it.

Rule One: Nobody leaves this mall without permission. Try it, and you’re dead—no exceptions.

Rule Two: There are thirty stores in this mall. Make a purchase at any store and you’ll get a receipt. Collect four receipts within two hours, or you die.

Rule Three: Every store has its own way of doing things. Each one comes with risks and chances. Be careful.

Rule Four: No repeat purchases at the same store.

Rule Five: Once you’re in line or have a number, don’t leave or change your order midway.

Rule Six: Don’t attack other customers or staff, or you die.

Rule Seven: Don’t spill the store’s secrets to anyone who hasn’t checked out yet—break this rule, and you’re toast.

Rule Eight: After two hours, the exit opens. Only those with four receipts survive."

The robotic voice was all airport cheer, but it was reading out a death sentence. Some people started muttering prayers. Others searched for hidden cameras, desperate to believe it was all just a twisted TV prank.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood. The sting snapped me back. I had to get out alive. I scanned the crowd, searching for anyone with a plan.

Instinctively, I looked up at the scattered, glowing store signs—Starbucks, Claire’s, Jersey Sports. All of them looked suddenly alien, like props in a haunted house.

Following the broadcast’s instructions, I started searching for stores where I could make a purchase.

I stepped carefully, avoiding pools of blood and broken bodies. My mind raced, mapping the layout—bathroom here, exits there, food court that way. What store could possibly be safe?

The message was clear: Break the rules, and you die.

It didn’t matter how insane the rules sounded. The cost of screwing up was written in red all over the floor. My hands trembled as I clutched my useless phone.