The question of whether ghosts exist is far more complicated than the chicken-or-egg dilemma. After all, most people know the taste of chicken and eggs, but few have ever seen a ghost.


    Even professional paranormal researchers would struggle to give a definitive answer—let alone a third-rate detective like me, raised under the red flag and nurtured by the spring breeze.


    But not knowing doesn’t mean I can’t answer. In life, you don’t always need the right answer—just the one others want to hear.


    The masked man had said earlier: To be a Netherworld Showroom host, you must not only engage your audience but also protect yourself.


    That was a clue. The test had begun the moment I stepped inside.


    Instead of agonizing over the existence of ghosts, I retraced the night’s events: the legends of Wudeng Road, the old woman clutching a doll in the rain, the interviewers with their paper masks, the five twisted questions.


    Everything seemed designed to shatter common sense, priming me for this final question.


    After all that buildup, the answer they wanted was obvious.


    "I believe ghosts exist. That’s my answer."


    The moment I spoke, applause echoed through the cramped room. The three interviewers clapped stiffly.


    "Four out of five correct. Congratulations, Mr. Gao. You’re now officially a contracted host for the Netherworld Showroom."


    Having been rejected by countless companies in Jiang City, I’d developed a complex about failure. Yet here I was, inexplicably hired—with zero joy in my heart.


    "That’s it? Seems… rushed."


    "Not at all. You’re the most suitable candidate we’ve encountered. If you have no further questions, let’s proceed with the contract." The central figure rose slowly. He was my height, his grotesque paper mask level with mine across the table.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "Actually, which question did I get wrong?" A flaw in my reasoning was fatal for a detective.


    "You’ll learn soon enough…" A guttural chuckle leaked from behind the mask. "Because you’ll experience that despair firsthand. You’ll understand exactly where you went wrong."


    "Firsthand? That’s a terrible answer." No sane person would volunteer for the scenarios in those questions.


    "Any other concerns, Mr. Gao?"


    "None…" Lies. My mind swarmed with unspoken questions—ones that would either go unanswered or get me killed.


    The smartest move was to play along, leave, then call the police on these lunatics.


    "Then let’s finalize the contract." From beneath the altar table, he produced an aged, yellowed scroll and seized my right hand, pressing it onto the paper.


    "So cold…" His touch was unnaturally icy, like a corpse in a morgue.


    Before I could react, a grotesque insect scuttled from the floorboards—centipede-like, but with a single horn protruding from its head. It raced up the table leg.


    I tried to pull away, but the masked man’s grip was iron. The creature lunged, sinking its fangs into my wrist.


    "Ah—!" The pain was needle-sharp, bone-deep—but brief. When it faded, a black, plum-blossom-shaped wound marked my wrist. Blood soaked the scroll, and the insect lay shriveled in the floor cracks.


    "Contract sealed. From today, you belong to the Netherworld Showroom." His tone remained flat as he retrieved a leather case.


    "We provide all equipment. Your job is to create compelling content." Inside lay a full live stream kit: camera, encoder, selfie stick, tripod, even a smartphone—all streaked with dried blood.


    "Tasks are sent directly to this phone. You may choose your live stream   format, but only our devices can capture what ordinary eyes can’t see."


    "After each live stream , we score you based on viewership and gifts. Accumulate points to exchange for… unique  rewards."


    "But rewards demand penalties. Should your score dip negative, you’ll vanish—just like Xia Chi."


    My composure cracked. An organization capable of erasing people wholesale? And now I was trapped.


    "Details are in the contract. Any questions?"


    The bloodstained scroll listed terms: no disclosing the Showroom’s existence, no refusing assignments.


    The back held a point-exchange table:


    - 1 point = 100g pure gold (Currently ~￥25,000)


    - 5 points = Thai kuman thong (child spirit)


    - 7 points = Western Hunan corpse-gu


    - 10 points = Tainted Earth’s Flesh (a mythical fungus)


    - 12 points = Jade Maiden’s Joyful Spirit Manual (hand-copied)


    - 15 points = Mortal’s Third Eye (awakening)


    - 20 points = Bone and Sinew Cleansing


    - 30 points = …


    The list descended into increasingly esoteric horrors.


    At the very bottom:


    …


    - 1,000 points = 12 extra hours of life


    - 10,000 points = Freedom (reset to origin)


    "Study the equipment. Your first live stream is likely tomorrow night."


    "What if I refuse?"


    "Your current score is zero. Skipping a live stream  deducts 10 points."


    "Got it. Can I leave now?" Immediately.


    "Use the provided phone to contact me." The masked man waved, and the door creaked open. "You’re clever, Mr. Gao. Take this seriously. Don’t gamble with your life."


    "Trust me, I’m not done living."


    Gripping the case, I bolted into the hallway, legs numb as plaster. His final words faded behind me:


    "I sincerely hope you survive…"


    ---


    The streets were a blur. Only when headlights pierced the dark did I stop, gasping.


    A taxi idled nearby, its driver a balding middle-aged man.


    "New District—east end of Tingtang Road." I pounded the window.


    "￥20 minimum, plus ￥1 fuel surcharge."


    "Just drive." I clutched the case, still panting.


    "Look, pal, it’s late. You’re sprinting around with a mysterious case—how do I know you’re not—"


    I flipped it open, revealing the camera. "Relax. I’m just a daredevil streamer with a death wish."