Chronicles of Noirhaven

The water ran warm over my hands—over the dried blood caked beneath my fingernails, the red that wasn't mine, and maybe some that was. The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that only came after a death, or maybe after a storm had passed and left nothing standing.

I scrubbed harder.

Behind me, the lights buzzed faintly. The refrigerator hummed, out of place in a world that didn't feel real anymore. This wasn't a house. This wasn't a game. This was a battlefield dressed in domestic disguise.

I dried my hands with a towel and leaned against the counter.

She sat nearby, cross-legged on the floor, inspecting a tear on her sleeve. Her eyes were distant, but her breathing had finally steadied.

"So," I said calmly, "what did you mean earlier by two lives left?"

She didn't look at me at first. Then, after a beat, she responded, "I'm a Survivor."

Her voice was low—matter-of-fact, like it wasn't something she enjoyed saying.

"My card… lets me survive a fatal encounter three times. First attack? I survive. Second? Still survive. Third? Same. But after that…" She trailed off, brushing her fingers across her ribs where a bruise bloomed.

"You become just like the rest of us," I said.

She nodded. "Breakable. Vulnerable. Killable."

I crossed my arms. "So now you've got one safety net left."

"Yeah," she said. "One more shield, then I'm done."

I studied her for a second. Even after everything, there was a fire in her eyes. Faint, but still there.

"Then we can't let it come to that," I said. "We need to gather allies—what's left of them. I think this game's ending sooner than anyone realizes. The rounds are accelerating. The numbers are dropping fast."

She tilted her head. "You think the Mafia's growing desperate?"

I shook my head. "No. I think they're getting careful. They're not hunting blindly anymore. They're targeting. Eliminating. And if I'm right…" I paused, letting the words linger. "They're after one person. One role."

Her brows furrowed.

I said. "The Proxy"

I looked away and pretended to think about it—just long enough to hide the truth written in my pulse.

"I don't know much," I said. "But if the Mafia's backing off from killing randomly… it means the Proxy terrifies them."

I could feel her watching me. Studying me. Maybe trying to decide if she believed me or not.

"Then we better hope that person doesn't screw up," she said.

I gave a small nod. "Yeah. Let's hope."

It was quiet again for a while. The fridge clicked off. The hum died.

I turned around to ask her something else—only to find her slumped on the floor, her back resting against the side of a cabinet. Arms wrapped around her knees. Head tilted down.

Asleep.

On a goddamn shoe rack.

I sighed softly.

I stepped over and crouched beside her. For a second, I debated letting her rest there. She looked peaceful. At least more peaceful than anyone deserved in this place.

But then I noticed the way her hands twitched in her sleep. Like she was still fighting. Even in her dreams.

"Really?" I muttered. "Out cold in a hallway like this?"

She didn't respond. Just a slow, steady exhale.

I slipped an arm behind her shoulders and another under her knees, lifting her with more ease than expected. She was light—lighter than she looked when she carried all that fight and fire. Like all the weight she carried was invisible, buried somewhere behind her sharp tongue and tired gaze.

I carried her through the spare room next to mine. It was dark, but quiet. I lay her gently on the bed and pulled a blanket over her.

She stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent.

I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and whispered, "You're too careless for your own good."

I stood.

And for a long second… I just looked at her.

So many of us had broken already. But somehow, she was still holding on.

Maybe that was what made her dangerous. Not the role. Not the life count.

But the refusal to die on anyone else's terms.

As I turned off the light and closed the door behind me, I couldn't help but wonder—

If I had three extra lives…

Would I still fight the same?

Would I still play fair?

I didn't know.

Morning came with blood.

The announcer's voice buzzed through the overhead speakers—mechanical, casual, like it hadn't just declared death.

"Two have died. Luther Hale, the Soldier… and Reyna Solace, the Biloquist."

A suffocating silence followed.

We sat around the long table like fractured dolls in a broken diorama. Eleven of us left.

Just eleven.

I didn't flinch.

But in my peripheral vision—I caught it. A twitch of a smile. A grin that flickered and died as quickly as it appeared.

Confirmation.

That subtle signal told me more than words. They thought they were winning. That meant they believed the Soldier was a real threat—meaning his death was intentional. Not random.

That also meant the Biloquist—the crazy girl—was expendable.

I stood slowly. My voice, cold. Dominant. I let it carry through the air like a scalpel through silk.

"We need to vote Selene Montgomery now. If we don't, tonight will be the end for most of us."

