Missing Persons Notice (16+)

At 4:30 p.m., Chen Ge stood solitary in the haunted house's props room, a cavern of curios steeped in gloom. His gaze swept over the clutter—masks leering from shelves, ropes coiled like serpents, tools glinting with latent menace—as if divining secrets from their stillness. What does one pack to face a night with a murderer?

ID, phone, charger, lighter, penknife, a multi-use hammer… And this—can't forget this. He snatched the doll from the prior night's mirror game—a tattered thing with hollow eyes—and thrust it into his bag. Zipping it shut with a rasp that echoed like a crypt sealing, he strode out.

"ID, phone, charger, lighter, penknife, multi-tool hammer… oh, and this doll—can't leave it behind." Chen Ge's voice murmured through the props room, a litany of survival as he stuffed the ragged doll—last night's mirror-haunting relic—into his pack. Its stitched grin leered up at him as he checked his arsenal, then yanked the zipper shut with a sound like a coffin lid snapping closed. He strode out, the weight of the mission pressing against his spine.

"Xiao Wan, don't head home tonight—rest here instead. Lock up when you're done; I've got something to handle and I'm off." Xu Wan's initiation had only just bloomed, tender and raw—if he could, Chen Ge would've lingered to cradle her through the aftermath.

"Boss, it's not even five—where're you dashing off to?" Her voice, soft as a specter's sigh, trailed him from the ticket booth, her death-pale face tilting with curiosity.

"Key's on the props table. See you tomorrow." He brushed off her probe, but as he turned, she abandoned the haunted house flyers in a drift of crimson silk and darted for the props room, swift as a wraith.

This girl… Since that day—their bodies entwined in a frenzied blur—their bond had warped into something peculiar, a thread stretched taut between intimacy and enigma. Xu Wan had glimpsed his shadowed cravings; now, mornings found her half-dressed post-makeup, skipping lower garments entirely. Chen Ge, unable to resist, would claim her before her shift—sparing her the trouble of disrobing—then watch her hastily clad herself, her core brimming with his essence as she prowled off to terrify guests. When a fair visitor swooned under the haunt's spell, Chen Ge's desires flared anew, and Xu Wan would join him, a willing accomplice, entwining with the unconscious to sate his hunger.

Yet the words boyfriend or girlfriend never crossed their lips. Left to fate's gentle current, their closeness might've ripened naturally into love—a quiet alchemy. But that day had been wrong, skewed by forces Chen Ge couldn't pin down. Was it her mortuary mask that unmoored him, or Xu Wan herself igniting some deeper flame?

She'd taken to crashing at his apartment some nights, blurring lines further—hence his parting directive. Their intimacy rivaled lovers', a dance of flesh and trust, yet strip away the haunt's veneer, and they were naught but employer and employee. A bizarre, fragile limbo hung between them, as uncanny as the shadows lurking in the mirrors.

"This girl…" The evening breeze toyed with the abandoned leaflets, scattering them like lost souls. Chen Ge sighed, pinning them with a pebble, muttering, Hope she doesn't spot me on the morning news—'Haunt Keeper Found Gutted.' Beneath his placid mask, his heart churned—a tempest stoked by the Nightmare Mission's revelations. The black phone's tasks bore fangs sharper than he'd reckoned. Trial Missions outstrip Dailies—I'll need every ounce of cunning tonight.

Before dusk bled into night, he pedaled toward Ping An Apartments, the mission's cryptic name his only guide. Google Maps and a nine-month-old online gripe—a festering crumb of truth—steered him through two grueling hours of twists and turns. Who'd dwell in such a forsaken hollow?

The path snaked through wild thickets, a labyrinth untouched by streetlamps' glow. Through gnarled branches, a gray hulk loomed—a building squatting in silence. Locals he'd quizzed en route knew naught of it, save an old man, sixty winters etched in his face, who'd pointed the way with a warning: "Haunted, cursed—folks shun it even by day." Chen Ge had no retort—only the phone's cruel whim dragged him to this abyss.

6:50 p.m. Mission demands I'm there by 11—time to scout. The forest swallowed him as he pedaled deeper, until the fabled cursed house emerged. A high gray wall ringed the yard, its sole egress a rusted double gate, yet a gleaming new lock barred it. Odd—fresh lock, ancient gate… and what's this? A white sheet clung to the iron bars—no flyer, but a missing person's plea, revealed by his flashlight's beam:

"Zhang Qing, Female, 27, 157 cm, slight build. Beauty mark under right eye. Fond of red attire. Contact Mr. Wang with leads—reward offered!" The address matched this forsaken place, pricking Chen Ge's spectral senses. He snapped a photo, then breached the compound.

Vaster than he'd imagined, the main building—a three-story monolith—flanked two squat outbuildings, perhaps a storeroom and pump house. Paint flaked like shed skin, whispering of decades past—twenty, thirty years?—yet the grounds defied neglect. No litter marred the earth; the lawn lay trimmed, an eerie tidiness cloaking the decay.

Parking his bike on the grass, Chen Ge shouldered his pack and ventured into the main hall. "Anyone here?" His call echoed down a corridor dim as a dungeon's throat. Ten heartbeats later, a door near the stairs creaked ajar—a sliver of shadow.

"Good evening," he ventured, stepping closer. The figure behind offered no welcome, the gap unyielding. No light spilled from within—just a woman's silhouette, her bloodshot eyes gleaming like embers in a spent hearth, weary from sleepless nights.

"How much for a night's stay?" he asked, softening his tone to honey. A giggle—sharp, unhinged—answered, then the door slammed shut, a gust of rejection in his face.

"Huh?" Before he could unravel the jest, footsteps thudded from above. A voice-activated light flared at the corridor's bend, illuminating a limping man descending—middle-aged, his gait a lurching rhythm.

"Stay here, eh? How long?" he barked, catching Chen Ge's query.

"You're the landlord?" Chen Ge approached. "Just one night."

"One night?" The man's eyes raked him, probing like a Divination spell. "Fine. ID, payment—second floor."

Chen Ge trailed him, but a clang shattered the quiet—the iron gate flung wide outside. The landlord's face twisted, irritation carving deeper lines. He froze mid-step; Chen Ge halted too. Moments later, a weary figure shambled in—another middle-aged man, clad in threadbare rags, clutching a stack of papers.

"Wang Qi, how often must I say it? She's not here!" the landlord roared, barring the stairs. "Keep this up, and I'll call the cops!"

The man—Wang Qi—trudged upward, head bowed, deaf to the tirade. "Hey!" A kick from the landlord sent him crashing against the wall, papers cascading like fallen leaves. One drifted to Chen Ge's feet—identical to the gate's notice. Same missing woman… His eyes narrowed as he pocketed it, watching the scene unfold.

Wang Qi didn't fight back. Crawling upright, he gathered his scattered pleas in silence—a broken puppet, lifeless yet driven. "Ignore him, he's mad," the landlord muttered, waving Chen Ge up, abandoning the lost soul.

Mad? Chen Ge stole a glance as he passed. The mission spoke of a psycho—could this be him?