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jesternette · 3 months ago

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RED LIGHT, GREEN LIGHT! S.JY

2025, ONESHOT — 5K WC. GENRE — yandere! jake, squid game! universe. WARNING — profanity, death, suggestive, force kissing turn dubcon uhhh, implied smut at the end.

NOTE wrote this since january bc of that cute guard scene in squid game lolol. jungwon is my muse and rlly wanna make this about him but for the first time jake rlly does fit the vibe here, so here's my first jakey oneshot :> not reallyyy proofread tho since this is my second blog to let go of my perfectionist habits so expect some grammar errors 🫠 ... still hope u enjoy it ♡

Every single color has its purpose and function.

Blue gives you the oceanic peace. White, an embodiment of innocence and purity. Purple, the symbol of royalty. Yellow, the glory of summer sun. Yet they don't actually exist, we only gave meaning to a bunch of fragmented lights.

Like how we framed traffic lights as the way to maintain order. Red, green, yellow—three distinct lights. Nothing too hard to obey, however no matter how much you enforce a rule, a very simple one at that—some people are bound to defy it. Why?

Because colors don't mean the same for each and one of us. There's no universal meaning to it. Red alerts people, warns them from a potential danger, but for some, it arouses their entire being. It tempts them, like a red cloth dangling before a bull bursting with flames.

And that's what Jake had always been and will always be, which explains why he ended up in this game of death.

In the vast expanse of the outside world, you could encounter countless of faces but he abhorred such tedious task. Lines contorting into what they call expressions. But here you only got two; red and green. He doesn't recognize faces, he sees colors, finding himself reacting to them more intensely, whisked away by it's whims and sways as if it was his calling.

Red was all he had soaked himself in.

However just like every other thing, boredom is bound to follow. Sharp edges now painfully, painfully dull—until a particular person carves it back to it's glory; you.

"Red light!"

Morphing his empty well of eyes with the reflection of your subtle cowering frame. You who were trying your best to put up a strong front. A bright green gym shirt like a flickering traffic light. Your smooth fluff fringe resting above your lashes, terribly failing from concealing the grim reality unveiling itself before your eyes. You stood so bright. Painfully green. A different shade of green, he added with an afterthought.

"Green light!"

Jake observes you clinging to life amidst the exploding fleshes and heads—their blood decorating your pale white face and down your green attire. Oh dear, poor you. Who could've known? Who could've guess?

Those little steps you took—Jake finds it funny how it reminds him of a heart monitor; if you rushed without a care, you'd be dead, and if you stand still for too long, you'd be dead either.

But you were doing pretty well, too well, actually.

Bullets rained one after another.

Drilled into each head—emitting the sound of pure satisfaction.

Jake hums along with melodic rhythm of the children's song, hitting the fallen players with exceeding precision. Yet once in awhile, you were there in his line of sight, begging his eyes to drift to you, and somehow he caught himself spilling the words—go, go, faster, faster,—as his pupil steals a glance from the ticking clock.

You were so small, smaller yet you were still here while all the players with bigger, stronger, and athletic stature had fallen to his hands. He starts to think it'd be a pity to see you dead after surpassing all of them. But you pushed yourself against the heavy wall of air—leaping over the red line—dropping on your knees, gasping for oxygen that has been drained out from your lungs.

The first game is over. And there are still plenty of players—shook to their core after the reality they've been thrown at just a few minutes ago. Their chest heaved up and down in relief. But who knows what awaits them later?

As Jake finishes up, placing his weapon back in the case. Yet he halted, taking one more look at you from the distance. This game—he wonders how long it will take till they get caught? It excites him. Even the players themselves, he anticipates it over what they could bring into the table. Last time one player played a pathetic role of a savior and he even got a bunch of others to side with him, with scripts rolling out of his tongue titled righteousness—he says. It was a sight to witness. Although they pretty much ended up dead after, a futile effort indeed though commended.

Boom! Boom! Boom—off with their heads rolling on the ground! It would make a very good material for a bowling ball. They brought a very compelling twist into this game.

Long after that, barely enough players bring in anything new on the table. Not a daredevil in sight.

