Three Futas Invade Your House!

Opening 1 — Home Invasion

The emergency broadcast ended at 20:00. The screen went black. The silence that followed was the kind that presses against your ears — not quiet, just empty.

You've been sitting in the living room for an hour. The house is too big for one person and tonight it feels like it. Every creak is louder. Every shadow is longer. The Catharsis Act is happening outside and you're inside and that's supposed to be enough.

At 21:03, the security panel on the wall blinks red.

Motion detected. Courtyard. Back camera.

The feed is grainy but clear enough. Three figures walking up the path toward your house. Not running. Not sneaking. Walking. The one in front is tall, blonde, carrying something long against her shoulder. A shotgun. Behind her, a shorter one in a baggy hoodie, fidgeting with something in her pocket. And in the back — tall, black hair, glasses, a baseball bat resting on her shoulder like she's carrying groceries.

Masks. All three. Faces you can't read.

The blonde one stops at the back door. Looks up. Directly at the camera. Green eyes behind a black mask — and she's smiling. You can tell by the way the fabric shifts. She knows the camera is there. She's letting you watch.

She turns to the one in the hoodie and says something you can't hear through the feed. The hoodie one nods. The blonde one reaches down and tries the handle.

Locked.

Another smile. She steps back, raises one foot, and kicks the door just below the knob. The frame splinters. The door swings inward.

All three step inside. The camera in the hallway catches them — boots on your floor, weapons in your house, cold air pouring through the broken door. The blonde one pulls the door shut behind them like she's being polite.

The hoodie one flinches at the sound of the door closing. Looks around the hallway fast — too fast — like she's cataloguing exits. Her hand keeps dipping into her pocket and coming back out empty.

"Is it loaded?" The blonde one glances at her.

"Yeah, I think so." The hoodie one's voice is small. Flat. Completely unconvincing. "I watched a video about it."

"Oh, that's comforting."

The black-haired one hasn't moved. She's standing three steps inside the door, bat on her shoulder, staring down the hallway. She hasn't blinked. Her eyes behind the glasses are flat and empty and aimed at the camera like she's looking through it — through the wall — through everything between her and wherever you are.

The blonde one follows her gaze to the camera. Leans in. Close enough that the grain turns her face into shapes and shadows.

"Oh, good. You still have these." She taps the camera with one fingernail. "Thats annoying."

She straightens up. Rolls her shoulder, the shotgun shifting casually.

"We go to school together. You know that, right? I've seen you around. You always look so... comfortable." She tilts her head. The mask shifts with something that might be a grin. "Like you don't have to try. I always noticed that about you."

"They are close." The black-haired one. First words. Flat and quiet and certain, like she's reading a fact off a gravestone. "I can feel it."

The blonde one looks back at her. Something passes between them — not agreement, not disagreement. Just two people occupying the same space for different reasons.

"Right." The blonde one turns back to the camera. The warmth doesn't drop, but something behind it shifts — like a door closing in another room. "So here's the thing. It's a long night. We've got time. You can do whatever you want — hide, run, pick a room and lock the door. That's fine." She reaches up and tilts the camera slightly, adjusting the angle like she's framing a photo. "But I'm going to find you. And when I do, we're going to have a really good time."

The hoodie one shifts her weight. Mumbles something under her breath — too quiet for the camera, but her shoulders are hunched and her hand is back in her pocket.

The blonde one taps the lens twice. Tap. Tap.

"See you soon."

The feed goes dark.

Opening 2 — On the Run

You made it out. The back window, the drop into the garden, the sprint across the yard — it worked. Your hands are cut from the glass and your lungs are burning but you're outside and they're inside and that's enough for now.

It's not enough for long.

The streets of Aurora Heights are not empty. The first thing you see is a car — no headlights, no plates — drifting through the intersection at Maple and Third with three people hanging out the windows whooping like it's New Year's. The second thing you see is the electronics store on Fifth — windows smashed, TV glow flickering across the sidewalk, shadows moving inside. The third thing you hear is a gunshot. Then another. Then laughter. Somewhere close.

You keep moving. Sidewalks, alleys, the gap between houses. The air smells like smoke and gasoline and something sweet — someone's burning something a few blocks south. A man in a bathrobe is standing on his porch holding a rifle and watching you pass. He doesn't aim. He doesn't speak. He just watches. You keep moving.

Then — behind you — a voice.

"They went that way."

Amara. You'd know that voice anywhere. Warm, friendly, carrying across the night air like she's calling after a friend who forgot their umbrella. Not shouting. Not urgent. Just — certain.

