In Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean, and Japanese, the pronunciation of the number "4" is similar to the word for "death," making it widely considered an unlucky number. For example, some buildings skip the 4th and 14th floors, Hong Kong''s New Ferry has no vessel numbered "4," Taiwan avoids license plates ending with "4," and people often steer clear of phone numbers ending in "4."


    I never used to believe in such superstitions, but that night, as I stared at the doorplate above me, I fell into deep thought.


    "Room 444."


    The address on the flyer was completely accurate. To my disbelief, such a place actually existed in Jiang City.


    "Should I go in?"


    It felt like reaching the final level of a game—my emotions were tangled. The pitch-black corridor seemed endless, my feet occasionally stepping on cracked, rotting wood and the corpses of insects. What unsettled me most was that this was the underground fourth floor. My phone had inexplicably blacked out, and my only weapon—an imported German 8,000-volt anti-wolf taser—had also stopped working. I was left completely defenseless, forced to face whatever awaited me with nothing but my bare hands.


    The eerie, terrifying atmosphere, combined with the old woman''s earlier cryptic poem, made my heart race with fear.


    "If this were just a prank or some bizarre variety show, the effort put into it would be excessive. And despite my vigilance, I haven’t spotted any cameras or obvious signs of human setup. This doesn’t feel like a joke."


    My hand rested on the doorknob as I fantasized about what lay beyond—perhaps a dozen cameras pointing at me, a well-dressed host embracing me enthusiastically, shouting into a microphone: "Congratulations, Mr. Gao! You’ve passed the test! Here’s your one-million-yuan prize!"


    Fantasy was pleasant; reality was always disappointing.


    With a creak, the door opened, sending dust flying as I stepped inside.


    "Hello? Anyone here?"


    A dim light swayed overhead, the musty stench of mildew rising from the carpet. Rotting tables and chairs were piled in the center of the room, and on the far wall, four crooked characters were scrawled: "Netherworld Showroom."


    No flashlights or cameras as I’d imagined. No bloodied ghosts clutching their severed heads, either.


    The best-case scenario hadn’t materialized, but neither had the worst. Behind the door was just an abandoned storage room.


    "Can’t let my guard down. If Xia Qingzhi’s address is real, this might be the first crime scene where her brother was killed. Meaning, I’m standing in a room where a murder once took place."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Gently closing the door, the flickering bulb overhead cast a rare glow, offering a sliver of comfort.


    "Hello?" The light was on, yet the furnishings gave the illusion of having been abandoned for years.


    Stepping onto the tattered, damp carpet felt strange—like treading on hair matted with congealed blood. The floorboards groaned underfoot, and through occasional gaps, I glimpsed the corpses of unidentified insects.


    The tables and chairs in the center were carved with chilling phrases, some surfaces scratched with long, jagged marks—as if those who once sat there had endured extreme torment and suffering.


    At the far end, the words "Netherworld Showroom" were painted in blood-red pigment. At first glance, they seemed ordinary, but the longer I stared, the more sinister and grotesque they appeared.


    "Ordinary paint or varnish would flake and darken over time, turning a reddish-brown. This looks more like the characteristics of blood…"


    A smaller door stood beside the inner wall. Finding nothing outside, curiosity drove me to push it open.


    A sharp inhale—the temperature inside plummeted, freezing me in place.


    Inside the modestly sized room stood a two-meter-long black altar table. On the other side sat three figures in formal attire, resembling what I’d imagined TV hosts would look like. The only unsettling detail? Each wore a paper-mask face, making them look like three paper effigies at first glance.


    "Are you here for the interview?" The middle figure lifted his head in stiff, mechanical movements, his voice hoarse and low, like the creak of a rusted tin can being pried open.


    "Yes, I am. I’m here for the interview." These three were enigmas—possibly the killers of Xia Qingzhi’s brother. Staying calm in front of cold-blooded murderers was crucial.


    "I came across your ad and found the Netherworld Showroom fascinating. In the internet age, I believe only innovation and uniqueness lead to success, so I’d like to join you." Thinking on my feet, I placed the crumpled flyer on the black altar table for emphasis.


    "Fascinated?" The three exchanged glances. Maybe it was my imagination, but their paper masks seemed to twist into bone-chilling smiles.


    "You found your way here—call it fate. But being a host for the Netherworld Showroom isn’t a job for the living." The masked man interlaced his fingers, resting his chin on them. "May I ask you a few questions?"


    "Of course." My expression remained steady. Years ago, after being expelled from the police academy, I’d faked resumes and interviewed at nearly every major company in Jiang City. I had my own strategies for handling interviewers and had memorized template answers online.


    With inexplicable confidence, I smiled. "Go ahead."


    "Name."


    "Gao Jian."


    "Any prior experience in live streaming? Have you broadcast on other platforms before?"


    "Unfortunately, no. But I excel at communication and adaptability—my personality is well-suited for hosting." Honesty about weaknesses while emphasizing strengths was Interview Tactics 101.


    "Well said. But hosts for the Netherworld Showroom are different. We don’t just interact with the audience—we prioritize survival."


    "Survival…" The moment the interviewer said it, I realized things were spiraling beyond my control.


    "Exactly. Simple, isn’t it? Just stay alive." The middle figure stroked his mask, making the paper face contort eerily. "Our city hides countless legends—the thirteenth step of abandoned village schools, the last bus carrying the dead, flickering faces in midnight surveillance footage, the little girl in red forever lingering at doorways… Are all these just fabrications?"


    "Probably…" Had this been before tonight, I’d have said, "Yes, they’re all made up," without hesitation.


    "Wait—are you saying Netherworld Showroom hosts have to visit these places for content?!"


    "Quick on the uptake. I’m starting to like you." His laughter sounded inhuman, like rusty gears grinding. "Lurking in the shadows past midnight, uncovering the city’s deepest horrors—doesn’t that sound thrilling?"


    "Live streaming haunted locations is certainly niche. Might satisfy a lot of people’s morbid curiosity." I half-heartedly humored them while mentally preparing an exit strategy.


    Truthfully, I didn’t hate watching horror films—but starring in one was an entirely different matter.


    Just imagining myself prying open coffins, breaking into haunted houses, and being chased by spirits made my skin crawl.


    "Ghost stories? No, no. You still don’t understand." The masked man leaned forward, his paper-mask gaze piercing. "Reality is far more terrifying than fiction. I guarantee—the moment you learn the truth will mark the beginning of your deepest despair."


    "What do you mean?"


    "The answers lie within this city. You’ll become a witness to another world, forced to confront true horror." His tone held no jest—just a flat, oppressive weight.


    "This doesn’t feel like acting…" By now, I was 90% sure the Netherworld Showroom wasn’t a prank or TV show. I’d stumbled into something far worse.


    Leaning back, I readied myself to leave.


    But the masked man seemed to anticipate it. Without moving, the door behind me creaked shut on its own.


    "Don’t be nervous," he said. "Your interview has only just begun."