But then you came. You were perfect. One might say you're no rare sight; a timid, feeble, fragile young lady. There was more like you, carrying the same image yet there was a glint in your eyes that begs to be unraveled. Countless players had the same goal; money, and why do they need money? That's where a vast array of reasons arise. You need money, but what do you need it for?

To pay your debt? Or to get your debt inexplicably higher? Greed, greed, people never change! Only death awaits. That was what sealed the deal for him, and he was not in the mood to see you get served up on a platter yet. For sure, how long you pique his interest decides how long you live. Because it would be a pity, pity indeed—to have you split open before you he could see your potential. He doesn't want to get your organs harvested yet, to see your limbs cut apart, and organs beating on a platter.

Just a weed in a sea of weeds. Still, it's not the type of face he'd expect to fall into a well of buried money. He didn't expect you'd be the type of face to bury yourself in a graveyard and that is why it compels him to uncover the deepest depths beneath this layer of your skin.

Maybe, you hid something even more interesting things.

It was a gamble, then! Nothing new for the pink guards, really. Just like the bright greens, the pink ones also had their own little game—carving another layer of masochism of playtime. Because sanity is thrown out of the door the moment you step into this madness.

"The second game for today is—Dalgona." The speaker's voice reverberated throughout the innocent childhood wallpaper of the playroom. "Players are required to carve out the shape. ."

A facade so intoxicating it brings a wave of nostalgia. Wishes and promises. Everyone starts to feel, a little too comfortable with the atmosphere. Who could've guess a simple sugar cookie could decide the entire course of your life? Each player settles into their position, and like a little game played by the universes he supposes, he was assigned to be your guard.

Curious he was, to see what shape you've chosen. Is luck still clinging by your side?

Twisting the cover, the shape revealed itself—an umbrella.

Ah, how pitiful—the glimmer of little hope left in your eyes morphs into fear, you've done so well shielding yourself from the rain, but now it is the pathway to your pernicious death.

"The game starts now."

Beep, beep.

The red neon digit ticks down—parallel to the players’ eyes flickering with dread.

He watches intently behind the mask; your hand trembles, yet the death grip on the needle expresses your determination to live. You pierced the honeycomb, carving the edges, slowly and surely. He wonders how it will feel in his hand, should it feel warm—he'll definitely bring it to his cheek to revel in it. But oh, your little expressions accompanied with deep inhales and slow exhales, a little sigh over here and there. The sight of a bead of sweat trailing down your chin from your temple.

A sudden bang brings forth a jolt to your frame.

The first kill.

It is now evident, the face of death inching closer.

And then two.

One more.

And like smashed piano keys—it rambled on, screeching against everyone’s ears, screaming at them to focus, focus, focus!

You struggled, though, struggling immensely from picking up the needle from the soil with your clammy hands. It wasn't faring any better to your ears as how the speaker began to announce the following deaths, and soon after, the players who successfully passed the game.

A sticky feeling latched, crawled across your spine; it was the image of a tiny ball dwarfed by this playroom, and that was you. Whisked away by the whims of fate, and now you're all alone with your eyes shot wide open—accompanied by a little fly feasting on your corpse.

You cried out a no. A desperate, desperate refusal to such a pathetic death.

The fear of your head blown off by the weapon dangling before you. The grip the triangle guard had around it made you gulped down. You slapped yourself, cussing in-between. Time is truly an illusion. But amidst between life and death, you weren't so sure, but—there was another inexplicable weight. Sure, it was death knocking on your door that was pushing you through your limits—but, something else has you on edge. You look up, just a bit, at the triangle mask glued on you. Call it whatever, intuition as they call it—but something's telling you whoever is behind that mask has misplaced his attention—not on the dalgona, but you.

The language of his body was palpable, despite being covered with a thick layer of pink jacket. The tilt of his head, unlike the rigid stance of the other guards, made you uneasy. It's akin to nails screeching against your ears, spikes of nails sticking up and high from the ground. But you had no luxury to pay attention to it right now.

Focus!

You've look at him for the first time. Have you finally caught on? But you didn't just look, no, you gazed into him. Jake swore you made him felt like you've seen his real face that it scratches his heart a little. Just a little. He couldn't help but laugh if that ever happens. He almost felt like a tiny desire to help you there but he knows it's no use when everything is recorded by the mini camera attached to his chest.

