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Piggy’s cleaver stopped an inch from her skull. His head twitched, tracking the badge as it clattered into a ring toss game. A slot machine sound played.

“He’s scripted to miss the first hit,” she shouted. “Deliberately! It’s part of the Hunt Event!”

Minty spun. He was already behind her, cleaver raised. No dodge window. No counter. The OP script’s final trick: a guaranteed hit unless…

The carnival lights died. The music reversed.

“That,” Minty whispered, “was not easy.”

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