“Open your eyes Kong --------.” You refused. Your reaction would be suspicious. At all costs, you did not want to seem like a culprit. You had read many of Sherlock Holmes’s cases and you knew that many times evidence was circumstantial and confessions were the real finish. As long as they couldn’t get you to say anything or do anything, you were fine. Amara’s death could not be pinned on you. “-------, why won’t you look at us?” Because they were horrendous clowns waiting to mock your very being.

Their whispers reached you. Every action you made was strange and unusual. They were making accusations and they were going to break the truth out of you. But you were already broken. Images flashed to your head. You were sitting in a jail cell rocking on a bed. Your hair was pulled in stray directions and your clothes were stained with numerous fluids. A guard was coming by to give you the disgusting dinner. With a frantic hope, you jumped off the bed and pounded on the bars. Your arms swiped out at the guard, trying to take his shirt apart. The shrieks you omitted were filled with foul words of hate and crazed desire for freedom. There were curses for never treating you fairly and the pains of never saying goodbye to your family cracked with each word. That was how you would act if you were ever imprisoned again. You were already broken.

With that picture still locked in your head you let out an unearthly cackle and opened your eyes. The Pierróts were surprised by your outburst. With your raw hands, your left dangling and your right throbbing, you pounded on the table. You were completely lost. “I opened my eyes stupid clowns! Where is my knife? It isn’t safe without it! Where did you put it? What have you done with it? It’s mine! Give it back!” You stood up and grabbed one of the interrogators with all the force and fury you could muster. The other officer pulled out a gun from his belt and pointed at you, leaning away with fear, or to lessen the shockwave, but you liked to believe it was fear. You smirked and set the person down before taking a step towards the silver typhoon.

Guns were not your friend. They seemed to hate you and the people around you. You were tired of guns ruling your life. You let out another self pitying laugh. Sarcastic in your movements, you walked right up to the gun. With a gentle look in your eyes you placed the shaking gun right up to your heart. If they were going to end it, better do it fast. “What are you waiting for? Shoot me!” Your voice scared the man even more and he clicked the gun, ready for firing. You stared down the gun with malice. It was not going to win over you. With the hunger in your stomach you you lips and placed them upon the end of the gun. Taking a page from Haruka’s book, you mumbled incoherent words. “Ittadakimasu.”

Was suicide how you begged forgiveness of Amara’s homicide? Latin root- Cide. Definition- killing.

But they wouldn’t grant your wish. You leaned back and pulled the gun higher, to your forehead. The gun was violently vibrating. Why was the man nervous? You were the one that would die. He didn’t want you to die. You were and important suspect, that was your only worth for living. Because you killed Amara. Your hand slinked up over your chest. It traced your curves until it found your throat. With your hands clinched tightly around, you made one last look at the men.

Jaejoong didn’t want you to weakly destroy.

You let out a frustrated cry and knocked the gun away, with your left arm. Before you realized that your arm was moving again you grabbed the overthrown chair and sat down. The officers were struck with bewilderment. “Sit down you ing clowns. I’m sure you’ve dealt with worse.” You sure had.

11:23 am

The meeting was still going on. One person was looking over the results that had just been given in. “Some of the blood remains match with Amara’s. This knife is definitely the murder weapon that killed her. We need to find out how ------- was able to kill her from another country.” Guesses and hypothesizes went around the room, but none of them seemed reasonable. A high ranked agent hung up from their phone call.

“Everyone, it seems Tawako Haruka was hiding more than she had meant to. Let us proceed to watch her interview. It holds some surprising answers that might change the course of this investigation.” He turned and the projector beside him. Haruka’s interrogation was replayed on the screen that descended from the ceiling. Her appearance seemed tired.

“Can I have some coffee? I have jet lag. Come on.” She was ignored while a laptop was placed in front of her. They were waiting for her explanation. What was MidNightmare? “It’s just a game. This is where we play with each other in a fun and imaginative way. It’s worldwide.” Someone was taking down notes.

“Why have we never heard of this game before?”

“I don’t know, it’s not my job to advertise it. The game is just for fun and it is free, so it doesn’t really need to be popular.” They were going to milk her until they got what they wanted.

“How did you meet with the rest of your team?”

“We were randomly placed together. It wasn’t our choice to be in the same group.” Haruka wasn’t lying completely. She was desperately stringing the truth out, trying to make a believable statement about absolutely nothing. Nothing is hard to make up.

They asked the defying question. “How do you play this game?” Haruka was separating all her facts and fantasies to make the game. Really NIGHTMARE was all about living, but there had to be more to please them.

“We are randomly sent a notification to meet up at a certain time. When that time comes we have until midnight to live. We have to face challenges that might cost us our victory. I died my first time playing, it was really hard. We are only allowed to use the things we have. It is hard to play sometimes because there are honesty disputes since this is played online. Sometimes we have to really think, does that person really carry a soccer ball or boxing gloves with them everywhere? Is that person really wearing a rabbit suit? The other teams have trouble believing it as well.”

A man sifted through a file and read over a paper. “We have confirmed that Kim Junsu was sleeping with a soccer ball and Jung Yunho was as well with boxing gloves. Also, Park Yoochun did indeed paint Kim Jaejoong in a rabbit costume. What about any other special things? Knives?”

Haruka narrowed her eyes. “We don’t play with things like that.” One of the men looked at her with knowing eyes.

“Arraso. Then how does this site help with your gaming?” Haruka thought for a moment.

“It gives us cheats for upcoming levels. Secret codes that help when we are in a tight situation and stuff. It is actually useful, most of the time.” They nodded, but they didn’t believe her. From the things they had read, it seemed like a site based on people’s desire to kill each other. They plagued people with horrific stories of their wishes and made it seem like it had really happened. It was really for crazy bastards that needed to find another way to vent their misgivings.

“And what level are you?” Haruka sighed.

“Just a low little 3.” She pulled her wrist up and showed the Roman numeral III. They had noticed the same numbers and each players left arm. It seemed strange to tattoo only the third level on. It would have been more likely for them to get the one hundredth level tattooed on, even if they didn’t want a giant C on their arm.

“So what is coming up for level 4?” Haruka grinned malevolently. It was her desire. Her crazy wish. Her way to vent her misgivings.

“A short elimination round. It only happens to the teams that still have most of their players. Soon, some of us will disappear. You don’t have to look for us, we will be dead.”

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I really enjoy writing this part. I hope to put more revelations in the next few chapters. Most of what Haruka said was a lie, but the last thing was the dead truth. More people are going to die, don't worry, not JJ.

Comments are motivation~♥