In Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean, and Japanese, the pronunciation of the number 4 sounds similar to the word for "death." That's why it's widely regarded as an unlucky number. Some buildings skip the fourth and fourteenth floors entirely. There are no ferries labeled "No. 4" in Hong Kong. In Taiwan, you'll rarely see license plates ending in 4. And when people choose phone numbers, they tend to avoid those that end with it.
I used to think this kind of superstition was nonsense. But that night, as I stared at the room number above my head, I found myself hesitating.
"Room 444."
The address printed on the flyer was entirely accurate. Even I couldn't believe such a place actually existed in Jiangcheng.
"Should I go in?"
It felt like I'd reached the final level of a video game, and my emotions were a chaotic mix.
The pitch-black corridor stretched endlessly forward. I stepped on crumbling wood and what felt like dried-out insect corpses. Most unnerving of all: this was four stories underground. My phone had suddenly gone dark for no reason, and even my German-made 8,000-volt stun gun had stopped working. I had no backup. I would face whatever came next with nothing but my bare hands.
Between the eerie surroundings and the old woman's hidden poem, fear crawled up my spine, growing stronger the more I thought about it.
"If this were just a prank or some weird reality show, it would've taken an absurd amount of effort. And I've looked closely—there aren't any cameras, no obvious signs of human tampering. This doesn't feel like a joke."
I placed my hand on the doorknob. In my mind, I imagined opening the door and finding a dozen cameras pointing at me, with a well-dressed host rushing up to shout:
"Congratulations, Mr. Gao! You've passed the test. Here's your million-dollar prize!"
It was a nice fantasy.
Reality was much bleaker.
Creak.
The door groaned as it opened, releasing a cloud of dust. I stepped inside.
"Is anyone here?"
A flickering overhead light cast weak illumination. The place reeked of mildew. Broken furniture was piled in the middle of the room. And on the far wall, four large characters had been painted in jagged strokes:
Netherworld Live.
No flashing cameras.
No bloody ghosts dragging their severed heads across the floor.
Not the best-case scenario—but not the worst, either. The place appeared to be an abandoned storage room.
"I can't let my guard down. Since Xia Qingzhi's address was legit, this could be where her brother was killed. Which means… I might be standing in the middle of a murder scene."
I closed the door behind me. The unstable light flickered overhead, but offered a tiny measure of comfort.
"Anyone here?"
The lights were on, but the furnishings gave the sense the place hadn't been touched in years.
The carpet beneath my feet was soaked and torn, almost like stepping on clumps of dried, bloody hair.
The floor creaked with every step, and in the exposed gaps I spotted the curled corpses of dead insects.
The furniture at the center of the room had been carved with all sorts of disturbing words. Deep scratch marks—likely from fingernails—raked across the wood. Whoever once sat here must have suffered immensely.
At the far end, the words Netherworld Live had been painted in bright red. At first glance, nothing seemed off. But the longer I stared, the more those characters seemed to twist—sinister and grotesque.
"Paint usually flakes and darkens with time. But this hue… deep red with hints of brown… that's a pattern more common to blood."
Near the inner wall was a small door. Finding nothing of value in the main room, curiosity drove me to push it open.
Hiss.
A chill hit me like a slap. I froze at the threshold.
Inside the small room stood a long, black ceremonial table—about two meters in length. And seated at the far end of it were three people.
They wore formal suits—almost like talk show hosts. But what unsettled me most was their masks—traditional white paper faces used to dress up the dead. At first glance, I thought they were paper mannequins.
"Are you here for the interview?"
The man in the middle lifted his head in jerky movements. His voice was low and hoarse, like the sound of a rusted lid being pried off a tin can.
"Yes, that's right. I'm here for the interview."
I had no idea who these people were. They might be the ones responsible for Xia Qingzhi's brother's disappearance—or worse. In front of cold-blooded murderers, staying calm was the only way to survive.
"I happened to come across your company's flyer," I said smoothly, placing the crumpled card on the black table. "I found your platform intriguing. In this era of streaming, only innovation and originality lead to success. That's why I want to join Netherworld Live."
The three of them looked at one another.
Was it just my imagination, or were those masks… smiling?
"Finding your way here is rare," the center figure said, folding his hands under his chin. "But Netherworld Live isn't something the living can handle."
His voice was flat, emotionless.
"Can I ask you a few questions?"
"Of course."
Years ago, after getting expelled from police academy, I'd faked résumés and been through countless interviews. I knew the tricks—what HR officers liked to hear, and what questions they always asked.
I nodded with confident ease. "Go ahead."
"Name?"
"Gao Jian."
"Do you have any relevant experience? Have you streamed on other platforms before?"
"Unfortunately, no," I replied honestly. "But I'm a strong communicator and great at improvisation. My personality is a good fit for this line of work."
Honesty about your weaknesses, confidence in your strengths—that was classic interview strategy.
"Well said," the man replied. "But our hosts are different. They don't just chat with viewers. They need to protect themselves… and stay alive."
Stay alive?
That's when I realized I was no longer in control of the situation.
"Yes, it's very simple," he continued, stroking his mask, the movement twisting the paper into a grotesque expression. "You just have to survive. That's all."
He leaned forward.
"In this city, countless urban legends hide in plain sight. A cursed thirteenth step in an abandoned school. A last train full of the dead. Blurred faces in 3AM security footage. A girl in red who never stops knocking…"
"There are so many of them. Are you sure they're just stories?"
"If you'd asked me that earlier, I would've laughed and said: yes, of course, they're all made up."
"Wait… are you saying that Netherworld Live streamers have to go to these places and look for ghosts?!"
"You catch on fast. I'm starting to like you."
The man laughed—a dry, inhuman sound.
"We stream in the shadows of midnight. We confront the city's deepest nightmares. Doesn't that thrill you?"
"Streaming ghost stories live… that's certainly unique. I can see the appeal. Some viewers are really into that stuff."
I played along, but inside I was already thinking of a way to get out.
Truth be told, I don't mind watching horror films.
But starring in one?
That's a whole different thing.
Just imagining myself opening coffins at midnight, trespassing haunted homes, or being chased by ghosts made my skin crawl.
"Ghost stories? No, no… you still don't get it."
The man leaned closer, voice like a whisper through bone.
"Reality is always scarier than fiction.
And I promise you—the deepest despair you'll ever feel… will begin the moment you learn the truth."
"What do you mean?"
"The answer lies in this city. You will become a witness to another world. You'll see real horror."
There wasn't a shred of humor in his voice. Just flat, lifeless certainty.
This wasn't an act.
At this point, I was nearly convinced: Netherworld Live wasn't some prank. It wasn't a TV show.
I had stumbled into something very, very real.
I shifted slightly, preparing to leave.
But the masked man must've sensed my hesitation.
Without him making a move, the heavy door behind me groaned, slowly creaking shut.
"Don't be nervous," he said, voice low.
"Your interview has only just begun."