The safe zone hummed.
Not loudly—nothing so generous—but with that low, toy-store-after-closing vibration, the kind that made Zeke feel like the walls were watching him think. Neon tiles pulsed beneath their feet, frozen monsters hanging mid-snarl just outside the invisible boundary like they'd been paused by an annoyed god.
Zeke flopped onto a crate of ammo and stretched his arms behind his head. "Okay. So. I think I figured it out."
Juile didn't look at him. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, carefully lining up keys by color and shape like she was sorting sins. "You say that every time right before something explodes."
"Statistically untrue," Zeke said. "Sometimes I explode."
She snorted despite herself. "Go on, oh enlightened one."
Zeke sat up, suddenly serious in that way he only got when the game stopped feeling random and started feeling… intentional.
"The Victims," he said. "They're not just… there."
Juile's fingers paused.
"They're provisioned," she said calmly.
Zeke blinked. "You already knew?"
She looked up, eyes sharp. "I suspected. Counted entrances. Counted screams. Ran the numbers in my head while you were busy setting mummies on fire."
"Those mummies started it."
Juile went back to the keys. "There's always one Victim. Always. Even when everything goes wrong. The rest only exist if we have the capacity to save them."
Zeke felt a chill crawl up his spine. "So the map doesn't change. Reality does."
"Yes."
"That's… messed up."
Juile tilted her head. "It's efficient."
Zeke laughed once, sharp and nervous. "You're scary when you say stuff like that."
She smiled faintly. "You're loud when you realize you're expendable."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Point to Juile.
"So," he said instead, "if we lose people, the game doesn't punish us forever. We can earn them back."
Juile nodded. "Score thresholds. Forty thousand points. Not cumulative per level—just crossing a new boundary. One Victim restored. Like a refund."
"Like the universe saying, 'Eh, you did well enough. Have another human.'"
"Exactly."
They sat with that for a moment.
Outside the safe zone, a chainsaw buzzed impatiently.
Zeke leaned forward. "And the Tourists."
Juile's expression hardened.
"Timers in disguise," she said. "They look harmless. They are not. Delay equals mutation."
"Werewolves," Zeke muttered. "Which means if you hesitate, you don't just fail to save them—you create a problem."
"A loud one," Juile said. "With teeth."
Zeke rubbed his arms. "That's evil."
"That's design."
He grinned. "You're definitely scary."
She finally laughed, just a little. "You noticed the radar, didn't you?"
"Dots on a screen," Zeke said. "No context. Just… proximity. Like the game saying, 'Someone's nearby. Decide how much you care.'"
Juile stood, shouldering her weapon. "Knowledge is the real power-up."
The safe zone chimed. The hum deepened. Time, apparently, was done waiting.
Zeke grabbed a Ghost Potion and rolled it between his fingers, blue fire sloshing inside. "So if we play smart, grind hard, and don't panic—"
"We can keep ten Victims alive indefinitely," Juile finished.
"And if we don't?"
She looked past him, out at the frozen horrors, the waiting map, the places where people might or might not exist depending on their score.
"Then the game decides who was never important to begin with."
The barrier dropped.
Zeke's grin came back—wide, feral, excited. "Cool."
Juile sighed. "Try not to explode."
"No promises."
They ran.