"Are you serious?" Liu Dao's voice pitched higher on the other end of the line, a nervous laugh escaping despite himself. "That sounds an awful lot like a threat." He had only known Chen Ge for a short time, but the Haunted House boss had already proven himself… unconventional. The calm, almost casual way Chen Ge delivered warnings that could be interpreted as deadly promises made Liu Dao's skin prickle. He gripped the phone tighter, glancing around his dimly lit office as if Qin Guang might somehow overhear.
"No threat," Chen Ge replied, his tone steady and sincere, the night breeze rustling through the empty park around him. "It's genuine advice. Just pass it along exactly as I said." Internally, he was already commending his own kindness. Qin Guang's shameless copying irritated him, but at the end of the day they were competitors in the same field, not mortal enemies. More importantly, Qin Guang's streams involved large crews—cameramen, assistants, planners—all innocent people risking real danger if they followed Chen Ge into places like Mu Yang High School. "Tell him to stop chasing my trends. He might ruin himself—and think about the lives depending on him."
Liu Dao's mind reeled. Competitor? Ruin himself? Innocent lives? The conversation had veered into territory that felt less like streaming rivalry and more like a mob warning. "Chen Ge, I get that you're upset," he said carefully, trying to de-escalate. "But we can beat him with better content. Threats might backfire—the platform could side with him, or worse, he could sue. Let's stay smart about this. Our first collab is tomorrow; we don't want drama derailing it."
Chen Ge's soft chuckle carried over the line. "You wouldn't understand even if I explained," he said, glancing up at the Haunted House's darkened facade, its windows like empty eyes watching him. "See you tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk details then." He ended the call before Liu Dao could protest further, pocketing the phone with a quiet sigh. The livestream showdown, the rivalry, the platform politics—it all felt trivial compared to the black phone's real missions. Popularity and views were bonuses; survival and his parents' clues were the only prizes that mattered.
He pushed through the park's side gate, the Haunted House looming silent and waiting. The white cat was nowhere on the tree branch where she'd spent the day. Chen Ge scanned the canopy, a pang of disappointment settling in his chest. She had left, slipping away into the city's shadows as silently as she'd arrived. Multi-colored eyes were rare in strays; she had clearly come from a bred line once, yet fate had reduced her to fighting for survival in alleys. He had hoped to earn her trust, to turn her sensitivity to ghosts into a weapon against the Third Sick Hall's horrors, but living creatures couldn't be forced. Freedom was her choice, and he respected it, even if it left the breakroom feeling a little emptier.
Chen Ge let himself into the Haunted House, the familiar creak of the door greeting him like an old friend. The long corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by emergency strips, his solitary shadow stretching endlessly across the floor. The building felt lifeless at night—no screams, no footsteps, just the faint hum of electricity and the lingering scent of fake blood and fog fluid. He had grown accustomed to the solitude; it was almost comforting now, a quiet space to think between the chaos of missions and visitors. He washed his face in the bathroom, cold water chasing away the day's dust and tension, then headed for the staff breakroom to finally rest.
He reached for the handle—and paused. The door was ajar, a thin sliver of darkness visible. Chen Ge's instincts sharpened. He carried one key; the spare was hidden above the frame for staff emergencies. Xu Wan would have locked it before leaving. Someone—or something—had been inside.
He detoured silently to the props room, selecting Doctor Skull-cracker's heavy iron mallet, its weight reassuring in his grip. Returning on silent feet, he nudged the breakroom door open with the mallet's head. The room was dim, shapes indistinct, no movement, no sound. He flicked the light switch. Nothing seemed out of place—until his eyes landed on the table. His dirt-streaked jacket from the night he rescued the cat lay folded there, when he distinctly remembered hanging it by the bed that morning.
Chen Ge approached cautiously, mallet raised, and used the handle to lift the jacket's edge. Beneath it, curled in a perfect white ball, was the cat—scarred face tucked against her paws, heterochromatic eyes glinting with mild annoyance at being disturbed. Behind her, half-buried under her fluffy tail, Xiaoxiao lay frozen in an awkward pose, one stitched arm outstretched as if she'd been trying to grab the tail and been caught mid-act. The ragdoll's button eyes were wide, her entire cloth body rigid in the universal specter language of I'm not here, you saw nothing.
Chen Ge lowered the mallet, a surprised laugh escaping him. The cat hadn't left after all—she'd found her way inside, used his jacket as a nest, and somehow turned the breakroom into her territory. Even Xiaoxiao, the fearless Baleful Specter, had been reduced to playing dead under that imperious gaze. The white cat flicked an ear, resuming her nap as if to say the intrusion was forgiven—but barely. Chen Ge set the mallet aside, the night's tension easing into something softer. The Haunted House had its new guardian, and she clearly intended to stay.
