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Breaking

The note was an A-flat, held for six full beats. As the sound decayed, something in the attic shifted. She turned. The mannequin head in the corner—the one dressed in her old RPD doll’s uniform—was facing her now. It had been facing the wall a second ago.

“They heard the songs too. The Lickers, the Tyrants, the Nemesis… they don’t hunt by sight. They hunt by sound. This piece is a lure. I wrote it to keep them in the game. But one night, I played it too loud. And they followed me home.

The attic door creaked open.

Measure 72: “Piano, piano… then nothing.”

Inside was sheet music. Handwritten. The title at the top read: “Lament for the Fallen – for Piano.” In the corner, a small biohazard symbol, hand-drawn in faded red ink.

Sophie, if you’re reading this—

Her father had been a composer for video games in the late 90s, but he never spoke about his work. Sophie only knew he’d left Capcom suddenly after Resident Evil 2 shipped. “Bad memories,” he’d say. “Some notes… stick to you.”

She struck the final chord—a jarring E major over a B-flat drone. The sound didn’t fade. It swelled, and from the hallway downstairs came footsteps. Heavy. Dragging. Followed by a wet, familiar groan she’d heard a thousand times in Resident Evil walkthroughs as a kid.

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