So small, so fragile.

Almost, almost.

You just have to win this game, and maybe, just maybe he'll be able to help you soon.

"Player 139, success."

You sucked in a huge lump of air into your throbbing lungs. You've felt alive once more, each breath reminding you that you more alive than ever. While the man before you stood still, watching you as another guard escorted you out. The timer ticks down with one last digit, ending with a zero—and then he finishes up all the players behind him. Each bullet mimicking the thump of a heart—he could hear it, the pattern of his very own, as you've clawed your way into it—clenching his blood into a state of frenzy.

It soon became a little game in his head.

A game of luck and fate, he supposed. How long can you live? How far can you push your luck? Like a bet, like a gamble, like hordes of horses sprinting down the lane of victory. He guessed he’d never be able to leave his addiction in whatever form of betting, and now that form is your life.

The next game are soon approaching. You've done so well surviving on your own, but now, will you be able to share this luck with others in the next game? Or—will your luck get sucked out by the rest?

Jake stood at the entrance with a rigid stance, clasping his weapon—guarding the place as he usually does but his eyes followed your fidgety hands—as you form tight-knit friendships with other players. Too close, he thought, but he knows it's necessary for the next game.

Yet his jaw clenches—hard. It hits him that the last time this ever happened was long, long time ago—when he had lost a great sum of cash before his very eyes.

A loss.

Jake was looking for that perfect time to introduce himself to you but that perfect chance never seems to come around, that is, until just a few hours later when the lights are out—one player notoriously known for running her mouth with no care—were screaming at him for not providing her with basic human rights to the restroom, it wasn't particularly allowed by nighttime for some reasons and he completely intended to ignore the ruckus inside, until you appeared behind her, begging to be let into the restroom as well.

He couldn't just let this precious chance flee away.

It occured to him as his eyes cling to your frame, guiding you and the other player to the rest room—other guards had quite a wild fetish, necrophilia, that is. But insane as he might be, a dead flesh doesn't tickle his interest. However, strangely enough, your hair that you often let down are now tied up in a messy bun, giving him the sight of your neck—riles him up, just a little bit.

You were so close he could catch a whiff of your scent.

So, close, yet so far.

His ears caught ln the running water from behind the restroom.

Should he take the chance now? There wasn't a guarantee you might survive the next game as it goes against your biological nature, but who knows, you might.

It's a gamble, though.

Everything is.. a gamble, in hell.

You and your new friend somehow took an enormous time than needed inside the restroom, he immediately knew what's up but what's the fun in that? Here you are, your voices behind—panicking, dripping with white lies to cover up whatever the two of you were planning but time's up, he pushed in through—catching the scene just as he expected.

Your little friend was nowhere to be seen, and the tap water was left running endlessly down the sink. A pathetic, pointless cover-up.

"I s-swear, it's not me." You gasped—stuttering, raising your hands up instinctively to defend yourself, your eyes following the whims of the gun in his hand. Too cute, you were an exact opposite of what you try to portray in the game field.

Jake's eyes followed the trail up the ceiling—an evidence painfully sticking; a vent pulled open. There's only one answer for this; cheating—and what happens to players who cheat? For a game that promises equality to its players, it's only fair for the cheaters to be eliminated. The barrel clicks, raising it to your eye level now imbued with great dread.

You were swirling in desperation, descending into madness, blabbering as you dropped on your knees—praying for your life. That this wasn't it, this wasn't how you were supposed to meet your end. He thought the same, too, sympathetically.

"You badly wanted to live, huh?" The robotic voice adds to the vehemence to your rampant soul, you nodded—fueled with the enormous desire to live.

Despite the debt you've accrued towards the years, you are still left with hope that you'd be able to settle it all one day, no matter what. But why is it that you're burying yourself in debt again?

Haven't you learned your lesson?

"What can you offer me?"

Cheshire grin graces Jake's lips with the sight of your glossy eyes cutting through confusion. He repeats the same question once more, but a little different this time and strides closer to you with slow steps. You didn't budge one bit, he likes that.

But he needs to see more—pressing your chin up with his thumb, tilting his head ever so playfully.

