I Bullied the God of Death Into Blushing

Riley's POV

I live twenty-four honest years, and fate hands me a terminal stomach cancer diagnosis as a reward. Less than a month left on the clock.

Right when I'm ready to flip off this godawful fate, the floor under me goes black, and I drop straight into an SSS-rank horror game.

The Midnight Bloodred Theater. Dried-out eyeballs for chandeliers, crusted blood for decoration.

The boss is some deranged silver-haired god with blood-red eyes, and he blows people into a bloody mist the second something doesn't go his way.

Everyone else is crying, begging for their lives.

Not me. I'm dying either way.

I walk right up onto that stage, plant my hand on his abs, and grin up at him.

"Hey, gorgeous. Before you kill me, how about a kiss?"

"Ms. Bennett, I'm sorry. The results are back. Stage four stomach cancer. You've got maybe a month."

The second the doctor said it, my brain landed on one word: done.

I hadn't so much as held a guy's hand in school. Then I got a job, where my boss dangled empty promises in front of me and my coworkers threw me under the bus, day after day. I'd pinched every penny for years, never touched a man in my life, and this was what I got for it.

I stood on the rooftop clutching the report, and the ground under my feet split open into a black whirlpool. Gravity let go of me.

"Christ, I haven't even bought life insurance—"

Then I slam down onto solid wood flooring, and the smell of blood floods my nose.

I rub my bruised backside and open my eyes to a rotting, ancient theater, like someone ripped a century-old Broadway house straight out of the past and left it to rot. A crystal chandelier hangs crooked overhead. Except it isn't crystal at all. It's strung with shriveled eyeballs. Deep brown stains soak the red velvet curtains. Even an idiot can tell it's dried blood.

"What... where the hell is this?"

A shaky voice comes from somewhere close.

I turn. Four people lie sprawled around me. A guy in glasses and a suit already scrambles to his feet, wary. A woman dressed to the nines huddles in the corner, shaking. A tattooed, thick-necked guy kicks a chair, furious. And a heavyset man lies flat on the ground, playing dead.

[Welcome to the Abyss of Terror: The Midnight Bloodred Theater game.]

[Difficulty: S-rank.]

[Main quest: Survive the theater owner's three auditions.]

[Rule one: The owner's word is absolute truth. Break it, and you die.]

[Rule two: Show respect for the art. Raise your voice, and you die.]

[Rule three: ...there is no rule three. Try to survive, ants.]

A flat, mechanical voice echoes through the empty theater.

The guy in glasses pushes his glasses, face draining of color. "An S-rank game... we're screwed. New players like us don't stand a chance."

"What kind of bullshit is this? I've got a tournament tonight! Let me out!"

The tattooed guy clearly doesn't buy any of it. He stomps toward the sealed door, cursing the whole way. "Cut the theatrics! Come out and fight me if you're so tough!"

His hand touches the handle.

The next second, his whole body bursts like an overinflated balloon from the inside out, flesh and organs and bone spraying across the ornate door.

An eyeball rolls to a stop by my foot. Everyone else shakes like leaves.

[Player Cody Rourke violated Rule Two: raising his voice. Erased.]

Dead silence, except for the drip of blood hitting the floor.

Fear wraps its cold hand around every heart in the room.

A wall of text scrolls past my eyes: livestream comments, flooding in.

[Holy shit, they killed one right out of the gate!]

[These new players aren't making it past tonight.]

[The girl in the plaid shirt looks frozen stiff.]

Livestream chat? Plaid shirt? Are they talking about me?

I glance down at my own clothes, at the diagnosis paper still in my hand, then at the mess of flesh on the floor. My brain short-circuits for a second, and somehow, that heavy dread from the cancer news just... goes quiet.

I'm dying either way, whether I stay here or make it back out.

So why not go out swinging?

Twenty-four years of playing nice. Today, I'm going to raise some hell.

"Everyone calm down!" The guy in glasses sucks in a breath and turns to the rest of us. "That guy died because he didn't know how to play nice with a group. If we want to make it out of here, we stick together. Nobody's doing this solo."

He sticks out a hand first. "Preston Whitfield. I've played a few of these games before. Call me half a veteran."

The dressed-up woman gets up from the corner, voice still trembling. "I'm Vanessa Monroe. First game. I don't know anything."

The heavyset guy playing dead scrambles to his feet, rubbing his hands together, eager to please. "Wade Dobbs. Man, whatever you say goes. Just tell me what to do."

Vanessa hurries over and grips Preston's arm, nodding along.

Preston looks satisfied, then turns to me. I open my mouth to say something, but that's when the curtain on stage starts sliding open, and a man steps out of the shadows.