As the second hand of their watch kissed midnight, the Rabbit moved like a shadow through the castle's forgotten arteries—hidden hallways snaking behind grand walls that kept secrets better than any man ever could. Each step was a soft whisper against ancient stone, rehearsed, deliberate. Their gloved hand trailed the rough texture of the wall until they reached a nearly invisible seam: the concealed entrance to the private suite of the newly crowned Millionaire.
The selection had been random—algorithmically sorted before the contestants' arrival. Or so everyone had been led to believe. Luck or fate or some malevolent comedy had seen to it that she was the one behind that door. The contestant the Rabbit had most wanted to meet. The one they feared and longed for in equal measure.
But they weren't here to speak to the persona she paraded by day—the charming mask she wore before the cameras. No. The Rabbit was here to address the person behind the façade. The girl who had been molded, shaped, and sharpened by another woman's vendetta.
They reached the hidden latch and stopped, listening. Silence.
A small, brass lock sealed the door—an old mechanism masked by a book spine on the shelf, hiding a rot13 cipher. The Rabbit's fingers worked swiftly, decoding the five-letter phrase in under five seconds. With a soft click, the lock surrendered. The door creaked inward, revealing the back of the private study cloaked in semi-darkness.
They stepped through the threshold—
And a dagger greeted them.
Cold steel pressed just beneath their jaw, its tip unwavering. A woman stood before them, arm extended, muscles coiled with the tension of someone ready to kill. Her eyes blazed like twin infernos, storm-gray and absolutely unflinching.
The Rabbit didn't flinch either. They only smiled.
"I see that you're still debating whether or not you want to kill me, Chloe-Haydée," they said, purring her name like it was a shared sin between them. The name tasted electric on their tongue—familiar, dangerous, sacred.
Recognition flickered across her face, but the dagger did not waver.
She was even more compelling in person. Angular cheekbones, burnished skin, curls tousled from restless sleep or a sleepless mind. And in her eyes: a fury that had been nurtured, not born. She was the storm someone else had summoned.
Her mouth twisted, the corners pulled into something between a grimace and a question. "Why would I want to kill you?"
The Rabbit chuckled softly, a sound that didn't reach their eyes. "We both know why, do we not, Chloe-Haydée?" they said, elongating her name like a blade drawn slow. "How long have you known?"
She stiffened. Her grip on the dagger didn't tremble, but her stance tightened like a rope about to snap.
"Known what?" she asked coldly, but her pupils contracted.
The Rabbit gave her a look that asked really?
She met it with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. "Are you confirming it, then?"
"Were you doubting it?" they replied, stepping just enough into the dagger's point to let her know they weren't afraid.
She hesitated, lips parting slightly. "It was a suspicion," she admitted at last. "One I couldn't prove. Is it true, then?"
"It is," the Rabbit said simply, brushing the answer into the air like dust off their coat.
Her eyes darkened. "And how long have you known?"
"A little over an hour," the Rabbit said. "Had to wait for confirmation. Blood doesn't lie. Even if people do."
There was a silence between them, thick with what hadn't been said yet.
"So tell me, Chloe-Haydée," the Rabbit continued, voice silk-edged with steel. "Did you enter this contest to win... or to kill me? Is that what this has all been about? Some kind of performative vengeance? A final gift from your mother?"
"I'm not a child with a grudge," she snapped. "I'm not some moody teenager with a knife and a death wish—"
"You're twenty-three," the Rabbit interrupted. "Born June 7th, 2002. One oh eight in the morning. I know, darling. I've spent the last two hours reading your file. Every scrap of it."
Her expression faltered.
"I know about your debts. Your mother's debts. I know how you've lived, what you've done to survive. I know she raised you like a blade to be wielded. And I know she pointed you at me." Their voice grew low. Measured. "You don't even have to say it. I see her handiwork written all over your stance, your stare. She bred you to believe I was the monster in the dark."
Chloe-Haydée's grip tightened on the dagger. "Don't you dare talk about my mother. Not like that. I don't care who you are. I won't allow it."
The Rabbit's eyes burned now, too. "I respect loyalty," they said. "But I hate being lied to. And I hate even more when things about me—fundamental things—are kept from me. This? This was a serious offense. So I'll ask you one more time: Are you here to kill me?"
She didn't lower the dagger. But her gaze dipped for a fraction of a second—then locked with theirs again, fire for fire.
"I haven't decided yet."
The Rabbit didn't speak. Just studied her. The tension between them was electric—razorwire strung taut.
"You're headstrong," they said eventually.
"Apparently it's hereditary," she replied with dry venom, eyes flashing.
That struck. The Rabbit's face shifted, just slightly—like someone recognizing a ghost in a crowd.
"And yes," Chloe-Haydée added coolly, "My mother hates you. She has every reason to."
"She always was one for melodrama," the Rabbit murmured.
"Don't rewrite the past," she snapped. "Don't twist it to fit your comfort."
"I couldn't change your mind if I tried," the Rabbit sighed. "Twenty-three years of living in her shadow... you came here with your truth already written."
She looked away, tension beginning to unspool in her shoulders. Just a little.
"Just... call me Chloe," she muttered. "I'm tired of hearing it like that. Like a curse."
The Rabbit tilted their head, watching her like a mirror that had cracked in just the right place.
"All right," they said, voice suddenly softer. "Chloe, then."
But they both knew the name—the full name—still hung heavy in the room. Not a curse.
A warning.
"Did you put that cursed money in this damn vault on purpose?"
Chloe's voice cracked slightly at the edge, strained by suspicion, adrenaline, and the venom she barely held back. She stood rigid in the low light of the study, one hand clenched into a fist, the other still twitching from the echo of fight-or-flight that had slammed through her seconds earlier.
The Rabbit didn't flinch. Instead, they exhaled slowly, like they had expected the question and were relieved it had finally come. Their hand swept casually through their silky short hair, as if brushing away both her accusation and the tension coating the room.
"No. It was a genuine sorting," they said evenly. "I knew who you were before, I just didn't know the connection. I've been watching you since the pre-entry assessment. Closely. I never imagined anyone could actually manage to wing the money in round one and keep the façade going all the way to round seven. That would've been madness. But if there's someone who could pull that off…"
They tilted their head with a slow, indulgent smile.
"That someone is you, Chloe."
She let out a sharp huff, folding her arms across her chest in protest, though the flicker of pride in her eyes betrayed her. "Seven rounds? Really? Did you need to be that fucking dramatic?"
The Rabbit's smirk curled higher, wicked and unrepentant. "Short entertainment isn't worthy," they replied with a shrug, as if seven rounds of psychological warfare were the baseline for acceptable television.
"You're sick," she hissed, her jaw tightening.
Their eyes sparkled with amusement. "Do you wanna compare, Chloe? Because if I bring out everything you did in the pre-entry assessment, you might look sicker than two of me."
That shut her up. Her lips parted as if to protest, but no sound came. She flinched, visibly, and then looked away. They were right—and they both knew it.
"That's what I thought," the Rabbit said softly, savoring the silence.
Chloe shifted, trying to regain her footing. "Do... do you know who has the clue about me?" she asked, each word stiff, as though pried out of her with force.
"Of course," the Rabbit purred, their voice dropping to something almost intimate. "I know everything in here."
She hesitated. "Why? Want a heading?"
Her eyes narrowed, warier now. "Will it cost me?"
"No," the Rabbit replied with a faint shrug. "But it won't be fair play."
There was a beat of silence. Then:
"What's the heading?" Chloe asked, her voice quiet but firm.
The Rabbit's grin stretched wide, like a predator about to show teeth.
"SE4."