Page 45 of Game Master
The Game Master leaned down, his masked face inches from Callan’s. “Did you think your pitiful police protection could stop my divine work?” he asked. “I am the Game Master. I choose the players, I set the rules. Only I decide who lives and dies.”
He straightened again, resuming his predatory pacing around Callan’s chair. “Though I admit, getting access to those potential ‘players’ became more troublesome with so many of them disappearing from their usual haunts, thanks to your interference. For that, you have my gratitude. What is a game without obstacles to overcome? You have made my victory all the sweeter.”
Callan clenched his fists, rope fibers digging into his skin. He pictured the gruesome crime scene photos from the Game Master’s previous murders flashing across Roseline’s computer screens. Vincent Garofalo, Enzo DeLuca, Rafael Moretti—their bloodied, mutilated bodies forever frozen in twisted positions of agony.
And soon, there could be new photos added to that macabre collection—documenting Antonio Ricci’s tortured demise for the voyeurs on the Game Master’s site. Unless Callan could find a way to stop it.
When the Game Master paused his gloating monologue, Callan saw an opening. As much as it disgusted him to engage with this lunatic, he needed to gather any scrap of information that could aid Roseline in catching him.
“You see this as some twisted game?” Callan asked, unable to mask his disgust. “Taking lives for what? Fun? Sport?”
The Game Master tilted his head, assessing Callan through the black eyeholes of the mask. “Not merely for amusement, as appealing as that notion is. There are crucial matters of justice at stake.”
Callan suppressed an incredulous laugh. “Justice? Is that what you call executing people and broadcasting it for paying viewers?”
“You fail to see the noble purpose in my work,” the Game Master replied. His tone was maddeningly casual for the subject matter. “The worms and parasites infesting this city’s underworld must face retribution for their sins. The justice system has failed repeatedly. Therefore, their judgment falls to me.”
Callan watched the man throughout the monologue, scanning for any subtle tells or cracks in the calm veneer. But the Game Master betrayed nothing, convinced of his righteous delusion.
When he fell silent again, Callan spoke. “Help me understand your thought process. What first compelled you to pass this ‘judgment’ through live streams?”
The Game Master paused, tilting his head as if deciding how much to reveal. Finally, he continued his measured pacing, hands clasped behind his back. “Witnessing righteous justice helps cleanse our society of weakness and corruption. My broadcasts provide that cleansing ritual for those strong enough to observe the truth without flinching. Those too cowardly turn away, unwilling to stare into the abyss.”
Callan’s stomach turned, hearing the zealous tones creeping into the modulated voice. He pressed further. “And the payments? Taking money for this?”
The Game Master waved a hand dismissively. “The funds are a means to an end, enabling me to continue my vital work.”
Callan studied the man’s body language closely, searching for any crack in the facade. He thought he glimpsed an eager glint flash in the Game Master’s eyes at the mention of money and an audience for his atrocities. Those fleeting tells hinted at baser motivations than lofty ideals of justice—darker urges like lust for power and control.
But the solid mask concealed all other expressions, and Callan failed to extract any other solid clue to the identity or location of the man beneath it. Only the Game Master’s distorted voice filled the cold, concrete room.
After another round of pacing and silence, the Game Master came to stand in front of Callan once more. “I believe our conversation has run its course for now, detective,” he said briskly, an edge creeping into his tone. “The main event will begin shortly. We must finalize your preparations.”
A low mechanical buzzing sound emanated from somewhere outside the room. At the noise, the Game Master seemed to stand taller, his body language radiating anticipation.
“Yes, we have a special experience in store for you,” he continued. That unsettling, eager glint flashed again in his narrowed eyes. “One that will dramatically impact your future, should you still have one when all is said and done.”
Callan’s pulse spiked, scenarios flashing through his mind about the Game Master’s sinister plans that awaited. His thoughts went to Roseline. Was she in danger from this madman, too? Panic constricted his chest, desperation rising. Had she been captured as well?
As the Game Master turned and strode briskly back toward the metal door, Callan strained against the ropes binding him to the chair. “Wait!” he shouted hoarsely. “What are you planning? Where’s Roseline?”
The Game Master paused with his hand on the door handle and looked back. “All will be revealed soon enough. As for dear Roseline, she’s one of the few worthy opponents in this. And you, of course. Do save your strength, Detective. I suspect you’ll need it.”
With that ominous threat lingering, he yanked the heavy door open and disappeared into the dark hallway outside. The door slammed shut with metallic finality, leaving Callan alone again with his spiraling fears about what might happen next.
Left alone again in the dimly lit cell, Callan struggled to fight off a swell of panic. He had to keep his wits and stay focused. Letting emotion take over would only cloud his judgment and waste precious energy.
Still, icy tendrils of dread crept down his spine as he imagined what twisted plans the Game Master could have in store for him. The man’s parting threat echoed in his mind, amplifying his worries.
Callan hoped Roseline was safe, that the Game Master was bluffing to get to him, and that his focus was fixed solely on him. But he knew her brilliance was integral in disrupting the killer’s schemes. Would he target her as ruthlessly as his previous victims to eliminate that threat?
Callan forced himself to take deep breaths, assessing his circumstances logically. His best chance was staying alert and buying time until an opportunity appeared. He had faith Roseline was doing everything in her power to find him. Her tireless mind would already be parsing every angle, searching for the weak link to break this nightmare wide open.
Glancing down at the ropes securing him, Callan resumed his efforts to loosen or fray the bindings. But the knots held fast no matter how forcefully he strained and twisted. The abrasive fibers scraped his skin raw, blood seeping from the deepening welts. Fiery pins and needles radiated down his arms from cut-off circulation. Still, Callan kept pulling—the pain was nothing compared to what likely awaited if he failed to get free.
However, after endless fruitless minutes, exhaustion threatened to overtake him. The throbbing ache in his shoulders from the initial assault outside the safe house had steadily worsened. His head still rang from the force of the blow which had knocked him unconscious earlier.
Blinking heavily against the dizziness, Callan realized he needed to conserve what little strength he had left. The Game Master seemed to be delaying whatever he had planned, likely to intensify fear. But Callan wouldn’t make it easy for the bastard. He had to be ready.