The woman snatched the badge and crushed it to powder between her fingers. "That trinket works on common specters, but to me, it's worthless." Her laughter echoed cruelly. "Did you truly think a piece of metal would protect you here?"
Realization struck Holmes: eighth-floor residents operated by their own rules. The night permit was useless, and they attacked on whims. I need to escape.
"Forgive my intrusion; I'll leave at once."
"Leaving now? A bit late for that." Her nails elongated into razor-sharp claws. "Let's see how durable this sweater really is."
"This was knitted by my grandma. If she sees it ruined, she'll—"
"Don't threaten me with that old crone. Let her set foot on this floor and see if she dares speak!"
Holmes swallowed, desperation rising. "What if I trade this treasure for my life?" He held out a rusted nail from his inventory, feigning sincerity.
As the woman reached for it, Holmes mustered all his spectral strength and drove the blood coffin nail into her throat. Black smoke billowed from the wound, sizzling flesh and bone. The woman let out a deafening shriek, and Holmes bolted.
"Stop him! Don't let the rat escape!" she howled, neck gushing thick black blood. The spectral child wailed, but she snarled: "Shut up! Go inside now!"
Holmes raced down the stairs, flashlight beam bouncing wildly. Behind him, the woman's hair lengthened into snow-white tendrils, her face contorting into a non-human horror.
Reaching the seventh floor, he pounded on Room 702: "Mr. Liu! Open up! I'm being hunted!"
Liu Nianqing cracked the door, scowling: "I knew it—you never bring good news at night."
"An eighth-floor resident is after me! Please—"
Liu sighed but let him in. "Who did you offend?"
"Room 804's wife—she attacked without warning!"
Just then, the door began to rot before their eyes, and a voice hissed: "Liu, hand over the rat!"
Liu pinched the bridge of his nose. "Give me your cleaver."
Holmes thrust the blade into his hand. Liu stabbed through the rotting wood, and the white hair retreating from the door emitted a pained shriek. "Get out," Liu said, tossing back the blood-stained blade. "Her husband is coming, and I can't protect you."
As Holmes fled, a prompt flashed:
[Inextinguishable Blood Scent] will attract the Dead-Eye Specter in 10 minutes.
[All-Knowing] Insight: Survival lies above, not in returning to 404.
Climbing back up, Holmes noticed an extra stair. Stepping on it, his foot sank into a dark void, and a hand with mottled skin grabbed his ankle. "You broke my leg! Pay up!" a raspy voice demanded.
"Old hag, why stretch your leg here?" Holmes snapped, but the specter ignored him, reaching for his groin. Reacting on instinct, Holmes slashed with the cleaver, but the specter snatched the blade and vanished. Perfect, he thought, wiping imaginary sweat.
Elsewhere, a yellow-haired player peeled off a spectral disguise, grinning at the cleaver. "Jack, check out this loot!"
Jack's expression darkened at the blade. "Where did you get that?"
"Some fool dropped it after I scared him."
Jack noticed the blood on the tip—thick, black, and reeking. "Take this cursed thing and get out! Now!"
Before the player could protest, a rotting hand smashed through the door. "I smell the blade that wounded my wife!" the Dead-Eye Specter roared.
Jack shoved the player forward. "You brought this disaster—you take the fall!"
Holmes reached Room 801, key in hand. Louis owed him a favor—would this work? Inserting the key, he prayed the Canker Spirit's connection would hold. The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open, stepping into the unknown with only the faint hope of survival guiding him.
Click. The lock turned, and the door swung open slowly. Inside Room 801, the temperature plummeted to a bone-chilling cold, as if Holmes had stepped into an ice cave. He shivered uncontrollably, breath forming white clouds.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" he called, but only silence answered. Stepping into the living room, he found a rocking chaise longue gently swaying despite being empty. Beside the TV, an old-fashioned radio played melodious jazz.
"Invisible specter?" Holmes muttered, approaching the chaise. He called out again, but no response came. Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine, and a melodious yet icy voice whispered in his ear: "Where did you get that key?"
Holmes' hairs stood on end as his right hand involuntarily opened, the key levitating mid-air. His fingers were forced wider and wider, sending searing pain through his hand. "You have one sentence to answer."
"Fuck, these eighth-floor specters are all deranged!" Holmes cursed internally, lips trembling. "Louis from Room 102 gave it to me."
"Ah, I see, time's up." A crisp snap echoed as his fingers bent backward, bones cracking. Holmes' vision went blank, convinced his hand was broken—only to find it intact, still clutching the key.
The woman's giggles rang out. "Just kidding! Did you piss yourself?" The cold vanished, and the chaise continued rocking. "Louis was banished. How did he give you a key?"
Holmes recounted the entire story. The invisible specter burst into laughter: "You breached the wall? The landlord must've been furious! You surviving is a miracle."
"Surviving because I'm useful," Holmes said dryly. "Otherwise, why risk wandering the eighth floor at night?"
The chaise creaked louder. "Spill your trouble."
"Some beef with Room 804."
As he spoke, the specter materialized—a woman in a white silk dress, her raven hair cascading down, face as flawless as jade but deathly pale. Holmes was stunned—her beauty rivaled the succubus on the first floor.
"Room 804? That family's vicious, especially the wife." She paused. "Louis only lent me rent once, and he charged interest. Hardly a favor. The key was collateral I forgot to reclaim."
Holmes' hopes dimmed. Thanks for nothing, Louis.
"However, I liked their daughter. Such a pity—her father bricked her in the wall, thinking it was protection. In reality, he's torturing her."
Holmes remained silent, recalling the blood-oozing wall. Is this entire building built from spectral flesh? He pushed the thought away—it reeked of main quest danger.
"Louis' favor means nothing, but for his daughter's sake, I'll help. In return, grant me a favor—when I decide what it is."
Holmes refused immediately: "I'll figure it out myself. Sorry to disturb." He couldn't afford another debt.
"Too late. The Dead-Eye Specter knows your trick and is coming. He'll knock in five minutes. Only I can save you." The woman rested her chin on her hand, eyes twinkling.
"You've been watching me?"
"Hard to miss the commotion. The specter in the water tank is their daughter. They know she's there, a hideous grudge specter, but won't save her—why?
"She caught a 'disease'—if they kept her, they'd get infected and be banished. She's not even their biological child, just a foster kid. So they tricked her into the tank to avoid infection and scrutiny. But her 'disease' corrupted the water."
She leaned forward: "They'll kill you to prevent her from learning the truth and to hide from the landlord. Got it?"
Holmes gaped. "How do you know all this?"
"Gossip is my hobby. Every eighth-floor resident has a dramatic story." She smiled, her beauty hypnotic in the moonlight.
Holmes shivered—she'd monitored his every move. Who is this specter?