"This bedroom feels different from the rest," Zhu Jianing commented at the door, his voice barely above a whisper as he hesitated on the threshold, his large frame tensing as if ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. The room's atmosphere was distinctly off, its preserved state evoking a frozen moment in time, the air thick with an unexplained heaviness that made his skin prickle. The faint scent of decay lingered, mingling with the musty odor of old fabric and dust, a subtle reminder of the Pen Spirit game's dark reputation. Zhu Jianing's flashlight beam trembled slightly as it swept across the four chairs arranged in a tight circle, the taped ballpoint pen and scattered white papers on one of them drawing his eye with an almost magnetic pull. "It has that Escape the Room feel. The clues to the exit are probably hidden here as well, right?" he added, his words laced with a mix of curiosity and dread, the room's oppressive energy amplifying his unease as he imagined hidden mechanisms or traps waiting to spring.
"No idea, this is the first time I've visited a Haunted House that gave its visitors such a great degree of freedom," Fei Youliang replied, his tone attempting to sound casual but betraying a hint of wariness as he stepped into the room, his camera capturing the eerie setup. The boss sure is confident that no accidents will happen to his customers, he thought, the absence of visible guards or obvious scares making the scenario feel unnervingly open-ended. He walked to the chairs, his footsteps echoing softly on the worn floorboards, and picked up a random piece of white paper, its surface crisp despite the room's aged appearance. On it, in bold, uneven handwriting, were the chilling questions: "When will I die? How will I die? Who will be the next to die?" The words sent a subtle chill through him, their existential dread echoing the Pen Spirit game's lore, the taped pen on the chair seeming to mock them with its fragile repair. The room's dim light from the corridor cast long shadows across the bedsheets, the preserved crime scene feel intensifying the sense that they were intruding on something sacred and dangerous.
"This looks like the Pen Spirit game, but…" Fei Youliang trailed off, his analytical mind racing as he turned to examine the ballpoint pen resting on the chair, its taped-together form looking makeshift and unstable, as if hastily repaired after some violent incident. The pen's cracked casing caught the faint light, its tip glinting ominously, evoking the supernatural rituals he had seen in films, yet this version felt too real, too unpolished for a staged prop. "Isn't this pen a bit too unconventional?" he muttered, his voice lowering as he picked it up, turning it over in his hand, the tape's adhesive rough against his skin. The room's air seemed to thicken, the scattered papers on the floor whispering of past summonings, the spirits tied to the name tags Chen Ge carried somewhere above resonating faintly with the pen's energy. Fei Youliang's confidence wavered slightly, the game's eerie simplicity clashing with the scenario's overall authenticity, making him question if this was just another trick or something more sinister.
"Does it contain some kind of hidden mechanism?" Zhu Jianing asked, his voice tinged with nervousness as he joined Fei Youliang, reaching out to take the pen from his hand, his large fingers pressing on it experimentally several times, nearly cracking the fragile casing further with his grip. The pen felt ordinary in his palm, its weight unremarkable, the ink tip dull and unresponsive, yet the act of handling it sent a subtle unease through him, as if it carried a residual energy from previous uses. "It seems like a normal pen to me," he concluded, setting it back on the chair with a soft clatter that echoed unnaturally in the quiet room. The taped repairs looked amateurish, the adhesive yellowed with age, evoking images of desperate attempts to contain something volatile. The room's preserved state, with its overturned furniture and faded posters, amplified the pen's innocuous appearance, making Zhu Jianing wonder if the real danger lay not in the prop but in the game's invocation, the spirits' presence tied to the name tags lurking just beyond perception.
"Do you still remember what the Haunted House boss said before we came in?" Fei Youliang asked, his tone shifting to a more strategic focus as he set the paper down, his mind turning to the broader structure of the scenario. The room's oppressive atmosphere seemed to press in, the faint creak of the half-open door adding to the tension, as if the corridor outside was listening. The four chairs formed a tight circle, their arrangement evoking a ritualistic gathering, the taped pen at the center a focal point that drew the eye inescapably. Fei Youliang's camera whirred softly, capturing the setup, but his earlier bravado felt hollow in the face of the room's subtle dread, the spirits tied to the name tags subtly influencing the air, making the space feel smaller, more confining.
