Chen Ge's face contorted as the image of Zhang Peng's fierce, unyielding glare flashed through his mind, a vision that stirred a tumultuous mix of anger and determination within him. The notion of two malevolent forces clashing—himself and the sinister presence haunting the Murder by Midnight scenario—sent a chill down his spine. Was this a battle of demons, each vying for dominance in this shadowed realm?
The persistent, grating sound of sawing from the scenario continued unabated, undeterred by Zhang Peng's reckless intrusion. It was as if the mirror monster, that enigmatic and malevolent entity, had not anticipated such a brazen, foolhardy interloper charging into its domain. The noise gnawed at Chen Ge's nerves, a taunting reminder of the danger lurking just beyond his control.
"I can't afford to play it safe anymore," he muttered, his voice low and resolute, the weight of the night's stakes pressing heavily upon him. "I need to see it with my own eyes—see the mirror monster claim Zhang Peng—before I can even think of resting." His gaze flicked to the surveillance monitors, pinpointing Zhang Peng's position within the labyrinthine Haunted House. With a swift, decisive motion, he tore the heavy chains from the Doctor Skull-cracker outfit, letting them clatter to the floor. He donned the outfit, the coarse fabric settling over his frame like a second skin, and slipped on the grotesque skin mask, its eerie contours amplifying the menace he exuded. Gripping the iron hammer, he swung it twice, testing its weight, feeling a surge of wicked energy course through him. A wry thought crossed his mind, tinged with dark humor: "Why does it feel like I'm the villain here?" Shaking off the notion, he pocketed his keys, phone, and the cherished doll left by his parents—a talisman of comfort in this perilous night. With the hammer's strange, menacing design clutched tightly in his hand, he strode out of the control room, the door locking behind him with a heavy click.
Meanwhile, deep within the confines of the Murder by Midnight scenario, Zhang Peng felt the weight of his mission pressing down on him, the boning knife in his hand growing heavier with each step. He had spent weeks, perhaps months, preparing for this moment, steeling himself for the confrontation that would define his vengeance. Yet, no amount of preparation could account for the chaos of reality, where accidents and missteps had already derailed his plans. It was one in the morning, a time when the world outside slumbered, when even the most restless souls would be tucked away in their beds. But Zhang Peng was far from ordinary, his heart pounding with a volatile mix of anticipation and rage. When he spotted the sign pointing to the staff breakroom, a surge of exhilaration coursed through him, momentarily overwhelming his senses. It took every ounce of his willpower to quell the storm within, to steady his shaking hands and focus on the task at hand.
Before storming the breakroom, Zhang Peng had stoked the fires of his hatred, summoning memories of betrayal and loss to fuel his resolve. "Ping An Apartments… ruined. Juan Er, locked away," he hissed under his breath, the words a mantra of vengeance. With a surge of adrenaline, he had burst through the door, his knife slashing wildly at the bed, expecting to find his target. But the bed was empty, the only blood staining the torn bedspread his own, a careless wound from his frenzied attack. The sight of his blood, mingling with the fabric, only deepened his grievance, fanning the flames of his murderous intent until it consumed his rationality entirely. "You despicable bastard," he growled, his voice trembling with fury. "I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do." The sawing sound from upstairs, relentless and grating, buzzed in his ears like a swarm of flies, further stoking his agitation as he gripped the knife tighter, its blade still slick with his blood.
Determined to locate the source of the noise, Zhang Peng moved cautiously, his every step calculated to avoid detection. "I'm close," he whispered to himself, his heart pounding as he ascended to the third floor, the epicenter of the sound. He carried no light, relying on the faint glow of his phone to navigate the maze-like corridors of the Haunted House. "This place is a nightmare," he muttered, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "Once I'm done, I could leave his body in any of these rooms, and it'd be weeks before anyone finds him." The thought of such concealment fueled his confidence, his plan taking shape in the shadows. The sawing grew louder, closer, emanating from the scenario's entrance ahead. "What's he doing, sawing at this hour? Fixing props in the middle of the night?" Zhang Peng's mind raced with possibilities, his curiosity tinged with suspicion.
