As the players gradually withdrew, Andrew decided he no longer wished to sleep in that room. After some discussion, he arranged to crash on the floor in another player's room.
Once the crowd had dispersed, Sharon and Laura hesitantly approached the scene. At the sight of the corpse, Laura couldn't suppress her nausea and retched uncontrollably. Sharon's face drained of color in an instant.
Such a grotesque sight—she had only ever seen it on television.
Choking on the stench of rot that lingered in the air, Sharon stumbled out of the room, barely keeping her footing.
Back in their room, Eric asked Cynthia, "Do you want the inside or the outside?"
"I'd like to sleep on the inside, if that's alright," she replied at once. There was comfort in the security of a wall at her back.
"Alright."
Eric lay on the outer side of the bed and closed her eyes.
The room wasn't plunged into complete darkness—the sconce by the entryway remained lit. It was dim enough not to disturb sleep, yet bright enough to allow a clear view in case of emergency. Cynthia finished tidying up and climbed into bed, curling up on the side against the wall.
Exhaling softly, she listened to Eric's even breathing, then whispered, "Eric, what do you think this instance is really about? The clue told us to attend Miss Sweetie's birthday banquet. We've done that. But what comes next?"
There had to be more to the story, but she couldn't guess where it would lead.
Eric, who hadn't fallen asleep either, was still analyzing the situation.
"I don't know. All we've gathered so far is that we mustn't offend Miss Sweetie."
"Exactly. The first newcomer who angered her died—died in such a horrific way. With his corpse right there, we wouldn't dare cross her. But is that enough? Just not angering her? I doubt it's that simple."
"We'll take it one step at a time," Eric murmured. She was becoming attuned to the rhythms of supernatural instances. Unlike regular instances, which cut straight to the chase, horror instances demanded exploration and deduction—and it was often in that process that players perished.
The moment they slipped from the NPCs' sight was always the best time to investigate. Eric had done this in past supernatural runs. But this time... she sensed a peculiar restraint in Miss Sweetie's behavior.
She was not just observing the players—she was policing them.
Paul, the first to step on a landmine, was already dead. His fate seemed to confirm that defying Miss Sweetie led only to death. But one example wasn't proof. Eric remembered the look in Miss Sweetie's eyes as she scanned the banquet guests.
It wasn't overt, but players who dressed appropriately for the party received noticeably more smiles. Compared to Paul—sloppily dressed and lacking basic manners—the players who weren't fully polished drew less attention. But Eric was sure: Miss Sweetie hadn't been pleased.
She wondered: who would be next? Would it be the players whose appearance was only marginally better than Paul's? There were plenty. She had counted—only ten players had dressed to the nines, like her and Cynthia. The rest hadn't changed shoes, put on makeup, or accessorized.
If the standard was that strict, half the players were doomed.
Or perhaps it was a matter of disturbing the banquet.
In that case… it would be Laura, who had let out a scream.
But could a single startled cry truly cost her life?
Eric didn't want to believe it, but she feared that possibility the most.
Deep in the night, a sharp **tap-tap-tap** echoed through the vast villa, resonating like a phantom's footfall. Eric, barely asleep, snapped awake. Cynthia opened her eyes moments later. They both turned toward the door, listening intently as the footsteps ascended the stairs and entered the hallway.
Eric gestured toward the door—she was going to check it out.
Cynthia nodded.
Barefoot, Eric crept toward the entrance, first extinguishing the sconce to shroud the room in darkness.
The footfalls halted before the first two rooms. Eric's heart pounded. She was in the third. On the bed, Cynthia held her breath, hands clutching a fork she'd secretly hidden during dinner.
Soon, the steps resumed—approaching their door.
A chilling aura seeped through the threshold, paralyzing Eric. Her thoughts raced through everything she had done since entering the instance, searching for any fatal misstep.
Could it be Cynthia?
In the darkness, every sense was heightened. Within seconds, sweat beaded on her forehead.
At last, the presence moved on. She dared not relax. The next room held Paul's corpse.
The footsteps didn't pause—they glided past the fourth room, stopping before the fifth.
That was where the two new players, Sharon and Laura, were staying.
Laura? Could it be her? Eric pressed herself to the door, listening.