"There are four scenarios in the Haunted House, and we have to experience them all before we can get the clues to the exit," Zhu Jianing recited, his voice low as he recalled Chen Ge's instructions, the words now carrying a heavier weight in the dim room. The Pen Spirit setup loomed before them, the white papers with their ominous questions a stark reminder of the game's dark allure, the taped pen an unassuming catalyst for potential terror. The bedroom's preserved crime scene feel intensified the stakes, the overturned lamp and scattered personal items suggesting a hasty abandonment, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags amplifying the sense of intrusion. Zhu Jianing's heart raced, the realization that this was one of the four key scenarios making him question if the exit's clues were worth the risk, the room's silence a deceptive calm before an unseen storm.
"That's right. The clues are hidden in the four small scenarios. Let's take a closer look around. In my experience, there's probably a key or paper note hidden inside this bedroom," Fei Youliang said, his voice regaining some of its analytical edge as he scanned the room, his flashlight beam sweeping across the faded curtains and dusty shelves. The Pen Spirit game's setup dominated the space, the four chairs a central altar, the taped pen and papers an invitation to engage with the unknown. The room's dimness seemed to deepen, the half-open door allowing a sliver of corridor light that cast elongated shadows across the floor, evoking the tragedy of Mu Yang High School. Fei Youliang's camera captured every detail, his plan to expose the scenario's "secrets" driving him forward, oblivious to the spirits tied to the name tags, their subtle presence weaving a web of dread around the intruders.
The bedroom was small and cluttered, its preserved state making every corner a potential hiding spot, but as the pair meticulously searched—from under the beds to behind the curtains, rifling through drawers filled with faded letters and broken trinkets—they came up with nothing, the absence of clues heightening their frustration. The taped pen remained untouched on the chair, its fragile form a silent challenge, the white papers with their morbid questions mocking their efforts. The room's air grew heavier, the faint creak of the door a constant reminder of the corridor's endless darkness, the spirits tied to the name tags subtly influencing the search, their energy ensuring no easy answers would be found. Fei Youliang's brow furrowed, his camera whirring as he documented the fruitless hunt, the bedroom's oppressive atmosphere pressing in, making the space feel even smaller, the Pen Spirit game's setup the only obvious focal point left unexplored.
"This Haunted House is not that easy to unlock, and the design is incredibly detailed," Fei Youliang admitted, his voice tinged with reluctant admiration as he placed the paper back on the table, noting that three sheets bore the ominous questions while one remained blank, its emptiness a deliberate invitation. The taped pen sat beside it, its cracked casing glinting faintly, evoking the game's supernatural lore. "Does this mean that we have to play the Pen Spirit game at least once before we can get the answer?" he mused, his analytical mind turning to the scenario's structure, the blank paper a puzzle piece demanding interaction. The room's dim light cast eerie shadows across the chairs, the spirits tied to the name tags seeming to converge on the setup, their energy amplifying the dread of engaging with the pen, the bedroom's preserved crime scene feel intensifying the stakes of the ritual they were about to undertake.
"Playing the Pen Spirit game inside a Haunted House doesn't sound like a good idea," Zhu Jianing said, his voice flustered as he reread the chilling questions on the papers, the existential dread of death's inevitability hitting closer to home in the scenario's oppressive confines. The taped pen's fragility seemed to mock his hesitation, its repaired state a symbol of something broken yet persistent, the blank paper waiting for their invocation. The room's air felt colder, the half-open door allowing a draft that carried whispers from the corridor, the spirits' presence tied to the name tags subtly urging them toward the game. Zhu Jianing's heart pounded, the memory of the sealed classroom's eyes flashing in his mind, making the Pen Spirit ritual feel like a dangerous gamble in this already unnerving place.
"Of the four scenarios, this one seems the simplest. If you don't want to do this, we'll need to go back to that classroom. Would you prefer that?" Fei Youliang said, waving his hand impatiently, his frustration mounting at Zhu Jianing's reluctance. The taped pen and blank paper loomed on the chair, the game's setup a straightforward challenge compared to the sealed classroom's lingering dread. "Plus, do you really think there is a Pen Spirit in this world? Get over here. We'll try it once, and if it doesn't work, we'll leave." His words were dismissive, clinging to rationality, but a subtle unease gnawed at him, the room's atmosphere thickening as if the spirits tied to the name tags disapproved of their skepticism. The bedroom's dimness deepened, the scattered papers on the floor rustling faintly, the Pen Spirit game a threshold they were about to cross, its supernatural potential a hidden threat in the underground scenario.