Crouching low, he used his sleeve to cover the oozing wound on his arm, the pain a dull throb beneath his focus. With the knife's point leading the way, he crept forward, his movements deliberate and silent. At the end of the third-floor corridor, he spotted a blurred black shadow standing at the entrance to the Murder by Midnight scenario. The figure was motionless, clutching something in its hand, scratching rhythmically at the door. Zhang Peng's brow furrowed. "Why no lights?" he wondered, the incongruity striking him only as he drew closer. But the thought was fleeting, drowned out by the tidal wave of his vengeance. The air around him seemed to thicken, growing heavy with an almost supernatural chill. His body tensed, every muscle coiled like a bowstring. Raising the knife above his shoulder, he let out a guttural cry—"Go to hell!"—and charged, his full weight propelling him and the blade toward the shadowy figure in a violent, unyielding assault.
A flicker of triumph twisted Zhang Peng's lips—there and gone in an instant, erased in less than a heartbeat. The blade sliced through empty air, biting nothing but shadow.
The momentum sent him crashing shoulder-first into the doorframe, the impact jolting through his ribs like a live wire. Pain flared up his spine, and for a split second, his vision whited out. He barely registered the knife clattering from his grip before his knees hit the floor.
"The fuck—?!" The curse tore out of him, raw and disbelieving. He scrambled up, fingers clawing at the wall for balance, his head whipping left and right. The hallway yawned empty. No movement. No sound. Just the ragged saw of his own breath. "Where is he?! Where the hell did he go?!"
The anger drained as quickly as it had come, leaving something colder in its wake. A prickle at the base of his skull. A weight in his gut. His fingers trembled as he fumbled for his phone, thumb jabbing at the screen until weak light spilled over the scene.
The evidence was there. Deep gouges scored the door—jagged, frantic, like something had clawed at it in a frenzy. Shards of broken mirror glittered on the floor, each one reflecting back a dozen fractured versions of his own wide-eyed terror.
He hadn't imagined it.
That shadow had been real.
So why wasn't it here now?
A full-body shudder wracked him, ice flooding his veins. The dim glow of his phone no longer felt like safety—it was a spotlight, painting him vulnerable, exposed. Every unlit corner seemed to breathe. Every flicker of shadow twitched with unseen movement.
The realization hit like a sledgehammer.
This isn't a haunted house.
It's actually haunted.
Sweat slicked his palms, the knife handle slipping in his grip. Revenge? Pride? None of it mattered now. His body moved before his mind could catch up—legs pumping, breath sawing—hurtling blindly down the corridor.
He didn't notice the stairwell door.
Didn't notice how it stood slightly ajar.
Just get out. Just get the fuck out and—
Pain exploded in his shoulder. A sickening crack echoed off the walls. His arm went limp, nerves screaming, and for one dizzying second, his brain refused to process what had just happened.
Then he saw him.
Chen Ge stepped from the darkness like a nightmare given form. The grotesque mask stretched into something between a grin and a scream, its features warping as he tilted his head. "Sorry," Chen Ge murmured, voice eerily conversational. "I was aiming for your collarbone."
Zhang Peng's mouth worked soundlessly. Every prayer he'd ever half-remembered flooded his mind at once. God. Buddha. Anyone—
His body refused to obey. His remaining good arm twitched, but the moment his eyes locked onto the weapon in Chen Ge's grip, his muscles turned to water.
The hammer was monstrous. Nearly half a meter long, its head crusted with something dark and flaking. And the handle—
Oh god.
That's not wood.
It's shaped like a fucking spine.
Chen Ge didn't give him time to scream. The hammer swung in a brutal arc, whistling through the air—
Zhang Peng twisted.
Metal shrieked as the hammer connected with the railing, bending iron like tinfoil.
He ran.
Down the stairs.
Away from the voice that called after him, mocking and calm:
"And here I thought you came to play."