The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm orange hue over the dusty office. It had been neglected for months, if not years. The blinds were cracked, allowing thin streaks of light to slip through the dust-coated slats, illuminating a brass nameplate that read: Principal. Once, the nameplate had gleamed proudly. Now, like everything else in the room, it was tarnished and forgotten.

Behind the desk sat a man whose appearance matched the condition of his office. His stocky figure slouched in a creaky leather chair, the leather worn and cracked, just like the man himself. A faint glow from the laptop screen flickered against his face, deepening the lines of age and stress that had settled over the years. His greasy, dark hair, combed over to hide the thinning spots, barely moved as he stared at a picture frame, the only clean item in sight.

In the picture, a woman and child smiled back at him. His wife, recently gone, and his son, even longer. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, lingering on their faces, trying to hold on to something, anything, that felt real. The weight of their absence crushed him daily, yet here he sat, surrounded by the mess of his present, unable to escape their memory.

The office, the papers scattered on the floor, the silence, it all weighed on him. The burden had grown heavier with every passing year. He hadn’t expected it to get worse. But today, it had.

Ping.

The sudden sound broke the stillness. His hand flinched, almost knocking over the picture frame as his gaze shot to the laptop.

"Well, Principal Takeda , are you in?"

The message glowed on the screen, the words cold and impersonal. A shadowy silhouette was the only visible detail in the sender's profile, faceless and menacing. His breath quickened, the weight of the situation crashing back into him. There was no escape now. The decision had been made the moment the message appeared.

His eyes drifted down to the package that sat under his desk. Gift-wrapped in dark, polished paper, a Joker playing card was tied to the bow, its jester's grin leering back at him. He had received it earlier that day, no sender, no instructions. Just a message, and now, an invitation to a game he had no intention of playing. Yet here he was.

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Slowly, with trembling hands, he reached under the desk and pulled the package out. The Joker’s hat on the card seemed to mock him in the silence. For what felt like an eternity, he sat there, staring at it, knowing full well what it contained but refusing to face it.

Ripp.

The sound of the wrapping paper tearing echoed in the empty room as he finally opened the box. Inside, a silver revolver gleamed, the barrel reflecting the dim light. The ace of spades was engraved on the polished steel pommel, and the grip—smooth, hand-carved walnut—bore a skull wearing a jester’s hat. Beneath the engraving were his own initials, marking it as his, as if fate had claimed him long before this moment.

His hand shook as he picked up the revolver. The cold metal pressed against his palm, sending a shiver through his body. He hadn’t touched a gun since the day his life fell apart—the day he lost everything. His family. His future. The accident. His throat tightened, the weight of the revolver a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him.

He turned his gaze back to the laptop, where the silhouette remained, watching. Waiting.

"Our agents will set everything up before the new school year. You will only have to bang the chime and begin the games," the figure typed again, the words cutting through the room like a knife.

He glanced back at the photo of his wife and child. Their smiles, once a source of comfort, now felt distant, unreachable. Their faces blurred as tears welled up in his eyes. He closed his eyes, letting the tears fall, but they did nothing to wash away the grief. Slowly, he brought the revolver closer, the cold steel pressing against his chin. His fingers traced the grip, while his other hand gripped the unforgiving barrel.

"Okay," he whispered to himself, barely audible. The word trembled in the air, carrying all the weight of a broken man surrendering to forces beyond his control.

Pulling the weapon away and straightening himself, he typed the message, his hands shaking with every keystroke.

"Okay, I'll do it."

The screen went black, leaving him alone once more in the darkness of his office.