The spare key hidden above the breakroom doorframe was meant to be a secret known only to the Haunted House's human staff, a practical backup for emergencies. But Xiaoxiao, the mischievous ragdoll who roamed the corridors every night like a tiny, blood-stained monarch, had clearly discovered it long ago. By now, she probably knew more nooks and crannies of the building than Chen Ge himself—every loose floorboard that creaked perfectly for a scare, every shadow that deepened just right under the lights. The doll's stitched smile seemed to widen knowingly as Chen Ge realized the implications: his Haunted House had a pint-sized, undead manager who came and went as she pleased.
Chen Ge reached under the table and hauled Xiaoxiao out by one limp leg, giving her a gentle but firm shake in mid-air. The ragdoll dangled helplessly, button eyes wide in exaggerated innocence. A small copper key clinked free from the hidden pocket sewn into her dress and landed on the floor with a bright ping. "Are you trying to take over as manager?" Chen Ge asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated. He set Xiaoxiao on the table beside the white cat—who regarded the doll with supreme indifference—and returned the key to its hiding spot above the frame. Standing alone in the cold, dimly lit corridor afterward, he glanced back through the open door. The breakroom, with its soft lamp glow, the cat's pristine fur, and Xiaoxiao's crumpled form, suddenly felt strangely warm and alive, a pocket of light in the Haunted House's usual nocturnal chill.
Xiaoxiao remained sprawled where he'd placed her, one arm flopped dramatically as if she'd fainted from the indignity. The white cat, stretched lazily across the table like a small, scarred queen, didn't deign to acknowledge the doll's presence beyond a single flick of her tail. Yet she made no move to shove Xiaoxiao away, allowing the ragdoll to remain within the warm circle of her personal space. The cat's mismatched eyes half-closed in contentment, her breathing slow and even, as though the breakroom's quiet night and the familiar scents of jacket and old blood were enough to lull even her fierce guard down.
Chen Ge leaned against the doorframe, lips curving into a genuine, if tired, smile. "Used to be just me rattling around this place at night," he murmured to the empty corridor. The Haunted House had always been his solitary domain after closing—echoing footsteps his own, shadows his only company. But now it felt different, rowdier in the best way. A scarred stray who could stare down specters, a ragdoll Baleful Specter who pickpocketed keys for fun, and twenty-four lingering spirits waiting patiently in their classroom. The building was filling with life—or something close to it.
He closed the breakroom door softly, leaving the unlikely duo to their truce, and settled into the chair by the desk. The black phone's screen lit his face as he opened the daily missions tab. Three tasks glowed in familiar gothic font: hire additional workers, conduct a full safety inspection, and install a sturdier door for the Mu Yang High School scenario. Each one addressed a real, pressing need—the Haunted House was growing faster than its skeleton crew and aging infrastructure could support.
Chen Ge tapped the screen thoughtfully. All three missions tackled imminent problems: staffing shortages strained every busy day, hidden hazards multiplied with each new scenario, and the flimsy wooden boards sealing Mu Yang High School wouldn't hold if the lingering spirits ever grew restless. He updated the Haunted House's online pages first—adding Mu Yang High School's grand opening details, the challenge rules, and the tantalizing 20,000-yuan reward. Then he posted a recruitment ad: simple, direct, with one non-negotiable requirement—the applicant had to be genuinely brave. No actors needed; courage was the only currency that mattered here.
He could delay hiring if necessary; Uncle Xu's help at the ticket booth kept things manageable for now. But security couldn't wait. Chen Ge selected the safety inspection as his daily mission, determined to clear it tonight. He moved methodically through every corridor and scenario, checking loose wiring, testing emergency lights, tightening bolts on props that had taken one too many panicked shoves from visitors. Hours slipped by, the Haunted House's familiar creaks and groans his only company. Yet when he returned to the phone, the mission remained incomplete.
Chen Ge frowned at the screen, frustration mounting. He had inspected every accessible corner—Mu Yang High School's classrooms, the dormitory, the well, even the newly fused Hai Ming rooms. Tomorrow's potential three-star Trial Mission loomed; he couldn't afford to waste the night chasing an elusive daily task. He paced the main corridor, replaying his route. Then it hit him like a cold draft from an open window.
The bathroom mirror.
The one with the blood-red door that appeared every midnight.
He hadn't checked it—not truly. The black cloth still covered it, but the door behind it, the one that rattled and bled, was the biggest safety hazard in the entire building. Chen Ge's grip tightened on the phone. That had to be it. The daily mission wasn't complete because the greatest danger remained unaddressed: a literal gateway to somewhere else, waiting for the clock to strike twelve. He glanced at the time—still hours away—but the realization settled like lead in his gut. Some doors couldn't be reinforced with nails and planks. Some required something far stronger.