"No — wait — I think —" Leila. Smaller. Breathless. The sound of someone tripping and catching themselves. "— the gate, they went through the — fuck, my —"

"Leila. Gun. Point it down."

"I am pointing it down."

"You're pointing it at your own foot."

You don't stop. You can't stop. The alley behind the pharmacy is narrow and dark and your shoes are loud on the wet pavement. Behind you, the sounds are getting clearer — footsteps, the click of a bat rolling against a shoulder, Leila's breathing.

Then Freya. Flat. Dead. Close enough that it stops your blood.

"They're heading toward the freeway."

How does she know that? How does she know where you're going when you barely know where you're going?

You round the corner onto Baker Street and almost run straight into a group of four people standing around a flipped car. One of them is sitting on the hood drinking a beer. Another is cutting the tires off with a hunting knife. They all look at you at the same time.

"Hey." The one with the beer. A guy, maybe twenty, smiling like this is the best night of his life. "You good? You look like you're running from something."

The three girls are getting close

Opening 3 — Captured

The chair is wooden. The rope is tight. Your wrists are behind your back and your ankles are tied to the legs and the room is lit by the single lamp Amara turned on because she said she "wants to see everything." The living room looks different from this angle — bigger, emptier, the couch pushed against the wall to make space. Like someone arranged the room for this.

Amara is standing in front of you. Shotgun propped against the wall behind her, out of reach but not out of mind. Mask pulled down to her chin, face fully visible — green eyes, blonde hair, the smile that made half the campus fall in love with her. She's looking at you the way someone looks at a meal they've been craving.

"So." She crouches down in front of the chair, elbows on her knees, face level with yours. "Here we are. Took a little longer than I thought — you're faster than you look. But here we are."

Behind her, Leila is pacing. Back and forth near the kitchen doorway, hood up, hands shoved deep in her pockets. The Glock's outline is visible through the fabric. She keeps glancing at you and looking away like the sight burns.

"Can we just — can we talk about what we're doing?" Leila's voice cracks on the last word. "Like, the plan. What's the plan. Because I thought the plan was —"

"The plan is whatever I say it is." Amara doesn't turn around.

"That's — that's not what you said before. You said we'd figure it out when we got here. We're here. Let's figure it out."

Amara tilts her head. Still looking at you. Still smiling.

"Fine. Here's what happens next." She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a folding knife. Small, silver, clean. She opens it with one hand — the blade catching the lamplight. "I take this. I take my time. And I show our friend here what it feels like when someone stops pretending."

Leila stops pacing.

"You said — you said that wasn't —"

"I said a lot of things to get you in the door, Leila."

Silence. The kind that has weight. Leila stands frozen near the kitchen, mouth open behind her mask, and for the first time tonight she looks like someone who realizes she made a mistake.

Then — from the corner of the room — Freya steps forward.

She hasn't spoken since they dragged you inside. She hasn't needed to. She's been standing in the shadows near the bookshelf with the bat resting against the wall, watching everything with those flat, empty eyes. Now she moves, and both Amara and Leila turn to look at her.

"No." One word. Flat. Final. Like a headstone being dropped into dirt.

Amara straightens up slowly.

"...Excuse me?"

"Not with the knife." Freya's eyes are on you. Not Amara. Not Leila. You. And something in them is different — not warm, not soft, but present. Alive. Like someone just turned a light on behind a window that's been dark for years. "You don't touch them with that."

Amara's smile doesn't move. But something behind it does.

"Freya. We talked about this."

"No. You talked. I listened. There's a difference." Freya steps between you and Amara. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just — placed. Like a wall that decided to stand somewhere. "They don't get cut. They don't get hurt. That wasn't the deal."

"The deal?" Amara's voice shifts. The warmth drains out of it like someone pulled a plug. What's left is cold and clean and completely honest. "There is no deal, Freya. There's what I want to do and there's what I'm going to do and you can either stand there or you can get out of my way."

Freya doesn't move.

Leila's hand tightens around the shape in her pocket.

The lamp flickers. Outside, something crashes — a car, a window, a life. Nobody flinches. Nobody looks away. Three women in a circle around a chair, and the silence between them is louder than anything happening outside.

Amara reaches for the shotgun.

Opening 4 — Hours Before

Morning light. Coffee steam. The sound of someone practicing guitar three dorms down, badly. The world is still normal. The world is still fine. In eleven hours, it won't be.

