EIGHT HOURS ━ STRAY KIDS

HOUR EIGHT.

The sound of rope rubbing against itself filled the nearly-empty hallway.

The last victim had figured it out too late, falling to the floor with a sickening clatter. A rope was wound around his neck, pulled tight. The victim's face was purple and eyes bulging out, blood dripping out of his mouth. A ragged seven was carved into his forehead.

The murderer knelt next to the body, brushing his fingertips against the scarred forehead. "Seven. Not eight. I must have miscounted. Whoops."

The victim's eyes quirked. The murderer noticed. "Oh. You're still alive. Hello, there."

He stood, carefully cleaning off his stained knife. "You had it, you know. Only moments too late. By the time you figured it out, I basically already had your blood on my hands."

"I practically had to spell it out for you to solve it fully, though. Pathetic." The murderer spat, clicking his tongue.

"You were correct, by the way. Acting is my favorite hobby. But you were right about that too—it's a bit too late for that, no?"

The murderer gave his token smile—defined dimples, straight teeth, crinkled eyes. The same, innocent smile they all fell for. The one they all trusted. "Well, since you obviously know who the murderer is now, tell me, Lee Minho—what were the passcodes?"

Bang Chan tightened his grip on his knife before plunging it into his best friend's stomach one last time.

"Goodbye, Lee Minho."

He is one of you. Trust no one.