Sharon was sound asleep. Laura, on the other hand, lay rigidly, unable to rest under the crushing weight of fear. She dared not move, fearing she'd wake Sharon. Her head throbbed from overthinking and exhaustion. Teeth clenched, she tried to recall how she had died before arriving here.
She'd drowned—caught in a flood triggered by torrential rain while walking home from work. Struggling with an umbrella through knee-high water, she'd stepped unknowingly into an open drainage hole and lost consciousness in the pain that followed.
She *wanted* to believe what the veteran players said—that this was a game that could bring her back to life. But they'd also said this was the hardest type: a supernatural instance, where real ghosts killed real people.
Hadn't that loud, obnoxious trust-fund brat just died?
She was terrified—utterly consumed by dread.
Half-asleep, she thought she heard something.
Being inexperienced, Laura didn't notice the steps until they reached the adjacent room. Even then, she tried to dismiss it as her imagination.
But then the steps resumed.
This time she heard it clearly—someone walking the corridor outside.
*Who* walked around in heels in the middle of the night?
Then she froze.
Every room had its own bathroom.
She suddenly remembered Miss Sweetie's dazzling pink stilettos—heels easily ten centimeters high. The sound matched exactly.
Laura's eyes flew open, terror jolting her wide awake.
*Was that Miss Sweetie outside?!*
The corridor light illuminated her figure—a charming, doll-like dress, a saccharine smile. In one hand, she held a massive axe. The other hand reached up, gently knocking.
**Knock knock knock.**
The light threw a shadow across her face, twisting her smile into something eerie and grotesque. Her red lips parted.
"Open up," she crooned.
Inside, Laura trembled violently in the dark.
"Sha—Sharon! Wake up! Please wake up!" Her shaking hands tried to rouse Sharon, but she wouldn't stir.
"Open up. Open *up*!"
Miss Sweetie began banging on the door, her voice rising, shrill and shrieking.
Laura was shaking uncontrollably.
**Bang!** The axe struck the door, the wood trembling with every blow.
"Ahhh!" Laura screamed.
In the next room, Eric clenched her jaw. *Could I help?* she thought. *Would it even matter?* She had weapons in her inventory—cleavers, butcher knives, even a pistol with a single bullet.
But would any of those work against a ghost NPC in a supernatural instance?
Logic told her: no. Only special items could harm them.
She returned to bed. Cynthia found her hand in the dark and whispered, "Do you think Sharon will survive?" She had guessed as much—it may have been Laura's scream during the banquet that sealed her fate. But what about Sharon, who shared the room?
"I don't know," Eric replied quietly.
Together, they listened in silence.
The banging stopped. The lock must have broken.
Even from one room away, Laura's screams rang out. Eric gripped the sheets tightly.
Then silence.
Only the sound of **clicking heels** echoed again—retreating, fading, gone.
Eric collapsed onto the bed, drained. It was still the middle of the night—venturing out was far too dangerous.
No sound came from the other rooms. The long, dreadful night dragged on until dawn's first light.
Only then did a door finally creak open.
The players emerged, bleary-eyed and hollow-cheeked—no one had slept peacefully after Laura's screams.
In Room Five, Sharon had slept soundly. Rolling over, her hand touched something icy. The strange chill woke her.
She opened her eyes—to find another pair staring back, glassy and grey with fear.
Her scream died in her throat, stuck. Only a choking gasp escaped before her eyes rolled back and she fainted.
Eric stepped into the fifth room.
The door hung open, its shattered remains scattered across the floor. She called, "Sharon? Laura?"
"Let's just go in," said Amy, joining her.
They crossed the wreckage into the room.
Nothing was overturned, save for a single pillow on the floor. But the bed—its sheets were soaked in dried blood, stained dark red-black by morning light. Laura's body lay prone, her face turned toward Sharon.
"The body's fresh," Eric said. The manner of death was different from Paul's.
Amy moved to examine her. "Help me turn her over. The wound might be on her front."
Cynthia answered, and Eric joined in.
The body was heavy. Together, they flipped it over—
"God!" Cynthia cried out.
Eric's heart dropped. She let go immediately.
Laura's head didn't follow.
It remained twisted, grotesquely misaligned.
She had been decapitated.
The blood had long since drained. The cut was clean.
"Why is her death so different from the male player's?"
"One of them's still alive!"
"Wake her up—find out what happened last night!"