Elena sat at the head of the table, her gaze floating from one face to another among the seven new guests—three women and four men of various ages. Their expressions were those of people who had suffered, washed in the deep tiredness of life, yet holding a fragile flicker of hope for the future.
Well, everyone except the two girls at the far end of the table, who sat facing Gregory James and David Finn. One had a shy demeanor, keeping her eyes glued to the empty plate in front of her. The other wore a loose, black, semi-transparent veil that reached the bridge of her nose. Elena knew from the importer that the girl hid a large, protruding scar beneath it, but she was too far away to see it clearly now.
Elena cleared her throat. "Welcome aboard, Numbers. I hope you have a pleasant stay."
Alistair, sitting right beside her, turned to look at her with confusion clouding his eyes.
Addressing the whole table, Elena clarified, "As most of you already know, I am hosting a game for the Prominent Seven, starting tonight. The new guests are to be your companions. Each one is known simply by a number, from One to Seven, and they will help their partners win. It’s just a friendly, mystery-solving game. The Numbers are going to play the roles of victims of a serial murderer—who happens to be one of the Prominent. The Prominent Seven must protect their respective Numbers while trying to unmask the killer."
The stewards began serving lunch, and Elena seamlessly shifted the topic. "Anyway, Alistair and Mr. Williams will have already stopped at the capital by this evening."
She paused, seeming to just notice the Maurice couple sitting opposite one another. Elena sat at the head; to her right was Alistair, followed by Sierra, while to her left sat John, followed by Jonathan.
"Ah, the Maurices are leaving too," Elena added smoothly. "Forgive me for suddenly asking you to stay. Mrs. Sierra, are your legs feeling better? I completely overlooked your injury, and I do apologize."
Sierra Maurice responded gracefully, "I am doing well. It is our pleasure to be invited, let alone be a part of one of your great novels."
As the appetizers were placed before them, Elena extended her hand. "Everyone, please, enjoy your meal."
The lunch was extravagant, even more so than the previous night's dinner. Every dish was a feast for the eyes before it ever reached the palate.
John slowly swirled the liquid in his glass. Hearing a sudden chorus of sharp gasps from across the room, he gulped his drink down all at once. A grin stretched across his lips for a fleeting second before he turned his head to look at the source of the disturbance.
The steward, who had been moving around the table refilling glasses, now stood frozen in place. He held an almost empty bottle, its contents previously were now dripping rapidly from Walter’s soaking-wet shirt. Fumes of pure fury seemed to practically roll out of Walter's nostrils.
"I am so sorry, sir!" the steward apologized hurriedly, backing away a few steps. "My foot stumbled on the chair leg—I am so sorry!"
Walter, entirely infuriated, looked ready to scream. His usual gentle demeanor was nowhere to be seen, thoroughly destroyed by the loss of his carefully curated image and the cold, wet sensation clinging to his skin. "You think a simple Sorry will solve this mess?" he hissed.
Beside him, his wife, Margaret, quietly nudged her chair further away. She didn't bother showing an ounce of concern for the old man, even as the veins popped visibly on his temples.
The rest of the room watched the spectacle in silence. The Prominent looked on with varying degrees of amusement, while the Numbers watched with tense hesitation. Alistair’s gaze darted discreetly toward the opposite side of the table, studying the reactions of the Numbers.
Elena’s eyes narrowed, her knife stopping mid-cut. When Walter gave up trying to wipe the excess liquid with his napkin and turned aggressively toward the steward—his hand reaching out as if to snatch the wine bottle—Elena deliberately dropped her utensils.
Clack.
The sharp sound of heavy silver hitting porcelain rang loudly across the silent salon.
"Mr. Johnson," Elena said, her voice cutting through the tension. "You may head back to your cabin to clean up. If you don't feel up to returning, your meal can be delivered to your quarters. I am certain a person of your immense wisdom can overlook such a trivial mistake."
Walter huffed loudly, throwing his wet napkins directly at the steward's feet. Mumbling curses under his breath, he stormed out of the dining salon.
The steward also retreated, slipping away after catching a subtle nod from Elena. As he passed a stewardess waiting in the corner of the salon, she lightly patted his shoulder and flashed him a quick thumbs-up.
The steward sneered playfully, letting out a massive sigh of relief. That bastard hadn't managed to pour the rest of the wine over him, which was a blessing—otherwise, the steward might have dropped his act entirely and instinctively punched the old man.
He smiled to himself. Whew. Bonus secured.
Walter took a quick shower and changed into fresh clothes. Seeing that his meal still hadn't been delivered to his room, he decided to return to the dining salon. His mood had lifted significantly at the thought of the Numbers. He even found himself humming a tune as he walked down the corridor, his mind racing with anticipation for the game he had been waiting for for so long. His hands were practically itching to begin.
Strangely, he didn't cross paths with a single crew member along the way.
As he closed the final few steps toward the salon, an abrupt feeling of impending doom washed over him. He slowed his pace. The room ahead was entirely, unnaturally quiet. There was no clatter of moving cutlery, no low hum of small talk. Had they already finished eating? he wondered. Did they go back to their cabins? But that didn't make sense—he hadn't heard any footsteps passing by his room while he was inside.
Walter hesitated at the threshold, entirely frozen by the scene inside. Was Elena really playing around to this extreme, just to convince her brother that they were playing a harmless, boring little game? She had explicitly stated the game wouldn't start until nightfall. Was this elaborate setup a trick to frame him as the murderer in a game that wasn't actually happening? Why else would everyone be slumped over, blacked out in their seats like corpses?
Every single chair was occupied by a motionless body, leaving only two seats completely empty—his own, and one other.
Overcoming his hesitation, he finally stepped into the room and approached the long table. "Hey, everyone," he called out, his voice sounding hollow in the dead silence. "I don't think this is how the game should be played. Shouldn't the murderer be chosen secretly by a draw or something? I'm already not enjoying my day as it is. Don't push this too far, Ms. Hudson, you—"
Before he could finish his sentence, a strike of brute force slammed into his shoulder from behind.
The impact dropped him straight to his knees. Disbelieving, Walter tried to twist his head around to see his attacker, but a powerful arm instantly locked around his neck, cutting off his movement. He thrashed wildly, struggling to breathe or break free from the chokehold, but his movements quickly grew feeble. As oxygen stopped reaching his brain, the silent, eerie dining salon faded entirely into black.