"Why should I let you live? Tell me why, then I just might, spare your life." Says the guard, "Amuse me."

Amuse? How? You were no joker yourself, even at the times you had to appease someone's wrath—you'd always find yourself failing at it. Comedy was not your forte. Your breathing grew heavy, a weight pressed against your lungs, pressured by the guard's loose frame that was stiff, composed a while ago.

Leaning against the tiled wall, a behaviour unlike any other. Despite being covered up from head to toe, it was as if he was baring himself raw and exposed to you. You could taste his body language on the tip of your tongue—amidst the saltiness of your tears—its intensity beyond sanity.

The fluorescent light flickers in a timed interval, offering a deafening sound that ricochets off the restroom's walls. Your little friend sure is taking her precious time to maneuver around the route, not knowing the real deal is happening here.

You were filled with dread, unable to find answers, stuttering here and there—tight lipped. Panic eyes dart around for answers, for the key to your escape. Until, a distant clattering reverberated from the distance, like platters being ransacked—directly from the vent.

The guard looks up, and you swore you heard the pitch of a sinister tune behind those robotic voice. "Uh, oh."

You gulped down with the arrival of your new friend. Her face mirrored yours—pale and grim—and soon on her knees.

"I want to live."

You blurted out with desperation before she could defend herself—emphasizing each word—catching the guard's attention.

Jake didn't expect this side of you, but he was not at all disappointed—more like thrilled.

And that was all it took.

You clutched your trembling left arm, your hands icy cold as you exited the restroom—accompanied by another triangle pink guard. The door to the lobby opens up, and that was the moment when your shoulders flinched—at the sound of a gunshot beyond the hallway.

Now you're truly, in debt, for good.

Jake's pink suit takes on darker hues, blotted unevenly across his chest and a bit on his mask as he stood there as the circle guards carried the corpse away.

Too amused by the outcome, he'd have to admit. He didn't know you were capable of such trickery, hiding a desperate monster behind those depths of your eyes. He'd begun to wonder how far he can push you towards your edge, to the last bit of your sanity just like his.

"I'll let you live but with one condition."

And that is to bring your best play into this game. The image of your bloodshot eyes widening in inches was a sight to witness. Especially the way your face are decorated with your new friend’s blood.

You were hanging on a piece of thread while walking on eggshells. Whatever you choose, you’d die either way. But you persisted. The next game commenced; the classic tug of war. Yet you survive again, in a game dominated by males. He was almost sure you'd plummet to your eventual death but somehow, someway—that piece of luck seems to cling to your side quite stubbornly. And he wanted to have a part of it, just a bit, or even more—just like the greedy creature he had always been—insatiable, the hunger for more.

As you climbed down the stairs, he could see it—the way your eyes searched for approval, for reassurance that you've amused him well. You were so good, so obedient that he felt like he wanted to sugarcoat his words for you.

If you behave nice and sweet—maybe you’d be alive a little longer. Be obedient as you can, he's just trying to help you, that's all, he promised! Pinky promise? It's just really a very, very fair deal. Envision it—you won't get your head blown off dramatically if you obey him, it's all for your own good.

You nodded, he grinned.

“Good girl.”

He hushes for you to lean closer, and he says it, the golden rule: they.

They?

They're always watching, therefore you should keep yourself interesting as long as you can. Do whatever you think is interesting. Think of it as a comedy play, your goal is to make your audience laugh, right? Easy peasy! If you do it right, then they’ll be kind enough to keep you a little longer. After all, interesting things once a day keeps the dull moments away!

But wait! He caught your arm in his gloved hand—whatever you do, just don't get caught. And my, my! You did not disappoint. Jake felt so proud that he mentored you, fuck, he breathes out. A once pristine fork now soaked in metallic stench, but whose? Your choice of target was truly compelling, how you reached up to that point of decision was a marvel to him.

An old lady and her son.

Oh my god—he was never a believer to whatever deities are up there but you're surely, surely fucked up more than he is. He’d only spoken one word—kill, but alas you've earned it. He could taste the horror on their face from the pool of blood—it screeches as the pink guards placed the corpses on their respective gift boxes.