Some shifted uncomfortably. Some stared. Some… didn't even react.

Of course.

The Mafia wouldn't flinch. They'd already rehearsed this in their heads.

But the civilians—scattered, paranoid, desperate—they were the ones I needed to move.

I walked to the center of the room and faced them all.

"I know half of you are already against me. But if we don't remove Selene right now, we lose the ability to control tomorrow's vote. One vote. One card. That's all it takes."

Silence.

They wouldn't believe me.

So I had to show them.

Eleven left.

That number swirled in my head like pieces of a puzzle I'd already seen the solution to. You just had to turn them the right way.

Let's break this down logically:

Confirmed or suspected Civilian roles:

Me — Proxy. Hidden.

Noel Strand — Gangster. Most likely civilian team. His fear response isn't fake—genuine survival instinct. Could be manipulated, but not lying.

Kara Fens — Fiend. Already revealed. Dangerous to both sides if pushed too far.

Rin Aclaire — Prestidigitator. Mentalist card. Manipulative but useful. Not Mafia.

Desmond Rake — Penance. Passive observer. But emotionally compromised. Could be swayed or exploited.

Iris Denholm — Survivor. 1 life left. Careless when felt safe.

Suspected Mafia Team:

Damien Cord — Thief. Confirmed from the stolen card incident. He's too quiet now. Staying low.

Selene Montgomery — Hostess. Master manipulator. Her performance during the vote was too polished—fabricated panic.

Ashen Crow — Assassin. Tall, silent. Doesn't engage.

Unknown Male — That cold indifference… his stare scans people like tools, not threats. Controlled, composed, and deadly. Probably the true Mafia. A leader doesn't speak unless it's beneficial. For some reason why can't I not see his name but that's when Im sure he is the mafia… It's the mafia passive ability.

Leira Vaughn — Dead. Crazy girl. A pawn sacrificed. But her death means nothing to the core team.

So the layout is clear.

Five Mafia aligned. Six not.

A razor-thin margin.

If I vote the Mafia right now—the tall silent man—it could end everything.

But there's a problem: If I'm wrong, or if I act without persuasion, the Mafia team will immediately vote against me. Even if one neutral joins them, I die in the next round.

And if I die?

The Proxy dies.

The one thread of control snaps.

I'll become another dead person.

So what's the move?

I can't act alone.

I need leverage.

I said with confident tone.

"I know what you're thinking," I said, turning to face the table. "You want proof. You want guarantees. But you won't get that here."

I pointed at Selene Montgomery.

"You all think her tears are real? The panic? The way she played helpless when people started accusing her?"

Selene stood, looking shaken—but her voice was calm. Too calm.

"Is there even a role called Hostess?" she asked, trembling. "You're making things up. You want to throw suspicion just to stay alive!"

Someone from the back muttered, "He's just pointing fingers now…"

Exactly the reaction I wanted.

I raised a brow. "I expected better lies from you, Selene."

She flinched.

I stepped closer.

"You greeted people. You directed conversations. You brought people to rooms at just the right time. You orchestrated where the eyes went and who they ignored. That's the Hostess. You didn't fake panic just now—you performed it."

Her hands curled slightly at her sides.

Then, a voice from the side:

"And if she isn't? What if we vote another civilian?"

That was Damien. Thief. Playing the uncertainty card.

I smiled.

"If I'm wrong, vote me next. I won't even resist."

They stared.

"But if I'm right?" I gestured at Selene. "Then we remove the cancer that's been pulling strings since the start."

Silence.

Selene opened her mouth—but I cut her off.

"Tell me, Selene. When the Reporter died… why didn't you cry?"

She froze.

"You pretended to mourn every death. But not hers. Why?"

She blinked. "I—I didn't know her that well—"

"You brought her food the day before," I interrupted, my voice sharpening. "She trusted you. And you didn't shed a tear. Why?"

The room shifted. Doubt. Real doubt now.

And that was all I needed.

The game is tipping.

She stepped back. Her gaze darted toward Damien, then Ashen.

Panic.

Genuine this time. That confirms both Damien and Ashen are part of the mafia team

That's how I know I won.

I don't need every vote.

I just need to shake the balance.

If even one Mafia-aligned role hesitates… Like Damien aka the thief who betrayed them once if he thinks of surviving then he has no choice but to side for us but in the end we will still vote him out.

If even one of them second-guesses…

Then the plan will shift in my favor.

Because the moment they stop playing together… the moment they start playing scared…

The whole board collapses.

And when it does?

Mafia Team will lose.