They didn't remember stepping back into the foyer.
One moment, Eden's final words still hummed in their bones, heavy and raw. The next, they stood beneath the grand chandelier of the manor's entrance hall. The light above pulsed slowly, like a dying heartbeat, casting long shadows that shifted as if the house itself was breathing—alive and uneasy.
The walls cracked open like ribs, thin fissures running through plaster and wood, revealing glimpses of something beneath. The floor between the cracked tiles seeped ink-dark liquid, pooling in slow, deliberate waves that reflected the fractured ceiling.
At the far end, the front door had returned.
It stood ajar.
A sliver of dawn spilled through it—cold, gray, honest. Not the theatrical stage light of the Theater Room, but real light. The world beyond waited. Streets. Silence. Maybe even healing.
But Eden stood before it.
Not spectral now, not smiling.
Still.
She wore the same worn leather jacket and boots from her final set, the faded shirt that read Laugh Now, Cry Later—except now the words were smeared and blurred, like they'd been soaked in tears.
Her eyes settled on each of them as they gathered.
Vivian. Darren. Lena. Marc. Theo.
There was no anger in her gaze.
Only knowledge.
"You made it," she said softly.
No one answered.
She raised her hand. In it were five red ribbons—frayed, delicate, as if cut from invisible bindings.
"You have a choice now," Eden said. "You can leave. But only one of you."
The ribbons fluttered in the stale air like coiled question marks, restless and expectant.
"The rest must either confess, sacrifice, or stay."
Silence struck the room like a physical blow.
"What the hell does that mean?" Marc finally breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
Eden didn't flinch.
"One of you walks away. Clean. You get your life back. A chance to start over, forget this place, move on."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle.
"The others… pay the price."
Vivian crossed her arms, skeptical.
"Confess what?" she demanded.
Eden stepped closer, voice steady.
"The truth. The one you buried so deep it's grown roots in your spine. Say it aloud, and you can go. But only one per path."
Darren's throat worked as he spoke.
"Sacrifice?"
"You give up something you still love. Irrevocably. Your work. Your voice. Your fame. Something that defines you now—something you built from my bones."
She turned slowly toward Theo.
"Or stay. Remain here, in the manor. Help it remember."
Theo's eyes widened.
"You mean… die?"
Eden gave a small, sorrowful smile.
"No. Not exactly. But you'd never be the same. You'd become part of the walls. The ink. The warning."
Marc stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.
"This is insane."
"You came for closure," Eden said, voice calm but firm. "But closure's a luxury. Truth comes at a cost."
Lena's gaze flicked to the door. The light beyond seemed distant—like a movie set, unreal and untouchable.
"One of us leaves," she repeated, voice uncertain.
"And the rest…" Vivian's voice trailed.
"Decide," Eden said. "Together or alone. But time is thin here. The house is hungry. If you don't choose, it will decide for you."
A long silence stretched between them.
Vivian finally spoke, breaking the tension.
"I'll confess."
All eyes turned.
Vivian stared forward, voice low but steady.
"I lied at the roast. That joke about Eden and the open mic guy? I made it up. I knew it would humiliate her, and I didn't care. I wanted the biggest laugh. I got it."
She swallowed hard.
"And I watched her bleed and told myself it was just metaphoric. Just… art."
No one said a word.
Vivian looked to Eden.
"Does that count?"
Eden nodded once.
"Yes."
A red ribbon floated from her hand, wrapping around Vivian's wrist like a silk shackle.
Vivian stared at it a moment, then took a step back.
"I'll go last," she said.
Theo was next, voice firm.
"I'll sacrifice."
Lena's eyes widened in protest.
"Theo—"
He raised a hand, cutting her off.
"I wrote the article. Made her a symbol. Turned her death into a headline that made my career. If I walk away now, I'll keep writing. Keep spinning pain into exposure."
He looked to Eden.
"I'll stop. I'll never write again."
The second ribbon curled slowly around his hand.
Eden's eyes softened.
"You always had the words. But not the ear."
Theo nodded, grim.
Darren stepped forward, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
"I'll stay."
Marc spun toward him, incredulous.
"What? Why?"
Darren's voice was hollow.
"She called me once. Left a message. I let it ring. I thought I'd get to it later. I didn't."
His voice cracked.
"I don't want to live with another silence. If staying means someone else walks free—if someone hears because of me—then I'll stay."
The third ribbon curled over his collarbone like a brand.
Marc shook his head, ragged breath.
"What's left for me? Confess again? Burn another piece of myself?"
"You haven't told the real truth," Eden said quietly.
Marc clenched his jaw.
"I built my entire set on her," he admitted. "Even the stories that weren't mine. I sold pain I didn't feel. Got rich from her shadow. When she died, I said it was tragic—but secretly, I thought it meant no one could call me out."
He exhaled, a breath held for years.
"I thought her silence was… convenient."
The fourth ribbon fell from Eden's hand.
Only Lena remained.
She stared at Eden, voice barely a whisper.
"So what does that make me? The one who walks?"
Eden stepped closer, eyes steady.
"You told me to quit. To walk away before I got worse. You said it out of love. And fear. And jealousy."
Lena flinched.
"I trusted you," Eden said. "And you thought you were saving me by shutting me up."
The silence stretched, fragile and tense.
Then Lena nodded, tears streaming.
"I was afraid you'd be better than me. I knew you already were."
Eden looked away.
"You were my best friend."
"I know," Lena whispered. "I didn't deserve it."
Eden lifted the final ribbon.
"Go," she said softly. "Tell them the truth."
Lena hesitated.
Then stepped toward the door.
Before crossing the threshold, she turned back.
"What happens to you?"
Eden smiled faintly.
"I've already gone."
The door opened wider.
Lena stepped into the dawn's light.
The others remained.
Tied by red.
Bound not by punishment—
But by choice.
And behind the closed door, the house sighed.
Not in hunger.
In memory.