Acute myocardial infarction was ruled the cause of death by the forensic pathologist. But why would a perfectly healthy person suddenly drop dead from a heart attack? No one could explain that clearly.
I grabbed a newspaper from that day, skimmed through it quickly, stuffed it into my pocket, then hurried out with my gear.
"I don't believe in ghosts—unless I see one with my own eyes."
To save time, I hailed a taxi. Coincidentally, the driver was Uncle Baldy—the same guy from before.
"Yo, streamer! Just handed over the car and already run into you. Fate, huh!"
"North suburb, Peaceful Inn. Please hurry."
I wasn't in the mood for small talk, my mind fully occupied by the Netherworld Live Show task.
Why did they pick that place? Who was the woman who called me earlier?
"Hey, I heard someone just died at the Peaceful Inn recently. You sure pick creepy spots for your streams." Uncle Baldy was chatty but clueless about reading the room.
"That place is cursed. A few years back, someone mysteriously disappeared there, too. People online say the guest didn't die by accident but from fright. Tsk tsk."
Uncle Baldy got more excited the more he talked. I really wanted to ask if he'd thought about my feelings.
"Uncle, my stream isn't what you think. Could you let me have some quiet?"
"What's different? I see young folks like you all the time—singing, dancing, bragging, playing games. By the way, where do you stream from? I'll come support you."
"No thanks. If you ever see my stream, remember to call the cops, because a lot of what's inside isn't just for show."
I wasn't allowed to mention the Netherworld Live Show openly—that was the number one rule in my contract.
Sighing, I pulled out the eight-inch big-screen phone, stared at the three lonely icons, then opened the third app—the one with my own black-and-white photo.
"Welcome to the Netherworld Live Show. The streaming task has been released. Give your livestream a name."
No matter the format, the core goal of any stream is to catch eyes and attract viewers. A catchy name was essential.
I remembered what the paper doll interviewer once said: "Active in the midnight shadows, exposing the city's scariest horrors. Isn't that exciting?"
"Well, if it's about thrills, why not pick a flashy name?" I typed four characters in the blank space: Super Thrilling!
"Name saved. Start today's livestream?"
After thinking for a while, I clicked "No." The reason? Uncle Baldy was still in the car, and I didn't want to drag him into this.
"Driver, please hurry. I don't have much time."
The Peaceful Inn sits in the northern suburbs of Jiangcheng, right next to Henshan Prison. Few people live around there—mostly migrant workers looking for cheap rent.
Buildings thinned out, the flashy neon city faded behind me, and the smooth concrete road turned into bumpy, uneven dirt.
"Hey, streamer, see that sign? That's the Peaceful Inn. Better stop here—can't turn around much further."
Uncle Baldy parked the taxi by the roadside. He looked like he wasn't going to go any further.
Following his finger, I saw a three-story old building about fifty meters away. The rooftop sign flickered with colored bulbs—spelling something like "Nu Xin Inn?"
"It says 'An' but some bulbs are out." Uncle Baldy handed me a cigarette. "Take care of yourself. They say bad stuff hates smoke. This is as far as I can help."
I shook my head with a bitter smile, paid the fare, and stepped out carrying my black suitcase.
Looking around, no one was in sight. Within a hundred meters, only that "Nu Xin Inn" cast a faint red glow.
"Maybe I should just call the cops?"
Before I could pull out my phone, the engine roared nearby, dust kicked up—and Uncle Baldy sped off a hundred meters away.
"Damn!"
He slipped away decisively. Now I had no way back to the city.
I hoisted the suitcase and trudged along the dirt road. A real tough guy not only dares to face life's harsh truths but also learns to deal with unreliable teammates.
By the faint light of my phone screen, the infamous rundown inn finally came into view.
Three stories, standalone, two stairwells left and right. The steps piled with uncollected trash, and in the corner lay police crime scene tape.
Not the yellow-and-white kind for construction, but deep blue and white—used only for homicide investigations!
"Someone actually didn't bother to clean this up?"
A normal person wouldn't feel anything odd, but after years in police academy, I labeled this place "murder" and "weird" without hesitation.
"Anyone here? Room for one."
The stairs were narrow. Only on the second floor did I find the front desk.
The counter was greasy and dirty. A notebook lay open, scribbled with guests' info and ID numbers—messy, like a kid's doodle.
"Who still keeps handwritten records these days?" I flipped through it. The earliest check-in was just a week ago.
"So it looks like I'm the only guest in the whole building."
"Ahem."
Five withered fingers pressed on the notebook. An elderly man stood up behind the counter. His hair was almost gone.
His voice was like a candle in the wind—weak but persistent. I stepped back casually, my peripheral vision memorizing his face: sparse brows, age spots on his left cheek, and a fist-sized scar burned into the right side.
"Yeah, just me."
The old man's face was unforgettable. Honestly, before my stream even started, I already felt a chill.
"Show me your ID. Need to register. Single room's 35 a night. No deposit, just don't break anything."
After registering, he handed me a key and shouted toward the dim hallway:
"Wife, take the guest to 103, and boil some water."
"103?" The Netherworld Live Show task was for Room 203. I frowned.
"Boss, can I change rooms?"
"Sure. Which one?"
"203."
Bang!
The old man dropped the key hard on the concrete floor. His reaction surprised me.
"What's wrong? Is that room off-limits?"
"I'm not saying you can't stay there. It's just that a few months ago someone died in this place, right across from Room 203."
"So what? They didn't die in 203." I tried to sound casual. "Let me have that room, boss. Don't be superstitious. We have to believe in science."
"All right, all right."
As the old man looked for the 203 key, I squatted down to pick up the 103 key he dropped—and noticed something strange.
He was wearing rubber shoes caked with dirt.
"Why is he wearing rubber shoes inside?"
"Come on, I'll show you the room."
An elderly woman spoke, carrying a hot water kettle. She looked about the same age as the old man but was short, stocky, and surprisingly strong.
I left the key on the desk and carried my suitcase following her upstairs.
"Weren't we going to 203? Why the third floor?"
"This floor's for guests. 103 is on the second floor; 203 is on the third."
We seemed to walk a long way. The hallway had only one flickering bulb near the corner—sometimes it went out, then mysteriously came back on.
"This is it."
She inserted the key into the lock and pointed at the room number.
"Thanks, ma'am."
Just as I was about to open the door, the woman muttered behind me.
"Hey, this isn't the city. Don't wander at night. If—"
"If what?"
"If someone knocks after midnight, or you hear noises—just pretend you don't hear. Don't come out."