Chapter 212

Those eyes belonged to Charles.

After Floyd left, Charles quietly followed him, crumpling the piece of paper Floyd had tucked into his bedding and stuffing it into the door frame of Floyd's room.

Once he finished, Charles returned to his own room, waiting silently for the arrival of the "Smiling Boy."

Time ticked by, and the entire hotel was enveloped in an eerie silence.

Floyd lay in bed, filled with unease and tension.

He knew he was about to do something extremely dangerous, but there was no turning back.

He had rehearsed this scenario in his mind countless times.

A veteran at the Tower House had once told him some rules about room tasks. In multi-night tasks, the number of people the ghosts could kill each night was limited.

Typically, no more than three people would be killed in one night.

Although this rule wasn't foolproof, it held true for at least ninety-nine percent of the rooms, based on the data and experiences gathered by those who came before him.

Floyd's plan was based on this rule.

As long as he could orchestrate the "Smiling Boy" to kill three people other than himself tonight, there would only be three people left for the task, greatly increasing his chances of survival!

He had to take a gamble, betting his life for a chance to live.

Charles was naturally the first target. Both of them were marked by that inescapable, eerie blood, making them prime targets for the "Smiling Boy."

And now, with Charles holding a death card, he was undoubtedly the "Smiling Boy's" primary target.

Moreover, if the "Smiling Boy" indeed marked his prey based on those bloodstains, then by smearing Finnegan and Briar's dorm room doors with that eerie blood, the "Smiling Boy's" attention would surely shift away from him.

With his meticulous planning, tonight was destined to be the death anniversary of Charles, Finnegan, and Briar.

As for Elijah and Wilhelmina, Floyd had to put them out of his mind for now. Surviving the night was the most important thing.

"Don't blame me... blame your own bad luck..."

"I didn't want to do this to you... but I have to survive..."

Floyd muttered to himself, trying to convince himself, his voice trembling with the fear of death and the desire to live.

Despite his unease, he had no regrets about his decision.

After all, his family had taught him to survive this way.

"Happy birthday to you..."

"Happy birthday to you..."

"May you be happy... may you be well..."

The eerie, haunting song echoed down the hallway. Floyd glanced at his watch; it was right on time.

Instead of feeling fear, the chilling song brought a twisted smile to Floyd's face. He knew the "Smiling Boy" had arrived as expected.

'Thanks to that idiot Charles for teaching me,' Floyd thought. 'Survive first, worry about everything else later. That's the rule of survival.'

The song grew closer, accompanied by a boy's clear yet spine-chilling laughter, inching towards Floyd's door.

The laughter abruptly stopped, as if stifled by some invisible force.

Floyd's heart raced, and his smile froze.

He realized the sounds had stopped right outside his door.