Chapter Text
The scene smelled faintly of stale coffee, sweat, and sawdust. The overhead lights flickered one final time before going out completely, leaving only the low buzz of fake machinery and the weight of what was about to happen—or really, about to end.
Sixteen stories. Five trials. Eleven sacrifices. Five survivors.
Tei, Yokoi, Hirose, Denden, Isoda.
Beneath these five characters, beneath their unique talents and clashing personalities, were souls with their own stories to tell.
Atsushi, Ruka, Shingo, Misao, Mion.
In a few seconds, they would set out to take their masks off.
The five 'students' stood immobile in front of the oversized vault door set—dirt smudged on their clothes, silicone scars on their skin, eyes hollow from what looked like weeks of bloodshed and betrayal. Beneath the costumes, their 'souls' were breathing heavily, chests rising and falling.
They had reached the game's ending state, after all.
Suddenly, a familiar voice cracked through the silence.
“And... CUT! THAT'S A WRAP, EVERYONE!”
Instantly, the room erupted. Chains of cheers, tears, and everything in between. It was over. The director’s face, harsh under the studio lights, broke into an expression of relief. Crew members hugged, patted backs, and wiped each other's cheeks. Some laughed hysterically as a stress response, while others just stared into the dead space, at the blank walls mocking them with the abruptness of it all.
Among the five, Misao was the first to move, staggering against Ruka’s shoulder. Her blonde pigtails swayed as she shuddered, soft sobs escaping. The two clung together like real survivors after a traumatic event.
Meanwhile, Atsushi—one of the veteran actors—braced his arms around both of them. His eyes were tired. He dragged in a deep breath, as if to taste the shared triumph. “We did it, guys,” he muttered, voice low and rough from exhaustion. “Fifty hours of screentime.. and who knows how many more behind the camera.”
He rubbed his forehead, scratching at the itch beneath his wig. That iconic pink hair that would soon be on TV screens everywhere. The others drifted closer, forming a group hug. Mion cracked a wry grin, measuring how surreal the moment felt. Shingo wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Even the sky cries sometimes.
The final mise en scène consisted of heavy plywood doors painted to look like scorched metal, and they sat as motionless as the actors under the studio’s harsh lights. Atsushi felt his muscles loosen in slow pulses. The script could be discarded now, but the pressure of the upcoming premiere would soon take its place. He looked at Misao, at Ruka, then Mion and Shingo—and they all had one thing in common: their shiny, tear-stained cheeks. He realized how much effort, tears, and half-forgotten laughter were packed into these hectic months.
Mion’s voice softened with the proximity. “Man.. it’d be cool if the others were here too.”
Something about the word 'others'.. The missing eleven people on set. They hung in the air like smoke.
“You know,” Shingo started, “the first day we all came in together, I hated the small waiting room they shoved us into.” He paused, looking around at the filming set. “But hell.. I don’t think I’d trade this moment for anything else.”
A hearty laugh cracked from Mion’s chest. “D'aww.. look at you, Shingo. Getting all sentimental now? You'd better not forget me when you start your next role.”
Shingo grinned wider. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Atsushi gently pulled away from the huddle, leading the small group toward the video village where the Director sat, slumped in a canvas chair. The man looked as drained as they were, staring at the monitors that had gone dark.
"Hey, Boss," Atsushi called out, his voice soft but carrying across the quiet set. The Director looked up, blinking behind his glasses. Before he could speak, the pink-haired man extended a hand. "Thank you," Atsushi said, and he meant it. The Director stood up, gripping Atsushi’s hand with both of his. “Nah, it's you guys who did the heavy lifting. I just point the cameras and say whatever feels right at that moment.”
“Aww, don’t give us that humble act,” Misao interjected, wiping a smudge of mascara from her cheek. “We all know this season's production was sinking before you stepped in. If we were still stuck with the old director..” She shuddered, and it definitely wasn’t acting this time. The memory of the previous director’s controversial methods was a shadow they were all glad to leave behind.
“You really saved the show,” Shingo added, clapping the Director on the shoulder. The middle-aged man offered a rare, genuine smile, looking like a proud father. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, get changed already. Better hurry up before those wigs fuse to your scalps, haha.”
A collective groan of relief rippled through the group. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the heavy physical toll of the shoot. They turned toward the exit, dreaming of makeup wipes and comfortable sweatpants. But as they took their first steps toward the backstage corridor, something was to happen.
The crew members, who were supposed to be packing up equipment and dismantling cables, suddenly stopped. Instead of clearing a path, they subtly tightened the circle around the five actors, blocking their way.
“Uh, guys?” Ruka blinked, looking at a boom operator who was grinning suspiciously. “Can we get through?”
Before anyone could answer, the studio plunged into absolute darkness.
"Hey!" Mion yelped. "The hell? Did the generator blow?"
"Stay where you are!" The Director’s voice rang out, sounding suspiciously giddy.
CLANG.
The massive plywood vault door, which became the symbol of their imprisonment, dropped flat onto the floor with an orchestrated crash, revealing the hidden backstage area behind it.
In the dark, Shingo reached out. "Is everyone okay? What is go—"
CLICK.
Simultaneously, the spotlights flared back on. It took a while to get adjusted to the blinding lights, but it clearly didn't matter because their ears could still work and hear everything.
"CONGRATULATIONS ON SURVIVING TETRO BLUE!!!!"
The shout was deafening. It didn't come from the crew. It came from a group of people standing behind the fallen vault door. They weren't covered in fake pink blood or lying still as corpses. They were vibrant, grinning, and very, very loud. There were eleven of them.
Nanae, Taku, Mutsuko, Noriko, Erina, Sou, Daiki, Matthias, Youhei, Osamu, and Azusa.
POP! BANG!
The next sound was even more deafening. Party poppers exploded, showering the set in blue and silver confetti. The studio speakers, which had been playing ominous tracks for weeks, suddenly blasted an upbeat pop anthem.
The five survivors stood frozen for a split second, their brains struggling to process the image. These were the friends they had filmed multiple scenes with. The castmates who had been sent home early while they get to live to see the end.
“No way..” Shingo breathed out.
Then, the dam broke.
"YOU GUYS!" Misao screamed, the sound echoing off the rafters.
It felt akin to a reunion of a family.
Nanae was the first to reach them, tackling Ruka in a hug so tight it lifted both of them off the ground. Taku and Daiki went on high-fiving Atsushi, messing up his already disheveled wig. Noriko and Erina were jumping up and down with Mion, screaming unintelligibly over the music.
“What the hell, I thought you guys were on a break!” Atsushi laughed, shouting to be heard over the bass.
“And miss the wrap-up party tonight?” Azusa grinned, holding up a bottle of sparkling cider. “We’ve been hiding in the production office for three hours! Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep Youhei quiet for three hours?”
“It was impossible,” Youhei admitted shamelessly, draping an arm around Shingo’s neck. “I almost blasted our group chat, like, ten times.”
The groups then merged into another group hug, this time much larger than the last. The fictional trauma of the killing game evaporated instantly, replaced by the warmth of real, tangible friendship. There were no Ultimates here. No killers, no victims either. Just sixteen actors who had survived the production of a lifetime, latching onto each other as the confetti slowly drifted down around them like blue snow.
It was chaotic. It was loud. It was heartwarming.
It was finally over.