Upon emerging from the elevator, the players inquired anxiously, "Have you completed your task?"
"I have," Eric replied succinctly.
Their gazes fell upon the sinister black handprint encircling her neck, an eerie testament to her ordeal.
One player expressed sympathy, "That wound looks terrifying—were you nearly strangled to death?"
With little left to conceal, Eric admitted, "There was a red-clad specter inside the elevator; the moment I stepped in, it seized my throat." Her voice rasped harshly as she waved her hand, unwilling to dwell further. "Enough of that—I'll get some water."
In the break room, a warm cup soothes Eric's parched throat, easing her discomfort.
"Dinner's here!" someone called out.
Stepping from the break room, Eric saw Janet wheeling a cart laden with meal boxes.
Offering a weary smile, she announced, "The food has arrived—everyone come collect your orders." Snatching one herself, she sank wearily back at her desk.
Only half the players dined; the whereabouts of the others remained unknown. Eric's meal comprised eggplant braised in oil and dry-fried green beans. The spread was palatable enough; she found no craving for meat.
Over their meal, the players exchanged accounts of their tasks.
"Seven days of evaluation means seven assignments. I wonder if our tasks might overlap," Justin mused abruptly. "I propose we share our mission intel."
Eric raised her eyes to him. Her own task had seemed manageable, yet some players had failed theirs; undoubtedly, certain missions proved arduous. Still, the question persisted: who could vouch for the absolute veracity of another's information? Even absent deception, each individual's perception and habitual reasoning differed, potentially distorting the truth.
Others' strategies rarely sounded as reliable as hoped.
Should fortune favor them, they might leverage others' experience for swifter completion.
Should misfortune strike, pressing deadlines coupled with reliance on flawed counsel could cost valuable moments, dooming them to failure.
She recalled witnessing heated disputes near the mission hall's entrance, rumored to arise from misinformation in black market scenario intel, resulting in fatal consequences.
Task intelligence could be a double-edged sword—capable of saving or condemning.
With such doubts, Eric withheld comment.
"This is a sound idea—I agree!" came enthusiastic support.
"So do I!"
The players voiced eager approval, although dissenting views surfaced.
"But who can guarantee no one deceives? We all know the perils of supernatural tasks. If a player conceals vital details, their 'advice' becomes a death sentence," Scott pointed out, casting a glance at silent Catherine nearby. That morning, Catherine had divulged nothing—he understood her silence stemmed not from unwillingness to share but from fear of responsibility; no one could guarantee another's survival.
Sensitive to scrutiny, Catherine met Justin's gaze briefly before looking away coldly.
Justin smiled optimistically: "Who would blindly accept every word from others? We merely borrow perspectives to avoid clumsy blundering. Ultimately, one must discern the truth oneself. Otherwise, why have so many mutual aid societies and alliances sprung up in the transfer stations? For information sharing, of course."
"That's true. I stand with that. Let those who wish to share, share, and those who don't, abstain. Fair enough?"
Agreements followed.
"I'll let you share; I'm going to stretch my legs," Scott chuckled as he exited.
Catherine rose and departed as well.
Several others pondered then left, but Eric lingered, intent on listening to broaden her understanding.
"My assignment is…" Justin volunteered first, breaking the ice by disclosing his task.
One by one, the players recounted their trials. Eric listened intently, contemplating swiftly. When her turn came, she endeavored to relate her experience succinctly.
Then Janet spoke: "I got caught in a ghostly maze on the stairs, with phantom footsteps following me relentlessly. I kept descending yet never reached the fourth floor; the footsteps drew nearer. I reckoned I'd climbed and descended enough floors to run several laps between thirteen and four. Summoning courage, I climbed back up and finally found the fourth floor. I went to the cafeteria to order; nothing peculiar happened—just normal."
"That will suffice." Justin, having initiated the gathering, brought it to a close. "Reflect on your experiences personally. Your life depends on it; do not overly depend on others' accounts."
"Thank you for the advice," Eric responded sincerely. Returning to her workstation, she tidied her finished meal and wiped the desk, then began to plan how to rest for the coming night.
Chapter 83: Night of Blood and Terror
The players were expected to remain within the building throughout the night; the meager funds allocated for their wallets barely sufficed to cover travel expenses, rendering hotel lodgings an unattainable luxury.
Eric gathered some old newspapers and magazines, spreading them beneath her workstation as a makeshift bed. Feigning a brief excursion, she retrieved a sheet from the supermarket—apt for the summery autumn climate of the scenario, a single covering would suffice for the night.
Shortly after six, dusk began to envelop the sky.
