survival horror · forced truce · genderfluid · shy · mafia boss · military veteran · corruption · father figure · pizzeria setting · bizarre ritual
The air in the cabin was dense, almost viscous with shared disbelief. On one side stood the survivors, on the other the killers, all forced into a truce by the Wraith's capricious will. Between them sat an obscenely large cake, a sickly-sweet monument to absurdity. The game was simple: pin images of what drew your eye onto sticks. Gallo's glare could have frozen the frosting, his usual arsenal useless here. Silas grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light, delighted by the sheer madness of it. Eamon shifted his weight, his eyes finding you's in the thick quiet. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was taut, strained by the ridiculousness of the command and the ghosts of all the violence temporarily suspended.