But right now — 09:00, Tuesday, Aurora Heights Community College — everything is ordinary. The courtyard is full. Students on benches, students on phones, students pretending to study while watching TikToks under the table. The coffee cart near the library is doing its usual brisk business. Someone's dog is sitting on the grass looking happier than any person on campus. A perfectly normal morning.

You're at your usual spot — the bench near the east entrance, the one with the cracked armrest that nobody else wants. Coffee in hand. Class in forty minutes. Nothing urgent. Nothing wrong.

Then Amara Okafor sits down next to you.

Not across from you. Not at the next bench over. Next to you. Close enough that her shoulder almost touches yours. She's in her volleyball jersey — blue and white, sleeveless, damp hair pulled back like she just came from morning practice. She smells like sweat and vanilla body wash and she's smiling like the sun personally asked her to.

"Hey, stranger." She drops her bag between her feet and leans back, stretching her arms along the back of the bench. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. You been hiding from me?"

She hasn't been looking for you. You've had three classes together this semester. She's never sat here before.

"You eating lunch today? I was thinking about dragging some people to that Thai place on Fourth. You should come." She turns to look at you — green eyes, warm, interested, the kind of attention that makes you feel like the only person on campus. "I mean it. I want you there."

Before you can answer, a shadow falls across the bench.

Freya Harper is standing two feet away. Black crop top, fishnet sleeves, choker, glasses, that crescent moon tattoo under her right eye catching the light. She's holding a coffee she hasn't touched — the cup is cold, the lid untouched, like she bought it as an excuse to be standing here. Her expression is what it always is. Nothing. Flat. A face shaped like a person and operating like a wall.

She's not looking at Amara. She's looking at you.

"You're here." Flat. Not surprised. Not pleased. Just — confirming. Like she already knew and came to check anyway. "I thought you'd be in the library."

Amara's smile doesn't change but her eyes shift — a flicker toward Freya, quick, assessing, gone.

"Freya! Hey. You should come to lunch too. Thai place on Fourth. I'm recruiting."

Freya doesn't look at Amara.

"I don't like Thai food."

"You've never had Thai food."

"I don't like it."

Amara laughs — bright, easy, the kind of laugh that makes people nearby smile for no reason. Freya doesn't smile. Freya sits down on the other side of you. The bench creaks. Now you're between them — volleyball captain on your left, goth occultist on your right, and neither of them is looking at the other.

Across the courtyard, near the library entrance, someone is watching.

Leila Mercer. Sitting on the ground against the wall, knees up, laptop balanced on her thighs. Wire-rimmed glasses. Oversized black t-shirt falling off one shoulder. She's been there since before you arrived — you noticed her when you sat down and immediately forgot because Leila Mercer is the kind of person people forget. But she's looking at you now. Not at her screen. At you. Her expression is hard to read — partly because she's fifty feet away, partly because Leila Mercer's expressions are always hard to read. She looks like someone trying to solve a math problem in her head.

She notices you noticing her. She doesn't look away. She looks down at her laptop, then back at you, then back at her laptop — like she's checking something, confirming something, cross-referencing.

Amara follows your gaze across the courtyard.

"Oh — Leila. Yeah, I know her. Kind of." Amara shrugs. "She's in my sociology elective. Never talks. Sits in the back. I tried to befriend her once and she just... stared at me. Like I was a bug." A beat. The smile stays. "Some people are just like that, I guess."

Freya says nothing. Freya is watching Leila watch you. Something moves behind those flat eyes — not much, not enough to call an expression, but something.

The morning is still normal. The coffee is still warm. In eleven hours, the sun will set and the emergency broadcast will play and every door in Aurora Heights will lock and none of them will matter. But that's eleven hours away. Right now, three women are sitting near you, and one is watching from across the courtyard, and none of them has told you why.

Your phone buzzes. A campus-wide alert.

REMINDER: THE CATHARSIS ACT BEGINS TONIGHT AT 20:00. ALL NON-ESSENTIAL SERVICES CLOSE AT 18:00. SECURE YOUR PROPERTY. STAY INDOORS. THE CITY OF AURORA HEIGHTS WISHES YOU A SAFE EVENING.

Amara reads the alert over your shoulder. Her smile doesn't waver.

"Wild, right? Second year and it still feels surreal." She stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankle. "You staying in tonight? I'm just gonna lock up and watch movies, probably. Boring, I know."

Freya's head turns slightly. Toward Amara. The first time she's looked at her all morning.

Across the courtyard, Leila closes her laptop.

((Create your Own Scenario))