Having completed their tasks and dined, the players convened for a brief meeting; by then, it was well past seven, and darkness had fully descended.
Several players faced nocturnal assignments, their demeanor marked by palpable anxiety.
In supernatural simulations, the darkness breeds fear most readily; those yet to embark on their missions anticipated increased peril with the night.
Eric lay beneath her woolen sheet, using the folded magazines as a pillow, eyes fluttering but sleepless. From nearby, a player murmured softly, "Though some have yet to complete their tasks… no one has died in this scenario so far."
The coldness of the remark caused Eric to draw the sheet tightly around herself and turn over quietly.
Her mind replayed fragments of mission details gleaned from others; drowsiness crept upon her until sleep claimed her, only to be abruptly shattered by a piercing scream.
"Ah! The restroom—it's covered in blood!"
Startled awake, Eric threw off the sheet and sat upright.
The office lights remained illuminated; blinking against the brightness, she steadied herself on a chair and rose to investigate.
A glance at the wall clock revealed the time: 12:12 a.m.
The scream emanated from a female player. She had entered the restroom, detected a metallic scent, and discovered a compartment flooded with fresh blood. Newly acquainted with the scenario, her fraught nerves had prompted the cry.
Disregarding gender segregation, male and female players alike rushed forward.
"There's so much blood, and the door is locked."
"Does anyone know who has a mission in the women's restroom tonight?"
"I think it's Zhou Si. Her task is indeed there."
"Let's pry the door open and see," Scott declared, climbing onto the restroom stall door. A single glance made him inhale sharply.
"Is she alive?" the group queried anxiously.
Scott said nothing, instead reaching to unlatch the door. Eric pressed it closed with her hand. Once Scott jumped down, she released the door, and he swung it open.
A gruesome sight met their eyes—a sprawling pool of congealed blood drenched the compartment, even pooling within the squat toilet. Strands of hair lay scattered amidst the gore.
Though no corpse was visible, the macabre tableau ignited the players' imaginations, conjuring boundless dread.
Several stepped back in unison, overwhelmed by fear.
"Let's return for roll call; we must see who is missing," Justin ordered.
Back in the office, attendance confirmed the absence of a player named Zhou Si. The player nearest her station broke into tears; Justin offered soothing words before inquiring, "Do you know what her mission was?"
The woman's face paled in terror. "Her task… was to deliver toilet paper to the third stall in the women's restroom at midnight. It doesn't sound that difficult."
"Indeed. A mission to play Bloody Mary in front of a mirror at midnight would be more frightening. Delivering toilet paper…" Scott murmured thoughtfully. In this supernatural scenario, all tasks involved spirits; how could delivering paper prove fatal?
"Unfortunately, she's gone, and we have no one to question."
"Tomorrow's mission cards will update. Hopefully, no one will be assigned restroom duties."
After spirited discussion, the players dispersed. Having completed their assignments, all chose to rest to face the morrow's challenges with renewed vigor.
Eric returned to her station, but sleep eluded her at first. The pervasive chill haunted her; other players tossed and turned—coughing, pacing, sipping water—with quiet murmurs of "Anyone heading to the restroom? Shall we go together?"
Eventually, she succumbed to slumber.
The next morning, she awoke early, while the others still slept. Stretching her limbs, Eric rose and immediately spotted the freshly arrived task card upon her desk.
Her brow furrowed as she examined it.
The card instructed: deliver breakfast to Mr. Chen's residence at eight a.m.
Below, in smaller print, appeared Mr. Chen's address.
Checking the time, it was close to six-thirty.
"Everyone, rise and shine! The task cards have updated," Eric announced after contemplation, rapping her fingers on the desk to rouse the sleepers. "Let's all check our missions—some will need to act early this morning."
Awakened by Eric's summons, the players scrambled upright, groggily searching for their cards.
"Good heavens! Mine is to clean the eastern elevator at six a.m.! I'm already late! What should I do?" one panicked player appealed for aid. "Is it still possible to make it in time?"
Others scanned their tasks; the missions themselves appeared unchallenging, leaving timing as the chief indicator of difficulty. Night assignments were inherently riskier—witness Zhou Si's death at midnight.
The distressed player drew the group's attention. Another had a perilous seven a.m. deadline and hurried off, exclaiming, "I must prepare the CEO's office on the eighteenth floor!"
Other players faced more lenient schedules, offering time to aid the nervous Larry.
Eric recognized Larry—he had delivered car keys to a client the previous day but failed, returning with a crestfallen demeanor.
To suffer yet more misfortune today seemed cruel; Eric felt genuine sympathy for him.