Atlas's head spun like a broken fan blade as he imagined every possible scenario.
"Was I too late?" he muttered, guilt creeping into his gut like slow poison.
"Maybe if I didn't hide in the damn trash can..." his voice was hollow.
Each second replayed like a twisted slideshow in his mind—the gurgle of the clown he escaped, the blood pooling beneath hospital beds, and the silence of an empty patient room that used to house his brother.
He stepped toward the window in his brother's room and peeked outside.
Hell.
That was the only word for it.
Buildings were cracked open like rotting fruit, fire painted the sky orange-red, and corpses—human and clown alike—littered the streets like forgotten toys. Survivors screamed and scattered while some fought back, armed with knives, pipes, even frying pans.
And others… others laughed as they slaughtered the clowns like a minigame on easy mode.
It was a battlefield. A carnival of blood and madness.
All of it... because of a game.
A cruel, cosmic joke wrapped in neon colors and cheap circus music.
Atlas sighed. The air tasted like smoke and ash.
"Where do I even go now?" he asked himself aloud, the question floating uselessly in the room's stale air.
"Since my brother's not here… guess I should check my own place. But what if I die on the way?" his hands trembled as he spoke.
"What if I meet more clowns? There's no guarantee I'll get lucky again… That nurse clown-slasher felt like a cheat code."
He looked down at the only thing the System had "gifted" him—a broken green stick barely longer than a ruler. A literal joke.
"No... I need to move." his voice hardened.
Atlas stepped out of the patient room. He gave it one last glance, a silent promise locked behind his exhausted eyes.
"I'll find you," he whispered to his missing brother, "no matter what."
He returned to the elevator.
[3 → 1]
The door opened instantly. Even the building seemed eager to eject him.
But the lobby wasn't untouched like he had hoped.
It was a wreck.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered weakly, buzzing like dying insects. Blood smears painted the once-sterile white tiles, chaotic handprints clawed across the walls. Several overturned chairs and shattered glass panels littered the entrance, forming a jagged minefield that crunched underfoot. Reception desks were splintered. A vending machine was toppled on its side, leaking candy bars into sticky puddles of something thicker than soda.
The metallic tang of blood clung to the air like a wet rag slapped across his face.
Atlas swallowed thickly.
And then, as he walked, his gaze landed on a familiar sight: the clown corpse still slumped grotesquely against the broken doorway, its head jammed through splintered wood, a grotesque mask of comedy frozen in death.
There was a hole through the mask—courtesy of that knife. But it was still wearable.
Atlas hesitated.
Then, grimacing, he bent down, peeled the cracked mask from the corpse's cold face, and put it on.
[Now even you can't deny that you're a Clown.]
The System's text blinked into his vision, mocking him with a neon-colored jab.
Atlas didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
Because something about the mask silenced him.
It felt… wrong. Like wearing the skin of a corpse. It reeked—not of sweat or rubber—but something deeper. Older. Metallic. A heavy, iron-rich smell.
Blood.
But more than that, something dark clung to it. Something that felt like it remembered every scream that had entered it.
He sighed.
So far, all he'd gained was confirmation that his brother was gone. No clues. No notes. Not even a corpse to mourn.
What a productive visit.
The streets leading to his house were quieter now, but not safe. Not even close.
He kept his head low, walked in silence, and let the clown mask do the pretending for him. As long as no one looked too closely, he could blend in. Probably.
He was a coward, and he admitted it to himself.
"Which normal teen would fight something like this? No thanks," he muttered as justification.
Besides, it looked like most people had adapted quickly.
The weak hid at home, forming little survival cliques. Others formed roving gangs, hunting clowns in groups like it was a post-apocalyptic MMORPG.
The strong ones?
They were solo farming clowns like they were XP piñatas. Weapons glowed. Skills activated. Systems dinged with rewards. It was horrifyingly efficient.
"Where is Lucian, by the way?" Atlas asked himself, scanning the rooftops out of paranoia.
Lucian. Just saying his name in his own head gave Atlas indigestion.
Tall. Inhumanly beautiful. Like someone had ripped him out of a dating sim and dropped him into a horror game.
Atlas hated everything about him.
Especially how Lucian was immune to being trolled. None of Atlas's prank traps worked on him. He either never showed up or somehow knew it was a setup ahead of time.