Fei Youliang felt a growing discomfort, an inexplicable tightness gripping his chest like an unseen hand clutching his heart, the room's oppressive energy intensifying as he positioned the taped pen over the blank paper. Zhu Jianing, unwilling but compelled by peer pressure and the fear of failure, shuffled forward, his large frame casting a long shadow across the chairs. They stood on opposite sides, the circle of seats forming a ritualistic barrier, the half-open door creaking softly as if protesting their intrusion. The spirits tied to the name tags, carried by Chen Ge above, seemed to resonate with the setup, their energy subtly amplifying the game's dread, the bedroom's preserved crime scene feel evoking a real tragedy waiting to unfold. Fei Youliang's camera whirred, capturing the moment, oblivious to the supernatural forces stirring in response to their invocation.
"But I don't know how the game works," Zhu Jianing said, his voice laced with reluctance as he squatted beside the chair, his hands hovering uncertainly over the pen, the taped repairs rough under his fingers. The blank paper stared up at him, its emptiness a void demanding answers, the ominous questions on the other sheets echoing in his mind. The room's chill seeped through his clothes, the faint draft from the door carrying whispers that sounded like distant chants, the spirits' presence tied to the name tags making the ritual feel perilously real. Zhu Jianing's heart raced, the Pen Spirit game's lore—summoning spirits through questions of death—clashing with his rational mind, the bedroom's dimness amplifying his hesitation as he awaited Fei Youliang's guidance.
"Don't worry, I've seen many movies about the Pen Spirit. I've even tried it out a few times at home. It's just a trick and can be scientifically explained," Fei Youliang assured, his voice steady as he straightened the taped pen, hovering its tip over the blank paper, the fragile instrument trembling slightly in his grip. "Cross your fingers over mine and grab the pen tightly," he instructed, his tone authoritative, drawing on his film experience to dismiss the game's supernatural claims. The room's air grew heavier, the half-open door allowing a cold draft that rustled the papers on the floor, the spirits tied to the name tags subtly influencing the atmosphere, their energy converging on the ritual. Fei Youliang's camera captured the setup, his skepticism a shield against the growing dread, the bedroom's preserved state a canvas for the game's potential horrors.
"Okay," Zhu Jianing replied, his voice subdued as he squatted down beside the chair, interlacing his fingers over Fei Youliang's and gripping the pen tightly, the taped casing rough against his skin. "Now what?" he asked, his breath shallow, the pen's weight feeling unnaturally heavy in their joined hands, as if resisting their touch. The blank paper lay before them, its surface pristine and expectant, the ominous questions on the other sheets a grim prelude to the invocation. The room's dimness seemed to deepen, the faint creak of the door and the rustle of papers on the floor heightening the tension, the spirits' presence tied to the name tags stirring in response to their grip on the pen. Zhu Jianing's heart pounded, the ritual's intimacy—a shared hold on the instrument of summoning—making him feel exposed, the bedroom's crime scene preservation amplifying the sense that they were reenacting a tragic event from Mu Yang High School's past.
"Just be quiet," Fei Youliang commanded, his voice low as he wrote "YES" and "NO" on the white paper with his free hand, the ink scratching faintly against the surface. When the bedroom fell into complete silence, broken only by their shallow breaths, he began the chant, his words measured and rhythmic. "Pen Spirit, Pen Spirit, you are my spirit from my previous life, and I am your spirit in this life. If you are with us, please draw a circle on the paper." The invocation hung in the air, the taped pen trembling slightly under their fingers, the room's oppressive energy seeming to respond with a subtle shift, the spirits tied to the name tags converging on the ritual. The half-open door creaked wider, the corridor's darkness spilling in like ink, the bedroom's dimness amplifying the chant's eerie resonance, the Pen Spirit game's lore coming alive in ways Fei Youliang's rational mind couldn't dismiss.
