Wheel of Misfortune

Due to her field of study, the time Gao Ru Xue spent in the company of dead bodies was far greater than the time she spent around living human beings. She was not good at social events, but that did not bother her much because she felt more comfortable in the presence of dead bodies after all.

Chen Ge's lips curled into a faint, evasive smirk. "Our haunted house wields a peculiar artistry in its makeup—a trick of shadow and craft, paired with this place's strange aura. It's all an illusion, nothing more." The Mortician's Makeup and Black Friday's sinister strains defied explanation; he sidestepped them with a vague flourish, steering the conversation elsewhere. "If that's all, duty calls. Thanks for braving my little abyss today."

Dismissing the pair with a nod, he sent Xu Wan to tidy the Minghun set's scattered props, then retreated alone to the control room—a dim sanctum of flickering screens and lurking secrets. He San's fate gnawed at him, a truth only he grasped: the mirror's denizen hadn't fled. It crouched still within the haunt's glassy depths, a coiled threat.

Letting it linger will only breed chaos, he thought, jaw tightening. His first dance with a Nightmare Mission had spiraled beyond his grasp—its tendrils snaked deeper than he'd dared imagine. Flicking off the haunting Black Friday track, he summoned the surveillance feeds, zeroing in on He San's frantic dash into the West House. Frame by frame, the footage unspooled a chilling tale.

At 9:24:11, He San burst in, a panicked figure darting like a hare through a cursed glade. By 9:24:14, his gaze snagged on the bronze mirror—and the screen froze into something uncanny. The wild-eyed boy stilled, eerily serene, rooted before the glass. Were it not for the ticking timestamp, Chen Ge might've thought the feed had seized.

At 9:24:17, He San's left hand rose—slow, deliberate—as if unseen strings tugged him toward the mirror's maw. By 9:24:20, Xu Wan swept in, her wedding gown a ghostly shimmer, just as He San's torso grazed the glass. A flicker—something—flashed in the reflection, caught by the lens, and he crumpled like a marionette unstrung.

Was Xiao Wan's arrival the wrench in its plan? Chen Ge looped the ten-second clip, a kaleidoscope of dread. His fingers pressed his temples, but no answers bloomed. Until I forge a lasting fix, I'll shroud every mirror in this damned place. He trudged to the Props Room, snatching black cloths, then returned to the Minghun set.

"Boss, why're you here? I've got the cleanup," Xu Wan called, wrestling paper mannequins and cash back into the faux coffin, her voice a soft echo amid the gloom.

She still wore the haunted house ghost bride's costume, a garb steeped in spectral elegance. The scarlet wedding robe clung to her form, its vibrant hue strained taut by the generous swell of her bosom—high and plush, like forbidden fruit pressing against the fabric's seams. A deep, shadowed cleft plunged between her curves, whispering secrets that stirred restless thoughts in the dimness. Below, her long, rounded legs played a tantalizing game of hide-and-seek through the slits of the qipao-style gown.

"A heads-up," Chen Ge replied, hefting the cloth. "No more mirror tricks or props for now. And when you're on duty, steer clear of them." He joined her, sealing the coffin's lid with a hollow thud.

Xu Wan blinked, puzzled, but held her tongue. Once the Main House was restored, Chen Ge slipped into the West House alone. A frail white lantern cast trembling light across the room. He stood where He San had fallen, staring into the bronze mirror's icy depths.

"A dweller in the glass? Another realm beyond?" His fingers brushed the chill surface, meeting his reflection's unblinking gaze. Something gnawed at him, elusive yet wrong. He San took the water with his right hand—he's not left-handed. Yet in the video, his left rose. Why defy habit? Did the mirror's thing seize him? He pressed his left hand to the glass, aligning with his mirrored right. Everything's reversed in there.

Draping the mirror in black, he drew the cursed phone from his pocket. This began it all—that entity birthed from its depths. If I'm to banish it, this wretched device holds the key. The Haunted House app flared to life, its interface subtly shifted. Daily and Monthly Visitor counts ticked up by two each. Beneath the locked scenarios, a new Trial Mission glowed.

Clicking it, text unfurled: Complete this, and its scenario unlocks. The game's logic seemed just—missions reaped rewards scaled to their peril. To grow this haunt and purge the mirror's blight, he'd have to keep playing its twisted hand.

One Daily Mission per day left his gaze drifting to the Trial Mission:

"Murder by Midnight—A deranged patient stalks a decayed apartment block. Scissors and hammers for hands, he prowls just beyond your door.

Venue: Ping An Apartments, Western Countryside.

Requirement: Arrive before 23:00 today. Find the murderer and survive 'til dawn.

Hint: A wolf among sheep, his kindly mask cloaks a twisted soul.

Accept? Warning: Trial Missions vanish after 24 hours—miss this, and the scenario's lost forever."

Doubt flickered, but the final line clinched it. The haunt's tide is turning—I can't squander any chance to lift it higher. He tapped Accept, and scrolled further. A new feature blinked: Haunted Wheel of Misfortune. Curiosity piqued, he clicked, revealing:

"Life and death defy mortal decree; fortune and ruin teeter on a knife's edge. Spin for Spirit Fruits to prolong your days—or Baleful Specters brimming with hate! Activated by your first visitor scream. Free spin granted. (Screams over 70 decibels count; 100 screams earn one spin.)"

One hundred screams for a gamble? Chen Ge's brow furrowed. This wheel's a cruel jest—grueling to trigger, and the prize a dice roll? A specter would waste it all! The free spin taunted him, a glowing lure akin to an unread message—trivial, perhaps, but irresistible.

What's the worst that could happen? he reasoned, finger brushing the screen. The wheel whirred to life.

Anything but a Baleful Specter—please!