Even worse?
He rejected every girl that liked him.
All of them. Coldly. Efficiently.
As if emotions were just… optional.
"He's probably cutting through clowns like they're made of butter," Atlas muttered bitterly. "With that stupid perfect smile—"
[Didn't know a Donkey could be that envious.] The Troll System chirped.
"I'm not jealous of that manipulative piece of shit—AND WHO ARE YOU CALLING A DONK—"
"Another clown detected," a cold voice interrupted.
Atlas froze.
A man stood just a few feet away.
Human, at least from a distance.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair that framed sharp cheekbones. Eyes hidden behind square glasses, but his presence made Atlas's lungs forget how to breathe.
He wore a pristine suit under a long black trench coat. In his right hand, he held a glowing blue sword etched with a lightning symbol. It hummed faintly with power, as if it had opinions.
Atlas's skin crawled.
"I-I'm human!" Atlas stammered, panicked, yanking the clown mask off his face like it was poison.
The man didn't lower his blade.
Then, slowly, he sheathed it in one smooth, elegant motion.
"I see," he said. "Hiding among the clowns. Clever."
His voice was calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
"My name is Kuro. And you are?"
"Atlas," he replied, forcing politeness into his tone. "Nice to meet you."
Kuro stepped closer.
"Dear Atlas," he said, his tone unreadable, "my eyes tell me you're weak. Very weak. And your system..." he glanced at the green stick still in Atlas's hand. "Your system is garbage."
[HEY! TELL THAT PIECE OF SHIT I'M NOT GARBAGE.]
Atlas didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to argue with the voice in his head.
Kuro's voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in.
"So what is someone weak, alone, and suspiciously masked doing wandering the streets?"
Not a question. An interrogation.
"I—I was looking for my brother. At the hospital. He's not there anymore. Satisfied?" Atlas snapped, stepping back from Kuro's suffocating presence.
For a second, something flickered in Kuro's dead eyes.
Curiosity?
Or recognition?
"You'll die if you keep moving alone," Kuro said, his tone blunt. Brutal honesty delivered like a slap.
"I know. But the mask worked so far. Why shouldn't it keep working?"
Kuro tilted his head.
"What have you fought so far?"
"Four clowns with knives... and one tall clown with a chainsaw." Atlas straightened up slightly. "Killed them all."
Kuro smiled.
A small one.
A dangerous one.
"With that stick? Impressive. For someone weak."
"What do you mean?" Atlas asked, both nervous and curious.
Kuro didn't answer.
Instead, he said: "Even if I wrote a book explaining it, you wouldn't understand. Let me show you instead."
"Uh. Sure?"
"Follow me."
They walked down the street Kuro had come from. The silence was deafening. No fights. No screams. Just... stillness.
Atlas hated it.
His clown mask slipped from his hand. He bent down to pick it up.
That's when the shadow appeared.
A dark shape emerged silently in front of him.
Atlas looked up—
A clown.
But not like the others.
No bright colors. No silly weapon.
This one was... void of color.
Black and white. Ink-like. Even its eyes had no pupils—just swirling emptiness.
Atlas's instincts flared. He swung the stick at its head.
The clown didn't flinch.
The blow smashed it against the wall. Atlas exhaled.
Then his breath caught in his throat.
There was no system notification.
And the clown was gone.
It reappeared behind him, reaching silently for his neck with an outstretched hand.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't scream.
Then—swoosh.
Kuro stepped forward. His blade flashed in a movement too fast to see.
The clown vanished into smoke.
Kuro sheathed his sword.
"Tsk. Got away again," he muttered.
Atlas stood frozen, shaking.
"What… what the hell was that?"
Kuro eyed the alley. "A Void Clown. Physical attacks don't kill them. They just... vanish."
Atlas's hands trembled.
[What a free show. Almost cost your life.]
"So that's why you stopped me?"
Kuro narrowed his eyes and spoke while they walked further down the street.
He kept walking, his trench coat whispering against broken glass. "That's what I call them, anyway. The System won't give proper names—just question marks and static." He kicked a clown's severed head aside. "But no, little donkey. This wasn't the only reason. I've fought worse. Much worse."
Atlas gulped. The silence between them grew teeth.
What else could be out there?