Then a word arises, planting doubts, feeding worry, and then panic, and as a result you get a crowd of uncivilized humans banging against the cage. And funny it was, all it took was one shot to calm them down. Hush, hush—quiet down.

The old good script came along; equality.

Equality? How hilarious! No matter how many times they went through the script, it's still baffling to see how the sea of faces calms down after that word—almost as if it was a promise. No, and it was a pity. Sure, getting good at the game decides how far you will go but that's not the final rule.

Boredom! Boredom! Do you even sit down for so long for a movie so inexplicably tedious, so boring? No, right? We don't root for a character that brings no interesting story on the table. First, we sigh. Second, we complain. Third, we criticize it. Lastly, we stand up—never again to pick it up. A play with no audience is basically nonexistent. No singer would sing without an audience. Nor an actor without someone to watch.

Does it mean our worth solely depends on how long we keep someone's interest in us? How fucking funny! The world is a comedy play indeed! And you did just that, piquing his interest for so long that he wanted to see more.

More.

Jake knew very well that he shouldn't be doing this. But resisting feels too futile—when he's now right at your bunk bed, at night when all the players have tucked themselves into bed—lulling themselves to sleep before one more game tomorrow.

His feet had dragged him by your side before he could even think twice. Though, he can now—with one step away. But he knows he can't, because one red light does nothing but arouses his desire to go against it.

Tempting.

Getting caught feels so toxic; he thought as he inches closer, his gloved hands brushing past your leg. You caught on so quickly with a tiny squirm, a subtle frown gracing between your eyebrows—he finds it amusing how it deepens with each closer stride his finger took—until you did notice.

The margins of your pupil withered by his presence, sharp edges of a triangle reflected on it. Thick leather covering his hand—now on your mouth at a swift speed. His big frame towering over yours, and you whipped your head to find everyone else deep in slumber.

"Relax," He chides in a pitchy melody. "Just thought you needed a little reminder that you aren't safe yet, from me."

The mask dives in, a dangerous proximity—where he suddenly brushes his free hand on his mask. You gulped down, a curiosity inkling closer.

"Close your eyes." You caught a glimpse of his red lips, "And don't look."

And it crushed against yours—it felt all too vivid and intense. Wet tongue swirling and knotting together. Colliding like stars melting into each other. Your face flushed upon remembering that you were doing this in a place where privacy is nonexistent.

An act of voyeurism.

What would they think of you—a player colluding with one of the guards? Would they think of you as someone conspiring to ruin the game as someone had suggested in the beginning? But it's so cruel, almost too harsh—the way his teeth sunk into your lip, a subtle desperation hiding in-between—as he commands you to return your utmost concentration to him.

You tried your best to suppress your growing desire to moan, the shuffling of the bed, and how your legs tense around from looping around his hips, and all the more—your eyes from parting, for he had warned you that if his face was to be seen—nothing would end well.

And so, you close your eyes harder—fighting against this monstrosity of a desire to see his face, curiosity so insatiable. Would his face be as delish as his lips? Mouthwatering as his tongue? Or as gripping as his hands on your waist. To know that his face would mark your doom brings a sinful thrill, a pernicious temptation.

But maybe, you were a little stubborn. Though, you shut it tight before he could notice. Or maybe, he did notice. You only caught a slight skin, a warm tone near his eyes.

Did he notice? Of course he did. You were never too good in following the rules anyway, he expected that much from you, and that was what he also terribly liked about you—a twist to this repetitive routine in his life. You always defy his expectations, each one better than the last. Perhaps this is what they call a plot twist.

And you were doing too good, too good—he’d afraid. Good thing, no one caught the sinful game you two were in—and was that a good thing? By his definition, no—people will never stop until they're caught. It only intensifies from then on, the stake rising higher and higher.

We're all, after all, an insatiable animals beneath this human flesh. And it comes back everytime the florescent light shuts off, dripping ink obscuring every sense of moral compass. This so-called society can fuck off. We are all too obvious, flickering like a bunch of traffic lights—encrypting a Morse code, praying for someone to notice us, save us.

These signals. We're so obvious but at the same we aren't.

And that's why he wondered why you sent him a signal to meet in the restroom. His question, though, was immediately answered the moment he stepped in.

