chapter 1

The night had fallen completely, and the bedroom of this guesthouse seemed to be dragged into a pitch-black ink pit. I curled up under the covers, as if wrapped in bloated dark clouds, unable to move. My face was turned toward the wall, my eyes sore and open in the darkness, but my vision was swallowed clean by the chaotic gloom.

I could hear my own breathing, very light-an effortful result of my control. Otherwise, I would lose it, trembling in fear or screaming in terror.

If that happened, the four people outside the door would likely move up their plan to kill me.

Right now, they were sitting in the living room, discussing how to make me into a corpse that would attract attention.

Creak…

The bedroom door cracked open a sliver, flickering light and scattered sounds seeped in.

Creak… creak…

The gap widened. Someone came in, footsteps heavy-a man. My heart clenched, and I unconsciously began counting the steps. One, two…

The footsteps stopped at the bedside. Soon, a hand brushed past my nose, hovering over my breath, testing.

“The drug works well, sleeping like the dead.” It sounded like talking to himself, or perhaps reporting to his accomplices outside.

Mixed in my breath was an unfamiliar, sour sweat scent. My heart kept pounding, and I used all my strength to suppress my fear. Of course, the fear didn’t dissipate-it settled layer upon layer at the bottom of my heart, stacking into a heavy shadow.

I was finally going to die. Would they slit my throat with a razor blade, stab my heart with a dagger, or… rape me before killing me… The executioners were both men and women; maybe the women would join in, turning the slaughter into a frenzy of death and lust.

I listed my possible ways to die, and it felt as if I could already smell the thick scent of blood at the tip of my nose.

At last, the footsteps at the bedside sounded again. With a creak, the door was pulled open, and the man retreated.

“Sleeping like a dead pig, let’s continue.”

The rustling noises stabbed into my ears. I buried my head deeper into the covers and let out a long breath.

I had snatched a little more time from the hands of death.

Outside the door, the conversation continued, accompanied by food and drink. They discussed how to kill me in a way that was more exciting, more attention-grabbing. Someone suggested recording the whole process and posting it on the Dark Web. That place was a garbage dump of humanity, where fear and blood always had an audience, and some were even willing to pay for it.

The suggestion was met with a few light laughs. Then, they began to seriously discuss what kind of killers they should be. Someone said there were too many cruel and violent killers-nothing new. They had to be elegant, turn the killing into a performance art. I couldn’t die too quickly; there had to be a slow process from life to death, so people could savor it.

As the conversation heated up, someone raised a glass and shouted, “Come on, cheers!”

In that moment, I felt like a plate of cold, silent human sashimi.

My life, to them, was nothing more than a snack to go with their drinks.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought of escaping, but the four of them took turns watching me, leaving no gap. Just like tonight, they had planned this “dinner party” and, to enjoy themselves, had put Sleeping Pills in the milk I drank early on.

I noticed, but still drank every drop.

I’ve had insomnia for years; Melatonin and Sleeping Pills have long lost their effect on me. Those two dissolved tablets weren’t enough to knock me out completely. But I had to go along with their plan and perform a silent play of deep sleep.