As Fei Youliang finished the chant, a cold blast of wind suddenly shook the half-opened door of the bedroom, the dilapidated wood groaning as it swung wider, revealing the empty and dim corridor beyond. The gust carried a chill that seeped through their clothes, Zhu Jianing shivering involuntarily and shrinking back into the room, his grip on the pen tightening in reflexive fear. The wind rustled the papers on the floor, their edges fluttering like trapped souls seeking escape, the ominous questions on the sheets seeming to whisper in the draft. The room's temperature plummeted, the cold rising from the floor like mist from a grave, the spirits tied to the name tags manifesting their presence through the unnatural breeze, the Pen Spirit ritual awakening forces that Fei Youliang's camera couldn't capture. The bedroom's preserved crime scene feel intensified, the overturned furniture and faded posters evoking a space haunted by unfinished business, the door's movement a silent invitation to deeper dread.
"Stop moving," Fei Youliang hissed, his body frozen like a statue as he stared at the sharp end of the pen, the tip hovering over the blank paper, his breath catching in his throat. The chilling wind streamed through the bedroom, carrying faint whispers that sounded like distant chants, the papers on the floor fluttering as if flipped by an invisible hand. The temperature continued to drop, coldness seeping up from their ankles like icy fingers grasping at their resolve, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags amplifying the ritual's supernatural pull. Fei Youliang's heart raced, his earlier skepticism cracking under the room's escalating dread, the taped pen trembling under their fingers as if alive, the blank paper waiting expectantly for the Pen Spirit's response. The half-open door swung lazily in the draft, the corridor's darkness a void that seemed to beckon, the bedroom's dimness closing in like a trap sprung.
When someone is asked to hold the same position under a highly stressful situation, one's senses would be heightened to an excruciating degree, every creak and whisper amplified into a potential threat. This was not unlike a form of torture for the pair in the middle of the Pen Spirit game, their muscles straining to maintain the rigid pose, the taped pen's weight feeling heavier with each passing second. The wind's chill deepened, the fluttering papers on the floor rustling like dry leaves in a graveyard, the ominous questions on the sheets seeming to mock their vulnerability. Zhu Jianing's arms ached, his mind racing with the drawer's eyes from the sealed classroom, the ritual's intimacy—a shared grip on the pen—making him feel exposed, the spirits tied to the name tags weaving a web of psychological torment. The bedroom's preserved crime scene state intensified the strain, the overturned lamp casting erratic shadows that danced like specters, the half-open door's draft a constant reminder of the corridor's endless darkness.
The decrepit bedroom seemed to turn darker with each gust of wind, the dirtied bedsheet rippling as if something slithered beneath it, the fabric undulating in a way that suggested hidden movement. Ten minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness, the pair's hands, suspended midair over the paper, beginning to tremble from the strain, their fingers slick with sweat around the taped pen. A series of dots started to appear on the blank paper, faint and irregular at first, as if the pen was scratching itself into reluctant life, the ink bleeding slightly into the surface. The spirits tied to the name tags, their energy converging on the ritual, manifested through the pen's subtle movements, the room's temperature plummeting further as the cold seeped upward, numbing their legs. The fluttering papers on the floor settled, the half-open door creaking shut with a final groan, trapping them in the bedroom's intensifying dread, the Pen Spirit game's invocation drawing forth responses from beyond the veil.
Zhu Jianing's voice quavered as he broke the tense silence, his nerves frayed from the oppressive atmosphere of the Pen Spirit room, the air thick with an unnatural chill that seemed to seep into his bones. "Has the Pen Spirit arrived?" he asked, his words barely audible, his large frame trembling as he gripped the taped ballpoint pen, its fragile form a stark contrast to the dread it evoked. The room's preserved crime scene aesthetic—scattered papers, overturned furniture, and the four chairs arranged in a tight circle—intensified his unease, the faint creak of the half-open door echoing like a distant warning. The spirits tied to the twenty-four name tags, carried by Chen Ge somewhere above in his Doctor Skull-cracker outfit, seemed to converge on the ritual, their energy amplifying the room's suffocating tension, making Zhu Jianing's heart pound as he awaited a response, the memory of the sealed classroom's staring eyes still vivid in his mind.
Fei Youliang, struggling to maintain his composure, responded with a measured tone, aiming to quell Zhu Jianing's rising panic. "Many movies set the time for Pen Spirit to appear after ten minutes. If there's no reaction within ten minutes, it means that the game has failed, but this is a made-up rule. Often, people think that the Pen Spirit has arrived, but in reality, it is merely a psychological effect," he explained, his voice steady but tinged with a forced calm, as if he were convincing himself as much as his teammate. The bedroom's dimness deepened, the flickering flashlight beams casting erratic shadows across the dirtied bedsheets, which seemed to ripple faintly, as if stirred by an unseen presence. "This place is one of the four scenarios mentioned by the boss. We'll try to follow his rules for now and see what kind of tricks he can play on us." The spirits' energy, tied to the name tags, pulsed subtly, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy making the ritual feel perilously real, the taped pen a conduit for forces Fei Youliang's rational mind refused to acknowledge.