Perhaps, Jake didn't see to it that far but maybe he did, for curiosity overtakes—of what kind of a cornered animal you would be. Because the saying always goes like this; a cornered animal are the most dangerous of them all.

A swift dash—and it clicks right at his head, and all Jake could muster was a devilish grin—ah, what is this? Are you tired of catching up to his whims now? His gun firmly clasped in your clammy hands, more than glad to help you—planting it just right on his forehead. An image flashed in his head right at that moment, you looked way too familiar—as if you were the notorious player who joined the game twice, dreaming to put an end to this cruel, cruel game. The only difference was that he was with a formidable team and you—alone.

“C'mon, do it." He mimics the doll's rhythm from the beginning, "Will you do it or will you not?”

He sang on like a serpent slithering against your ears. A temptation, or a dare wrapping itself around your neck, urging you, begging you to choose. If you kill him now, only God knows what’ll happen to you after but oh the laughter—it bursted out with the thought of them who were watching, of how their eyes would bulge out on the ground witnessing the scene of a feeble girl overpowering a guard, a male one at that—all by herself.

But you look so damn pretty, so fucking pretty looking all this determined with courage and rage.

Yet his thought process was cut short with a strong grip on his hood—yanking his body on the ground before he could react—and now you are on top of him, taking control and holding him hostage. And all he could say is what the fuck? Just what are you planning inside your pretty little head?

“Take off your mask.”

“That isn't part of our deal.” The triangle mask did no little to cover his body language, “You know I could easily overpower you—”

“Not with a gun to your head.”

“Are you sure you can—” A loud bang causes him to groan, you shot his arm, that is. A very light graze but enough to cause a deep wound. It tainted his pink jacket into a deeper shade—crimson. Right, you are not joking at all. Fuck, you're right—he looks down chuckling. You left him with no choice and so he complied, funny enough—you stopped him right before he could pull down his black mask. You put on his mask back but just enough for his nose and lips bare for you to see.

What exactly are you planning to do? He doesn't know but what you did next was never one of the things he anticipated. It took his breath away, literally—you sucking his lips in—huh? A kiss. It's a fucking kiss, he chanted on in his head, his eyes wide opened as you kept going on. Jake wanted to be the hunter but today it doesn't seem to appear that way. Overpowered with a gun on his head, and a girl one at that—on top of him

The fuck? Is he being assaulted in broad daylight? Shit. For the first time, Jake was dumbfounded by your peculiar actions. Just now, you were trying to murder him and now you're kissing him like he's a free piece of meat?

Your face—he observes intently as you molded his lips into your own; tightly shut, heated cheeks, loose fringe sticking on your forehead due to your sweat, or was it his? He's no virgin nor this was his first kiss. But why is his heart thumping like a goddamn virgin, then? Was it the fact that your lips were sloppy? Rough? Desperate? Needy? It was painfully obvious that was your very first time sucking someone’s lips.

You were painfully, painfully bad at it—evident by the leaking metallic taste on his lower lip. Abusive. But the throbbing pain tasted delicious, igniting something inside his body. Jake’s starting to think that he's a masochistic for relishing in this pain.

More, more, more!

You pulled away.

He groans, aching for more.

“Is it interesting enough?”

Those words caught him off guard, and apart from the fact that you look utterly breathtaking with your red swollen lips, he couldn't properly form a proper sentence with how you're firmly on him—straddling his hip.

"W-what do you mean?" He couldn't believe it that he just stuttered. Did that tongue of yours truly twisted his brain and mouth into an incoherent mess?

"Them." You gulped down.

And that was all it took for him to lose control. A snicker, turns to a chuckle, and then laughter reverberating against the tiles—forming an eerie echo.

Dear heavens, you've taken it on another level, way, way too much for him to resist anymore.

“You know you truly got me.”

With one blink, you found yourself in a pitch black room—dimly lit by a faint round light from the corner. Your back buried on the soft couch, catching you in his strong arms. No time wasted—his lips dive into yours, sucking and nibbling on every depth of your flesh like it was his meal to devour. His eyes commands you, a slave to his spell. Supple, thick skin trapped in-between his long digits..

