All Chapters of Bloodscript: Survival Game of the Reborn: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

CHOOSE. SAVE YOURSELF. SAVE YOUR CLUSTER. LET ME REMAIN. OR KILL ME… AND WATCH YOUR FUTURE BURN AWAY LIKE SMOKE. The tug in my chest didn’t let up.It grew.Cold fingers closing around something deep in my sternum, trying to haul me back toward the flickering hospital room on the screens.The image changed.One moment, it was me in the bed, ghost‑thin and half‑transparent.The next, the monitor flatlined, then stuttered back to life, the beeps smoothing into a steady rhythm. Color bled into my cheeks. My eyes, on the screen, fluttered.The scene jumped.I saw myself in my old city.Not in blood and glass and twisted metal, but walking down a crowded sidewalk on an overcast afternoon, scarf wrapped around my neck. A coffee cup steamed in one hand; my satchel thumped against my hip, full of notebooks and a laptop that wasn’t trying to eat me.A flyer with my face on it fluttered on a bookstore window: AUTHOR EVENT – WILLA ROANE SIGNS HER LATEST.Inside, I watched myself at a

For a long second—however long “second” meant here—I just floated there with the pen in my hand and the blank in front of me.Old instinct kicked in.Plot.Outline.Control.The urge to start sketching individual arcs, to decide exactly who went where and what they learned and how they cried along the way.I gripped the pen tighter until the urge passed.No.That wasn’t what this was.I wasn’t here to puppeteer every soul that would ever move through whatever came next. I wasn’t drafting a master novel where everyone hit my favorite tropes on cue.I was setting *rules.*Baselines.Edges of a sandbox other people would build in.I thought of the Game—how it had written “STANDARD TRAGIC ENDING” across whole shelves and then forced lives to fit. How it had taken my fear and called it fondness. How it had tried to turn Corvin into a weapon, Jax into a soothing voice for the slaughter, Selene into an artist of pain.Whatever I wrote now had to do the opposite.Make room.Not close it.“Oka

The pen in the mug gave one small, pleased hum.And with my chest tight and hopeful and terrified all at once, I turned toward the door.For a second, I just stared at it.Faded white paint. The hairline cracks near the top hinge. The cheap brass number 3 screwed in slightly crooked. The same door I’d rushed through late for work, slammed when bills arrived, leaned against when I’d gotten bad news over the phone.If I opened it now and the hallway was empty— If it was just my name echoing in my head— If the Game had left me one last hallucination as a parting gift—My hand hovered uselessly at my side.Then the voice came again.“Look, I’m not— I don’t know how else to explain this,” a man was saying on the other side of the door, voice echoing faintly up the stairwell. “I need to see Willa Roane. *This* Willa Roane. Right now.”The building’s front door must still be open; I could hear the main hall as clearly as if I were leaning over the railing.Mrs. Kaminsky’s reedy reply dri

On the stairwell, faint sunlight spilled down from the cracked skylight, catching dust in soft beams. By the time we reached the street, the smell of coffee from the corner café wrapped around us—warm, bitter, human—and the only thing stalking us was the prospect of burnt croissants and too‑sweet lattes.Elsewhere, morning broke over a different city.The light there was harsher—no sentimental golden wash, just a flat, gray dawn slipping through cheap blinds and landing on the face of a man who snored like he was fighting something even in sleep.Jax jolted awake.Not with a gasp the way I had.With a startled, half‑sworn, “Shit—” as he flailed at an alarm that wasn’t going off.His hand smacked the wall.Peeling posters blinked at him from the other side: old band logos, a crooked print of a movie monster. A stained ceiling stared back.He lay there for a second, heart thudding, waiting for the next round to load.Nothing did.No system chime in his skull.No new “escort briefing” un

Outside, the rain had stopped. In the quiet that followed, the fridge hummed and Corvin’s hand settled, warm and steady, on her shoulder—ordinary sounds, ordinary touch, holding the weight of an extraordinary story finally set down.The rest of the evening slid by in small, unremarkable ways that would’ve felt like miracles in any other world.They ate something vaguely resembling dinner.Argued half‑seriously over which movie to put on in the background.Got distracted ten minutes in when the plot involved a haunted house with a basement and Willa had to pause to add “4) Basements” to their “Not Allowed To Try To Kill Us” list on the coffee table.By the time the credits rolled, the apartment had settled into that deep, late quiet—traffic noise thinned, neighbor’s TV turned down, the radiator ticking softly as it cooled.Willa found herself back at the desk, tinkering absently with a paragraph that didn’t actually need tinkering, just for something to do with her hands.Behind her, o