As Fei Youliang finished speaking, the ballpoint pen in their joined hands twitched, a slight but unmistakable movement that sent a jolt through both men, their fingers tightening reflexively around the taped casing. "Was that you?" they asked in unison, their voices overlapping in the dim room, their eyes locking to see mirrored shock on each other's faces, the flashlight beams trembling across the scattered papers on the floor. The moment hung heavy, the room's oppressive silence broken only by the faint rustle of the papers, as if the spirits tied to the name tags were stirring, their energy responding to the ritual's invocation. The half-open door creaked softly, the corridor's darkness looming like an abyss, amplifying the tension as the men grappled with the pen's movement, their plan to sabotage Chen Ge's Haunted House now teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous than a staged trick.
"It wasn't me," Zhu Jianing blurted, his denial rushed and panicked, his earlier fear from the sealed classroom's drawer eyes surging back with renewed intensity, the pen's movement shattering his fragile composure. He stood frozen, his large frame hunched over the chair, the taped pen trembling in their grip as if resisting their control, the room's chill deepening with each passing second. "Youliang, do you think the real Pen Spirit has arrived?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes darting to the scattered papers with their ominous questions—"When will I die? How will I die? Who will be the next to die?"—their words now seeming like a prophecy in the bedroom's eerie stillness. The spirits' presence, tied to the name tags, pulsed stronger, their energy weaving through the ritual, making the air feel heavy with unspoken warnings, the taped pen a fragile bridge to the supernatural forces of Mu Yang High School.
Fei Youliang's face tightened, his analytical mind clinging to logic as he responded, though his tone betrayed a flicker of doubt. "Don't be silly. The Pen Spirit game utilizes the game's format and the environment to create psychological pressure. The elongated time of maintaining a constant posture will cause the pen to appear like it has moved on its own even though it is actually the result of our bodies reacting to the environmental and physiological stimulus," he said, his words sounding rehearsed, as if he were reciting a script to ward off the growing unease gripping his chest. "Our subconscious imagines that the pen has moved, and it has influenced our conscious mind." The room's atmosphere thickened, the dirtied bedsheet rippling faintly as if something stirred beneath, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags amplifying the ritual's dread, challenging Fei Youliang's skepticism with the pen's subtle but undeniable movement.
As Fei Youliang finished his explanation, the pen moved again, this time with a deliberate jerk that was impossible to dismiss, the taped casing scraping against the blank paper with a faint scratch that echoed in the silent room. The pair's eyes snapped to the paper in unison, their flashlights illuminating the faint dots that had appeared earlier, now connected by a wavering line forming an irregular circle, its uneven edges a stark contrast to the paper's pristine surface. The sight sent a chill through them, the spirits tied to the name tags seeming to manifest through the ink, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy turning the ritual into something far beyond a psychological trick. The room's dimness deepened, the half-open door's creak amplifying the tension, the fluttering papers on the floor settling as if in acknowledgment of the circle's completion, the Pen Spirit's presence now undeniable in the underground scenario's oppressive confines.
"F*ck! It's really here!" Zhu Jianing's voice cracked with panic, his first instinct to yank his hand back from the pen, his large frame recoiling from the chair as fear overwhelmed him. Fei Youliang's grip tightened, stopping him mid-motion, his own heart racing despite his rational facade. "Whether or not it is the real Pen Spirit, we have to continue this game," he said, his voice firm but laced with urgency, his flashlight beam trembling slightly as it illuminated the irregular circle on the paper. The room's chill deepened, the taped pen quivering in their hands, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags pulsing stronger, their protective legacy from Mu Yang High School now fully engaged, making the ritual feel like a dangerous gamble. The half-open door swayed lazily, the corridor's darkness a constant reminder of the unseen forces watching, the bedroom's preserved crime scene aesthetic amplifying the dread of what they had summoned.