Sheer excitement rushes in his body as he zips his pink jacket down, slowly but surely, teasing you just enough by stopping a few inches more. His triangle mask obscuring his identity all time finally follows with a whisk of his gloved hands—revealing a pair of intoxicating eyes, adorned with a roof of pretty lashes. His fluffy fringes covered bits of his eyes.

"Do you see me now?"

His true voice speaks for itself, no longer covered by the monotone robotic filter—but bare and raw. The timbre of his voice—too velvet for your ears. He felt human for the first time.

He places his chin on his black gloved hand, leaving only his eyes for you to see. Piercing gaze clinging into your soul as if telling you to run away with him right now, like a hopeless fairy tale. The only difference was this place are no castles for princesses.

Jake put his mask back on, but this time it was not the same—nowhere near the traces of the triangle shape, instead it held a black color, sculpture-like. As if the mask was intended specially for its owner, hugging the corners and depth of his visage. It was as if the mask owned him, not otherwise.

And you were right.

Unlike his predecessors, Jake isn’t that keen in going down the route of the friendly, amiable approach they often took—the role of being a friend to your targets. Make no mistakes, he doesn't bore a single drop of guilt. But in his eyes, it was more of an old cheap trick implemented by each and one of them, yet it never grew stale to the eyes of the VIPs. He couldn't blame them though, after all—the sunken eyes upon realising the weight of betrayal was all too fucking satisfying.

However Jake wanted to try something new; he preferred a different palette, different theme—a more direct approach—a hostile, dominant one where he could play the devil and his target—the sinner. Whatever suited his play style for the day, he'd do very well at it, and he’ll make sure of it.

And you happened to be one of his very long list of targets, he’d teach you and guide you along the ropes but dear heavens! You learned way, way too fast that he couldn't resist taking you for himself. You know, a little treat after all the hard work he’d done all these years. A hundred games—he had hosted hundreds of games for his VIPs and he took an inexplicable pride in them. Each time, the faces they morphed into behind those masks was a pleasure.

However this time, he wanted so bad to be the only one to witness all the things you could do. The only spectator to your play. All the things that play inside that little head of yours.

Jake had always wanted to go fast, but now he wants to go slow. Take his sweet, sweet time to uncover the depths of you. He wanted to see your expressions—the time it took to form those creases and lines.

A brush of his finger against your hair brings tingles to your neck, raising goosebumps across your body, a sensation that clouds your judgement. His body language remains playful, hovering his triangle mask on your face instead.

"I can bring you with me." He says, a light feathery hush at the last word. "All you have to do is say yes."

“Are you testing me?”

Jake leans forward, whispering to your ear. “No one's watching anymore. It's only us now.” He pulls away, "What do you think? The next game is far beyond your luck already, and it seems like I don't feel like pushing through this gamble anymore."

Your hand feels like a separate entity when it inches closer to his mask, digits curling to take the mask off—a growing desire to see those breathtaking eyes again.

But he stops you, gripping your wrist—not too strong, just enough. “Curious?”

You gulped down, nodding.

"If you take it off, there's no returning back." Said he, tint with nonchalance but with a lingering warning. Once you satisfy your curiosity to see the face of this voice, there's no returning back—but what does he exactly mean by that?

You repeated the word. "Are you killing me?"

The boy chuckles. "Silly, why would I? What I meant was—" He draws closer to your ear, but just enough for him to show you a little below his eyes. "Once you take this mask off; the you before me will no longer exist.”

His face may be very well hidden but his body language was all too animated, as if he's wearing his heart on his sleeve unlike his persona as a triangle guard.

It inches closer, this hand of yours—aching, itching to touch, to see, and you did—one whisk down and the image of a young boy emerges. Nothing you'd imagine but definitely did not regret. However you'd do very well to keep it mind; pretty faces aren't always angels.

However the day you submitted yourself to him was the day you've let yourself go. What else was there to be shame about? And God, you caught him off guard again. Eyes wide, hands hasty, bodies collide, fleshes bare—sparking with every contact.

Intoxicating. Madness. Addiction.

It's true what they say, some people never truly change—instead they worsen over time. Bit by bit, until there's no point of return.

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