Chapter 2: Rigged Choices, Bloody Repeats

On my fifth rebirth, it finally clicked.

This wasn’t a simple choice game, but a carefully constructed death trap. Like a rigged carnival booth, every move led to the same ending.

Carl Mason and his father were repeat offenders. They preyed on people’s kindness, twisting every action to suit their trap.

Help, and you’re "stupid"—you deserve to die.

Don’t help, and you’re "selfish"—also deserve to die.

Once you step into the trap, there are no real choices—only ways to get killed. The rules were rigged, and I was the mark.

But this time, I noticed details I’d missed before.

The old man always fell in a blind spot—no security cameras. Carl Mason’s timing was too precise. And those chat comments...

I took out my phone, started recording, and walked over to the old man.

"Do you need help?"

I kept my distance. My voice was steady, but every muscle was coiled tight.

He looked stunned, clearly not expecting this reaction. His eyes darted around, searching for his son.

He mumbled about his leg hurting, asking me to help him home.

"Where’s your home? I can call you an ambulance."

I raised my voice on purpose—wanted the recording to catch everything. My phone’s red light blinked, a silent witness.

"No! Just give me money!"

The old man’s face changed instantly. His tone shifted from pitiful to aggressive in a heartbeat.

The chat started spoiling the plot:

[He’s about to pull a knife!]

[There’s a blade in the old man’s pocket!]

I was ready—jumped back into the middle of the street. My sneakers squeaked on the asphalt.

"Everyone look! This old man’s running a scam!"

My shout drew a few late-night passersby. I saw curiosity—and suspicion—in their faces.

Carl Mason rushed out from the shadows, but stopped short when he saw witnesses. He glared at me, making a throat-slitting gesture. I felt a chill run down my spine.

The chat went wild:

[Damn, first time he’s lasted more than five minutes!]

[But...]

Police sirens wailed in the distance. I let out a long breath. My shoulders slumped. Hope flickered.

Maybe this time...

"Watch out!"

Suddenly, a woman screamed. Her voice was sharp—sliced right through the tension.

I turned, confused, just in time to see a motorcycle charging straight at me. The rider wore a full helmet, but that build—I recognized Carl Mason instantly, with a knife in his hand.

At the last second, I dove for the curb, but still got clipped and thrown to the ground. My shoulder slammed into the concrete, pain blooming like fire.

The motorcycle sped away. My left arm was pouring blood—hot and sticky down my sleeve.

"Are you okay?" The crowd gathered around. Their faces blurred, voices distant.

"Quick... catch them..."

I managed weakly, my consciousness fading.

The chat floated by:

[So close, almost cleared it.]

[But hey, new plot unlocked.]

In the white light, I could faintly hear sirens. And screams.

Maybe next time...