"Sir, could you stop smiling? It's making me more nervous," Holmes said, eyeing the landlord's grin.
"Finish the task quickly and rest. When passing the eighth floor, don't linger or wander. Many areas in this apartment are off-limits to newcomers like you." The landlord paused, adding, "Even that badge is useless against certain residents." With these warnings, he turned and left.
Holmes gripped the key and rushed upstairs. The nighttime apartment was far more terrifying, with blurred spectral figures wandering the corridors. Most night-time NPC specters would offer quests if approached, but the aggressive ones attacked on sight—hence why even players with night permits tread carefully. The badge worked on most specters, but some ancient horrors ignored such protections, like viruses bypassing firewalls.
Holmes dashed up the stairs, ignoring interactive specters. On the seventh floor, fewer figures lingered, but spine-chilling sounds echoed. The eighth floor corridor was pitch-black and deathly silent. I have connections on both seventh and eighth floors, he thought. Liu Nianqing on the seventh owes me a favor, but what about the eighth? He decided to flee to Liu's room if danger struck.
Reaching the rooftop, he found the door already open. Who unlocked it? A player or a specter? Drawing his hammer, he stepped onto the rooftop, where the cold wind howled under a blood-red moon.
Hearing a rustle behind him, Holmes spun to catch a flying brick. Two twin girls stood nearby, one with pigtails gasping, "Failed sneak attack! Let's run, sis!"
"Idiot, he's a player," the ponytailed sister scolded, grabbing her sibling.
Holmes crushed the brick in his palm. "Lucky I'm a player. A specter would've eaten you."
"Sorry, my sister overreacts," the older twin said.
Holmes eyed the twins. "Here for the water tank cleaning mission too?"
"Our quest came from our room's specter in 705," the sister explained. Their "brother" was a drowned specter in their bathroom, growing violent as the water turned to blood. They'd gotten the rooftop key from the landlord but found nothing during the day, hence their midnight return.
Holmes was surprised to see their night permits. Checking their profiles, they'd survived 45 days—far longer than he had. "Find anything wrong with the tank?"
"Too scary to check!" the younger twin whimpered, hugging her head.
Her sister shot Holmes a wary look. "What's your mission source? Got the key?" Holmes tossed her the key, reassuring her.
"We didn't see anything, but we heard something," the sister said.
"Heard something?"
"My sister and I have [Telepathy]," the younger twin chirped proudly. "We can hear specters' thoughts during quests!"
The sister smacked her head. "Idiot, never reveal our talent!"
Holmes was impressed. Hearing specters' thoughts—useful. "What did you hear from the tank?"
"Just garbled pain," the sister said. "It sounded like a plea for help."
The younger twin suddenly screamed, clutching her ears. "It's shouting again! So painful—like it's trapped and cold..."
Holmes approached the moss-covered tank. "Stay here. I'll open it." To his surprise, the heavy cement lid lifted easily—thanks to Grandma's stew boosting his stats. A foul stench poured out, and 幽白的眼睛 (pale white eyes) stared at him from the darkness. A bloated, blackened hand grasped the edge.
"I'm here to help," Holmes said, but the hand lunged for his neck. He smashed it with his hammer, tearing off a chunk of rotting flesh. The hand retreated.
"Help but no help? Make up your mind!" Holmes cursed.
"The specter only lets its father rescue it," the sister called. "It thinks this is a hide-and-seek game with Dad."
Holmes triggered [All-Knowing], seeing a hidden memory: "Dad played hide-and-seek. He said the game continues till he finds me. I hid in the tank... so cold... why hasn't he found me?"
"804 room, eighth floor..." Holmes groaned. Eighth-floor residents were dangerous. Did the father forget, or did he abandon the child?
"You know where the father is?" the sister asked.
"Room 804. Coming with me?"
"How did you find that out?"
"Everyone has talents." Holmes didn't elaborate.
The younger twin pouted. "Not fair, I told you mine!"
The sister pulled her back. "You go. We'll stay and listen for more."
Holmes dusted himself off. "I have connections on the eighth floor."
The sister raised an eyebrow. "You befriended an eighth-floor specter?"
"We share a life debt." With that, he left.
Once alone, the younger twin whispered, "Should we cozy up to him? He knows eighth-floor residents!"
The sister scoffed. "He's bluffing. Look at his profile—he's only survived seven days."
Stepping onto the eighth-floor corridor, Holmes found his vision drastically obstructed. Dead silence reigned—even the nocturnal specters seemed to avoid this floor.
He retrieved the flashlight from Mother's gift, its orange glow piercing the inky darkness. The eighth floor was impeccably clean, with red carpets lining the spotless floors, free of garbage or bloodstains.Following the door numbers, he quickly located Room 804.
A young boy in a red baby bib squatted at the threshold, playing with a dead bird.
Looking up at Holmes' flashlight, he held out the bird and grinned: "Brother, this one's dead.
What fun things do you have?"Holmes eyed the half-open door behind the spectral child. "Are your parents home?"
The boy giggled: "Hehe, give me something fun, and I'll tell you."
Holmes hesitated. The only items in his inventory were three blood coffin nails and a wraith specter eye plucked from the seventh floor.
As Holmes pondered, the ajar door swung open. A white-haired woman in silk pajamas stepped out, lifting the child into her arms. Her gaze flicked to Holmes, regarding him like a rat feasting in a gutter: "Sweetheart, forgot Mommy's words again? Don't talk to those downstairs—they're filthy all over."
"You're Mommy's precious boy—don't let them taint your cleanliness."
Holmes: "..."
The spectral child pouted: "Mommy, I have no toys! This brother has fun things—I want them!"
The spectral mother paused, sighing. Holmes seized the chance: "Sister, I need to—"
She cut him off, leaning in with her elegant figure, the V-neckline revealing pale skin. "Sister? Smooth tongue. Where do you live?"
"Fourth floor," Holmes replied.
"Ah, a fourth-floor outsider." Her tone turned teasing. "First time on the eighth floor?"
Holmes hesitated, nodding.
"Ah~" she drawled, smile turning sinister. "So no connections here?"
His heart sank. Before he could react, her smiling eyes turned cold, and a hand clamped down on his neck. Holmes felt ice crawl over his body, as if gripped by death's scythe.
The spectral mother ran her scarlet tongue across her lips. "Such a good-looking thing. Who gave you courage to wander the eighth floor at night?" Her slender fingers traced his chest, sharp nails like surgical scalpels.
Holmes braced for his chest to split open, but instead, his sweater tore with a rip.
"Oh? This sweater looks familiar. You're the old hag's grandson from 404." She flicked the fabric fragment off her nail, lips curling.
"Mommy! Catch him! Make him a toy—new toy!" the spectral child cheered.
Holmes ripped off his privilege badge: "This is the landlord's—"
She snatched it, crushing it to pieces. "That trash works on downstairs nobodies, but to me, it's just scrap." Her smile mocked him. "Did you think this let you roam freely?"
Holmes realized eighth-floor residents played by no rules. The night permit was useless, and they attacked players on a whim.