"Let me see... it really is six o'clock, already half an hour late. You should still give it a try; don't simply give up," Scott returned the task card to Larry.
"Come on, we'll accompany you," another player offered encouragingly.
"It's probably futile to go now," someone sighed.
"Still, it's worth a shot. Half an hour's delay isn't insurmountable."
"I once completed a mission under a strict deadline," Justin pondered aloud. "In that scenario, failing to meet the time meant mission failure—and death for the player."
Those words silenced the well-wishers urging Larry onward.
"I already failed yesterday!" Larry's composure cracked, tears brimming, yet after gathering himself, he resolved not to capitulate: "I'll go clean anyway!"
He dashed to the utility room, fetched a small bucket and cloth, drew water in the restroom, dampened the rag, then nervously bore his supplies to the designated elevator. Eric, having researched Mr. Chen's address online, joined, her curiosity mingled with concern. She was uneasy—could a missed deadline truly be remedied?
Players debated the matter anxiously.
"We must assign a night watch. Who knows when the task cards update!"
"Worry is the new dawn's missions might be even earlier…"
"This is such an unfair predicament!"
Indeed, Eric profoundly agreed.
Anxiously, she watched Larry enter the elevator, yearning to witness the outcome. Her own task loomed near—Mr. Chen's residence lay a half-hour commute away. She could only remain at the office until seven; no later could she delay before purchasing breakfast and setting out.
The elevator doors parted, Larry entered, wedged the water bucket against the closing doors to keep them ajar, and began scrubbing with urgent haste.
All eyes fixed upon him and the elevator. Larry feared spectral interference yet dreaded mission failure more. Yet as he polished until gleaming, nothing untoward manifested.
The task card remained unchanged, as expected.
Emerging from the elevator, cloth in hand, Larry stared blankly at the doors, rendered speechless.
"That test at least confirms a truth: when making up a missed task, no life hangs in the balance," one player observed.
None dared to dispute this.
Though underlying suspicion lingered in their hearts, no one voiced it openly.
"Cough, cough! Living is what matters—while alive, hope persists," Justin offered solace apologetically. "My mission is nearly upon me. Rest easy now; we fight again tomorrow."
Larry, stooped and silent, spoke no word.
Eric sympathized deeply but was powerless to aid him, her own trial imminent.
At seven-oh-six, Eric descended by elevator to the fourth-floor cafeteria, swiftly packed two breakfasts, and hurried toward Mr. Chen's home.
She first took a bus, then transferred to the subway, seizing a moment en route to consume her own breakfast.
Regarding her mission, Eric harbored suspicions; delivering breakfast was surely a mere guise, the true challenge awaited inside Mr. Chen's dwelling.
Danger lurked within the client's home.
Larry's task yesterday—to deliver lost keys—had failed. During nighttime information exchanges, he recounted how a ghost stole the keys, dooming his mission. Whether the client was truly a spirit remained uncertain.
It paralleled Eric's own mission of delivering documents—one must be precise regarding the recipient, lest disaster follow.
By seven-forty, Eric arrived early at the gated community where Mr. Chen resided.
The security guard contacted Mr. Chen by phone and granted passage upon approval.
Eric proceeded to the client's building and floor, confirmed the door number, then rang the doorbell.
The clock read seven-fifty-one.
Ding dong! Ding dong!
After pressing twice, she withdrew her hand. Though unable to peer through the peephole into the room beyond, she sensed a prying gaze staring back. Eric instinctively straightened, slowed her breath, and averted her eyes from the peephole.
A click sounded. The door opened, revealing a visage tainted with spectral malevolence.
"Who is it?"
"Good morning, I'm Eric, here to deliver Mr. Chen's breakfast," she forced a smile. "May I ask if you are Mr. Chen?"
The figure said nothing but scrutinized her from head to toe, leaving Eric stiffened. At last he uttered, "Yes, come in."
"I won't intrude," Eric said, lifting the meal box.
Mr. Chen's tone turned sinister: "I dislike takeaway containers. Bring it out."
Implying that she should enter.
With the key NPC beckoning her inside, Eric had no choice but to comply.
The door was pushed open a bit further, though only about a third of the way. Eric slipped sideways inside, and as she turned, her eyes met a pair of bloodshot eyes enlarged inches before her—glaring intently, rife with malice and anticipation.
Fear coursed through her veins and limbs, yet having been tempered by prior trials, Eric no longer screamed in terror. She clenched her fists, swallowed hard, and with measured composure tilted her head back and smiled faintly. "Mr. Chen, could you please show me where your kitchen is? I'll help unpack your breakfast from the container."
