"In a town of perfect smiles, pain is the only crime."
Jié Dè stepped out of the elevator, expecting... relief. Maybe something safe.
But the cold air hit him like a blade — sharp and unforgiving — cutting through whatever warmth the Welcome Room had left in him.
He looked down at his hands. Scratched and bruised, but steady.
His fingers brushed the small knife strapped under his shirt — his only real weapon since the Tower swallowed him whole.
A scavenged relic, stolen from some poor bastard who didn't make it. Not much, but enough to remind him he still had a chance.
He clenched it tighter.
The street stretched out in front of him — too clean, too silent, like a corpse laid out for a funeral.
Rows of houses lined the road — all painted the same sickly pale pink and white.
Windows glinted like empty eyes staring right through him. Curtains drawn tight, as if they were hiding something.
The air was thick with the sickly sweet smell of fake flowers — the kind you find in funeral wreaths or abandoned graveyards. Plastic blooms that never wilt or die.
A cold wind brushed past him — too cold for spring — carrying a faint stench of rot beneath all that fake perfection.
The sky hung low and pale, stretched like a canvas painted by a madman who lost his mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement.
Figures.
They weren't people. Not really.
They wore old-fashioned clothes — lace collars, pastel dresses, threadbare suits — like ghosts from a time that never existed here.
Their faces were smooth and flawless, like porcelain dolls, but those eyes... Those eyes didn't blink. They just stared.
And when they looked at him, their painted smiles cracked — just a hair — like some horrible secret was barely contained beneath the surface.
One woman stepped closer. Raven-black hair, vintage blue dress, moving so quietly it was like she was gliding.
She tilted her head.
"Welcome home," she said. Sweet voice, but hollow — like wind rattling dead leaves in a graveyard.
Jié noticed the others.
A woman pushing a stroller — her smile stretched too wide, eyes cold and glassy.
Kids skipping in perfect unison, their giggles sounding like machines with broken settings.
More trapped souls emerged from the shadows, each marked by their own scars and silence.
There was a man with half his face melted like wax, dragging a broken leg, wearing a bloodstained military jacket. His eyes were dull, haunted — like he'd seen hell and lost.
A girl with tangled white hair and cracked skin sat cross-legged on the curb, humming a lullaby twisted into poison. Her bare feet bled into the cracked pavement.
A boy with wild red eyes grinned way too wide, clutching a stitched-up doll that blinked back.
All their eyes flicked to him as he stepped further in.
Then a voice came from nowhere — crackling through hidden speakers, cold and flat:
"Masks must be worn at all times. Failure to comply will result in immediate termination of participation."
And from thin air, white masks floated down, landing silently in front of everyone.
Jié grabbed one without thinking — cold plastic, smooth and lifeless.
Pressed it against his face.
The world twisted.
The smiles sharpened.
The eyes darkened.
The air grew heavier — like something was pressing down on his chest.
This place is a trap.
The bread. The Welcome Room. All bait.
These dolls — the others trapped here — they're not human anymore.
How long have they been stuck here?
Jié brushed the pocket of his jacket. Inside: a rusty knife, a flask of dirty water, and a crumpled photo of Xiǎorú — her small face shy, clutching that torn rabbit. He pulled it out. Edges worn from being folded and unfolded, over and over.
Is she safe? Is she even alive?
He swallowed the lump thick in his throat.
The elevator is hell, but the outside? Worse.
He kept quiet. Couldn't speak yet.
Every step felt like sinking in quicksand.
Rules weren't clear, but one thing was: survive six hours.
They're watching him. Waiting. Breathing.
He's no fool.
Fingers curled around the knife's cold metal in his pocket.
The air tasted like ash and old secrets.
Every step echoed too loud.
The pastel houses seemed to close in — walls shifting just enough to mess with your head.
A faint melody drifted in the wind — a music box lullaby, twisted dark and discordant.
His skin prickled.
Whispers rode the breeze — soft, urgent, just out of reach.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Thought of Xiǎorú.
Her tiny hands clutching that ragged rabbit.
Her breath, soft against his cheek on those cold nights.
She's out there somewhere.
Alive.
Maybe scared.
Maybe waiting.
He clenched his fists.
I'll get her back.
No matter what.
Ahead by a dry fountain sat a girl he recognized from the Welcome Room — the one with the bandaged eye.
Her mask hung under her chin.
When she saw him, her eyes flickered.
Not kindness.
Recognition.
"You're not like them," she said quietly.
He nodded.
"Neither are you."
Her name is Mei. He heard it whispered in the elevator — a warning, a hope.
She's a survivor — someone who's been through this hell and lived to tell the tale.
She leaned in close as they moved through the streets.
"This floor wants to break you. It feeds on fear and doubt."
She glanced at the masks.
"Everyone wears one, but the real monsters hide underneath."
His grip on the knife tightened.
He's not here to be broken.
They found a note taped to a cracked lamppost.
Survive six hours.
Keep your mask on.
Don't trust anyone.
And never let the dolls see your fear.
Not rules.
Threats.
He clenched his jaw.
Then the porcelain-faced woman smiled too wide — a hiss slipping into her voice:
"Time to play."
The dolls began to move — gliding, not walking, over the cracked pavement.
Each step a heartbeat.
Each heartbeat a countdown.
His pulse quickened.
This isn't a town.
It's a cage.
And the keys are locked inside their faces.
Six hours.
No mistakes.
No mercy.
Because in the dolls' perfect town, crying is the only way to die.