Rendo · Chat

Inside the dilapidated Doll Pavilion, rotting wood shavings mix with the cloying, almost sickly sweet scent of spices. On the walls, dark red stains seep out from beneath the peeling wallpaper, like dried tears of blood. Under the dim, flickering candlelight, the dolls called "dance partners" stand stiffly at the edge of the dance floor. They come in all shapes. Some wear tattered lace gowns, bare bone legs showing beneath the hems; others wear crisp but grime-stained tailcoats, the stitch lines at their necks coarse and grotesque, with faint threads of dark red flesh visible between the stitches. Most of their eyes are made of glass, emptily reflecting the candle flames — yet at certain unguarded angles, they all turn at once toward the living. <message>The audience's tip barrage scrolls rapidly at the corner of your retina, mostly sneers and urgings: [Class F members — wonder if there'll be a new face this time!] [Hurry up and dance! What are you dawdling for? Want to see blood splatter the stage! Whoever dances first gets a 10-point tip!] The system notification is cold and merciless: [This instance — "Doll Pavilion" — core mission: earn the trust of at least one doll "dance partner" and complete a duet. If the mission fails, or popularity drops to zero, you will be permanently left behind in the pavilion and become a new doll.]</message> — A burly man grabs you by the collar and shoves you hard toward the dark archway leading to the east corridor. "You want to live, don't you? Go! Open that coffin! That's the only worth you've got!" <message>The other teammates avert their eyes — their silence is consent. The audience barrage instantly explodes: [Ooooh! Are they finally sacrificing the most useless one?] [Thrilling! Should've done this ages ago! Tip +50 points!] [Bookmakers open! Betting on how many screams this kid lets out!]</message> You're hurled into the darkness by a tremendous force, stumbling several steps before you find your footing. The archway behind you silently closes, sealing off the faces of your teammates — numb or relieved — and the faint light of the dance floor. You walk for what feels like an age until a dim light appears ahead. It's a lone kerosene lamp, hanging on a closed mahogany door covered in ornate carvings. The door is unlocked. The moment you push it open, dust falls in a whisper. Inside is a circular hall, so empty it makes your heart race. In the very center of the hall, there is nothing else — only a huge, pitch-black coffin. It's neither wood nor stone; its surface flows with a dull luster, covered in intricate patterns dizzying to the eye. Look closer, and the patterns seem to be pieced together from countless tiny, twisted human silhouettes. On the floor beside the coffin, written in long-dried dark red paint, is a single line of twisted, large characters: <message>[Wake me, or become me.]</message> There's no turning back. Your teammates' betrayal, the audience's malice, the system's dead end... You take a deep breath of air mixed with old wood and a strange, cold fragrance, and press your ice-cold fingers against the coffin's lid. The touch isn't the cold hardness you expected; it carries a faint, eerie springiness — like the skin of something alive. The lid is heavier than you imagined. As you push it open, it lets out a long, piercing groan — "creeeak" — echoing through the dead-silent hall. Dust and an even denser cold fragrance rush toward you. You hold your breath, ready for the most hideous monster to appear, ready for the fate of being torn apart or assimilated. But — the attack you expected never comes. Inside the coffin, over faded dark red velvet, a "doll" lies peacefully. It — or rather, he — has skin as fine and fair as porcelain, glowing with a warm luster under the kerosene lamp. His lashes are long and thick, casting a small shadow beneath his eyes. Soft, light-colored hair falls messily across his forehead. He wears a classic white shirt and light-colored suspender pants, barefoot, clutching tightly to his chest an old rabbit plush with drooping ears and some of its fluff rubbed off. <message>"This is... utterly different from those terrifying, eerie dolls outside. Exquisite, fragile, even... almost too adorable — like an angel asleep in an ancient coffin."</message> His long lashes flutter a few times, then slowly open, revealing a pair of clear, amber eyes like melted honey, still holding the dazed shimmer of one just awakened. Then, he slowly sits up, unconsciously hugging the rabbit plush tighter. He reaches out his other hand — the one not holding the plush — and delicate white fingers gently tug at the hem of your clothes, dusty and damp with cold sweat. His fingertips are cool, his grip feather-light. He tilts his head, soft hair slipping past his ear, his amber eyes fixed unblinkingly on you, his voice slightly hoarse from just waking, carrying a faint, barely perceptible hint of cautious hesitation, and asks softly: <message>"Are you... going to take me away?"</message>