Chen muttered an "oh" before turning away, hands folded behind his back as he walked deeper inside. "The kitchen is here. By the way, you cannot leave until you satisfy me with the breakfast."
A narrow hallway adjoined the entrance. To the left, windows opened onto a small balcony cluttered with flowerpots; the plants within were long since withered into blackened masses, soil hardened and cracked, a testament to neglect. The floor bore sprawling stains; stepping upon it caused crusted grime to fragment beneath her feet.
As Eric followed Chen, she swiftly surveyed her surroundings. To the right of the corridor stood a curio shelf partitioning the space. Beyond a door she entered the living room.
The sight was unbearable—no better than a refuse heap. The stench of rot assaulted her senses; flies performed frantic circuits amidst the filth, showing uninvited hospitality toward their new guest. Eric feigned indifference as Chen collapsed onto a rubbish-encumbered sofa and gestured with a crooked finger. "The kitchen is over there—you're on your own."
His wizened face was etched with deep furrows which contorted with his smile—not one of kindness or warmth. His gaze bore venomous intensity as he fixed Eric with a malevolent stare. "I am fastidious. This breakfast must be immaculate, understand?"
"Understood, Mr. Chen."
Though the kitchen would doubtless mirror the squalor of the living room, Eric knew "immaculate" was a thinly veiled demand—both a challenge and a clue. Succeeding might elicit the desired response from Chen and thereby complete her mission.
Arriving at the kitchen, Eric noted the grimy glass doors obscured any view inside. She pulled the door open; the accumulated filth flaked off and tumbled down, landing beside her feet.
Looking down, a vague familiarity stirred.
There lay a mummified finger, painted with vivid red nail polish.
Drawing a deep breath, Eric tore her gaze away and pressed forward.
The kitchen was a chaos of squalor—trash littered the floor; the sink overflowed with mold-covered dishes and cutlery, greenish brackish water swarming with cockroaches.
Opening cupboards revealed nothing but emptiness.
No clean plates or chopsticks were to be found, water was absent from the tap, and the kitchen lay shrouded in darkness; flipping the switch yielded no light.
The apartment was bereft of water and power. Nearby, a freestanding freezer exuded a grotesque stench. Tentatively, Eric reached out.
A voice behind her pierced the stillness: "Are you done? I'm starving."
Feeling the daggers of his malignant gaze pierce her back, Eric withdrew her hand and turned composedly. "Mr. Chen, I am plating your breakfast; please bear with me a moment longer."
"Very well—I eagerly await." His words hung ominously as he remained fixed upon her every move.
Beneath his watchful eyes, opening the freezer was unthinkable; she could only select from the grimy pile of dishes before her.
Chen appeared satisfied by her efforts, chuckling as heavy footsteps retreated into the living room.
Eric now grasped the true intention behind his earlier admonition.
No wonder she could not leave until the breakfast pleased him—her movements were constrained, prevented from seeking clean plates externally or fetching water to cleanse.
For other players, this predicament would be daunting. Fortunately, Eric possessed her supermarket perk, stocked with a myriad of spotless utensils. Absent this advantage, she deduced there was but one means of purification—first scrubbing the grime off with her clothing, then using her own blood for final polishing.
Would such a method render the plate acceptably clean?
To test her theory, Eric devised two arrangements. Following her plan, she prepared a plate and pair of chopsticks, nesting half the fried noodles within. She then retrieved a plate from the supermarket for the remainder.
True to her intention of elegant presentation, she adorned the dishes with two cherry tomatoes sliced and placed atop the noodles, and laid disposable chopsticks neatly across each plate's edge.
Grateful she had chosen a simple meal; complexity would have compounded her task.
Carrying the blood-cleaned plate into the living room, Eric plainly saw Chen lean forward, eyes glinting greedily—impatience palpable.
"Mr. Chen, your breakfast," she offered, extending the plate.
Only then did his gaze shift to the noodles. He inhaled sharply, scrutinizing with a piercing eye. Upon discerning the irreversible bloodstains, his eyes ignited with fierce light. "Blood! Your blood has contaminated my breakfast!"
He sprang upright, seizing Eric's hand with crushing force—his grip threatened to wrench her arm from its socket.
Dragging her close, Chen chuckled malevolently and sniffed at her neck. "The breakfast is sullied; what do you propose to do? I'm famished—you shall be my substitute—"