After some time, they all somehow managed to clean their plates, their appetite long since diminished by fear and unease.
The food sat heavily in their stomachs, a grim reminder of the situation they were trapped in.
"Since you all have eaten," I began, my voice slicing through the thick silence like a blade, "it's time to play the game."
And now it was time. Time to play my game.
"Let's start the game," I said, savoring the discomfort that flickered across their faces.
Their dread almost tangible in the oppressive atmosphere.
All of them flinched, the movement small but telling.
Their fear only fueled my determination, a dark satisfaction blossoming within me.
"The game is very simple," I continued, my voice cold and detached, devoid of any empathy.
"I will ask a few questions to each of you. If you lie or refuse to answer..."
I trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air like a guillotine poised to drop.
The room seemed to hold its breath, every eye glued to the knife I reached for.
The blade caught the dim light of the dining room, glinting ominously as I laid it on the table with a sharp clink.
Their eyes followed the movement, the fear in them palpable, a living, breathing entity that filled the room.
"The result won't be appropriate," I finished, my tone dripping with menace, each word a promise of pain.
Kevin's wife let out a small whimper, her hand trembling violently as she reached for her daughter's.
The girl clutched her mother’s hand tightly, her young face a mask of confusion and terror.
Kevin himself looked like he might be sick, his face pale and drawn, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Now, who wants to go first?"
I asked, my gaze sweeping over them, each one shrinking under my scrutiny.
The question hung in the air, the silence stretching on, thick with tension and fear.
Kevin's wife glanced at her husband, her eyes pleading silently, but he avoided her gaze, his own eyes fixed on the table.
The daughter stared at me with wide, frightened eyes, too young to understand fully but instinctively aware of the danger.
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"So, no answer. I guess I have to choose myself. Let's start with the young lady," I said, my voice unnervingly calm, each word dripping with a cold, calculated menace.
At my words, Kevin's daughter flinched, her wide, terrified eyes darting between her parents.
Their heads remained bowed, unable to meet her gaze or mine, their silence a testament to their helplessness.
"Are you ready?"
I asked casually, as if we were about to play a harmless game, my tone incongruously light given the dark undertone of the moment.
"Y... Yes," she stuttered, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with a mix of fear and confusion.
"So, my first question is... wait, hmm... your name is Samantha, right?"
I asked, feigning a moment of forgetfulness, my fingers drumming lightly on the table.
She nodded, her eyes wide with fear, her small frame shaking.
"So, Samantha," I said, leaning back in my chair, my eyes boring into hers, "my first question: what is your age?"
"Huh?" Her eyes widened even more, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.
It was a small mercy in a sea of terror, but she couldn't comprehend the reasoning behind it.
"Shall I repeat my question?"
I asked, a dangerous edge creeping into my voice, the threat implicit.
"It's 19," she said nervously, her voice barely audible, each word a struggle against the rising tide of panic.
"19? Well, I'm also 19. Interesting," I said, leaning back, my expression a mix of mock surprise and satisfaction.
The parallel between our ages was not lost on me, though it held different significances for each of us.
Samantha’s eyes flickered with confusion, trying to understand the importance of this revelation.
Her mother gripped her hand tighter, a silent plea for strength, while Kevin’s face remained a mask of dread, his mind undoubtedly spinning with desperate thoughts.
"Next question, Samantha," I said, my voice a whisper of menace that sent shivers down her spine.
"Nearly 10 years ago, I came to your house with my father. Do you remember what happened that day?"
I asked, my voice low and menacing, the words dripping with venom.
"N... no," she stammered, her eyes wide with fear, her voice barely a squeak.
"Let me remind you," I said, my voice taking on a dangerous edge, each word laced with the promise of retribution.
With a flick of my fingers, the dining hall dissolved around us, replaced by the familiar, yet painful setting of the living room.
The walls, the furniture, even the smell of the room—all unchanged from that day.
The memories came rushing back, sharp and painful.
"Here," I began, my voice thick with anger, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
"My father was asking yours for help. He had helped your father many times, but all he got in return was betrayal and defamation."
Kevin's face paled further.
His eyes darting around the recreated scene, the weight of his past actions pressing down on him like a physical burden.
"But still," I continued, my voice trembling with barely contained rage, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of their deceit, "he went to him, thinking that he would have realized his mistake. However, your father didn't even bother to listen to him and threw him out of the house. He dared to humiliate my father in front of me."
I turned my gaze to Samantha, who was now trembling, her tears streaming down her face, a silent testament to her fear and confusion.
"Well, you were also present there. So tell me, does your father deserve punishment or not?"
She looked at her father, her eyes pleading for him to deny it, to somehow erase the unbearable truth I had laid before them.
But the guilt in his expression was unmistakable, a silent confession that shattered her hopes.
The atmosphere fell silent, the weight of my words hanging heavily in the air, pressing down on them like a dark, suffocating cloud.
Samantha looked at me, her eyes wide with confusion and fear.
Her lips parted, but no words came out, the terror choking her voice.
"Answer me," I commanded, my voice cutting through the silence like a whip, each word sharp and unyielding.
"Y-Yes. He does deserve it," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible, each syllable trembling with the effort of speaking the unforgivable truth.
"Then why don't you punish him?"
I suggested casually, my tone indifferent, as if we were discussing the weather.
"What?"
She was taken aback, her eyes darting to her father and then back to me, disbelief mingling with the fear in her gaze.
"Yes. Go ahead," I repeated, my voice devoid of any care or emotion.
"Punish him."
Her hands trembled as she looked at the knife on the table, its blade catching the dim light, a cold, unfeeling instrument of retribution.
Her eyes flicked back to her father, his face a mask of resignation and sorrow.
He didn't move, didn't protest, just watched her with a mix of guilt and a father's desperate love.
Kevin's wife clutched her daughter's hand, her own face a portrait of horror and pleading.
"Samantha, no," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"You don't have to do this."
But Samantha's gaze was fixed on the knife, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
The room seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the suffocating weight of the moment.
"I..." she began, her voice trembling, her eyes brimming with tears.
"I can't..."
"Yes, you can," I said, my voice a cold, unfeeling command.
"You said it yourself—he deserves it. Make him pay for what he did."
Tears streamed down her face as she reached out with a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the handle of the knife.
She glanced at her father once more, searching for any sign, any hint of protest.
But Kevin remained still, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and an unfathomable sorrow.
The room held its breath as Samantha lifted the knife, the blade glinting ominously in the dim light.
Her hand shook so violently that the knife quivered in her grasp, a tangible symbol of her inner turmoil.