"Why?" Zhu Jianing asked, his voice trembling as he hovered over the chair, his fingers still locked with Fei Youliang's around the pen, the taped casing rough against his sweating palms. The irregular circle on the paper stared up at him, its jagged lines evoking a ritual completed, the ominous questions on the scattered papers—"When will I die? How will I die? Who will be the next to die?"—now a haunting backdrop to their predicament. The spirits' presence, tied to the name tags, seemed to tighten around them, the room's air growing heavier, the faint rustle of the bedsheet suggesting movement beneath, as if the Pen Spirit itself was stirring. Zhu Jianing's heart pounded, the ritual's intimacy—two intruders bound by a shared grip on the pen—making him feel exposed, the underground scenario's eerie realism shattering his earlier bravado.
Fei Youliang's response was measured, his voice calm but strained, as if wrestling with his own doubts. "If it is the real Pen Spirit, if we end the game without sending it off, we'll be cursed by the Spirit until we die; if it is fake, then there is no reason for us to be afraid, and everything is just a trick arranged by the boss to scare us." The words were logical, but the room's oppressive energy, amplified by the spirits tied to the name tags, made them ring hollow, the taped pen's quivering a silent challenge to his skepticism. The half-open door creaked again, the corridor's darkness seeming to pulse with unseen watchers, the bedroom's preserved state—scattered papers, overturned lamp—evoking a ritual interrupted, now resumed by their reckless invocation. Fei Youliang's camera whirred, capturing the moment, oblivious to the supernatural forces converging on the paper's irregular circle.
"Then what shall we do next?" Zhu Jianing asked, his voice barely audible, his large frame hunched over the chair, his fingers trembling around the pen, the taped repairs digging into his skin. The irregular circle on the paper seemed to glow faintly under their flashlights, its uneven lines a testament to the ritual's success, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags making the room feel alive with unseen eyes. The ominous questions on the scattered papers loomed in his mind, their existential dread amplifying his fear of what the Pen Spirit might reveal. The bedroom's chill deepened, the half-open door allowing a faint draft that rustled the papers on the floor, the spirits' presence a constant pressure, urging them to proceed with the ritual they had unwittingly awakened.
"Try to ask it some questions, and then send the Pen Spirit away," Fei Youliang said calmly, though his grip on the pen tightened, his knuckles whitening as he fought to maintain control. The taped pen quivered in their hands, the blank paper now marked with the irregular circle, a silent confirmation of the ritual's power, the spirits tied to the name tags amplifying the moment's dread. "What kind of questions we should ask? Questions like the ones written on the other paper?" Zhu Jianing asked, pointing to the scattered sheets on the floor, their morbid inquiries—"When will I die? How will I die? Who will be the next to die?"—a grim temptation in the room's oppressive silence. The half-open door creaked again, the corridor's darkness a void that seemed to beckon, the bedroom's preserved crime scene aesthetic intensifying the stakes of their next move.
"That is a trap. We must not ask the Pen Spirit questions that are related to death. Try to ask some random questions," Fei Youliang warned, his voice firm but tinged with unease, his flashlight beam lingering on the scattered papers, their ominous words a dangerous lure. The room's air grew heavier, the spirits' energy tied to the name tags converging on the ritual, their protective legacy from Mu Yang High School making the taped pen feel alive in their hands. "Yes, let me try." Fei Youliang gripped Zhu Jianing's hand tighter, his voice softening as he paused, the silence stretching taut. "Pen Spirit, Pen Spirit, can you tell me the name of my future wife?" he muttered, the question deliberately innocuous, a shield against the ritual's darker potential. The bedroom's dimness deepened, the half-open door still, the spirits' presence pulsing stronger, their response imminent.
To Fei Youliang's shock, as he finished the question, the wind inside the bedroom abruptly ceased, the fluttering papers on the floor falling still, the half-open door frozen in place, as if the room itself held its breath. An insurmountable pressure expanded from behind him, a suffocating force that seemed to press against his back, the spirits tied to the name tags manifesting their presence with chilling intensity. The taped pen in their hands quivered violently, its tip scraping against the blank paper, and three words began to form, the ink bleeding into the surface with deliberate, uneven strokes. The room's temperature plummeted, the preserved crime scene aesthetic—scattered papers, dirtied bedsheet—amplifying the dread, the spirits' energy converging on the ritual, their connection to Mu Yang High School's tragedy turning the Pen Spirit game into a gateway to terrors the pair could scarcely comprehend.