While I was deciding whether to push the door open and go in or deal with the trouble behind me first, Rafe made the choice for me - he appeared like a ghost behind me, placed his hand on mine and pushed the door open.

  His icy breath blew on the back of my neck. It took all my strength to hold back a scream. In the blinding brightness, the smell of sunlight, grass and earth filled my nostrils. The floor was painted a grassy green, and a cardboard sun was hung on a flagpole with a thin string. The rickety fence was only half a person's height, rough and uneven, like a child's half-hearted homework in a primary school art class.

  "Please, actor Liv, start reading the script."

  Rafe's voice came from above. He was no longer behind me. I looked down and saw that I was holding a crumpled notebook. My name was written in big letters on the cover, and above it was...

  "What's murdering... me?"

  Talking to myself was a waste of time and foolish. I hoped Rafe would answer my questions, but I didn't get a response for half a minute.

  Rafe wasn't trustworthy. I leaned down towards the fence and smelled a perfume-like, woody, smoky scent, but it felt like an industrial product, every inch rough and identical.

  The ground and the brick wall were the same: perfect smell, but a terrible touch. I spent five minutes quickly skimming through thousands of words of the script. My rationality focused all its energy on understanding the content, and I was no longer afraid.

  It was the story of a naive country girl's first day working at the edge of the city, completing her tasks at the mysterious Blue Vulture Inn and dealing with three guests. I had no experience in stage acting, but I wasn't too worried.

  Because the part written in the script didn't require me to "act".

  "Please stand on the script, the performance is about to begin. Scene one: The Baker."

  I felt this was a desecration of knowledge. With a sense of guilt, I placed the script on the ground and stepped on my name. The script held me up, sliding smoothly on the cardboard grass, as if following an invisible track, with a rustling sound, slowly approaching the red brick house.

  The walls were no longer rough and crudely colored cardstock. The grass under my feet was pressed into a distinct groove by the script, and each blade of grass had a clear but imperfect vein. I carefully kept my balance and, before the script carried me into the inn, I crouched down and touched a blade of grass and the door frame.

  The rough and shoddy feel was inconsistent with what I saw.

  "Hi, you must be the new girl. I hope you didn't get too tired on the way." The short, fat man with an obscure Irish accent placed a basket of standard, advertisement-like wheat bread on the counter. As he walked towards me, a sweet, warm wheat scent blew. "You've got a lot of luggage."

  This was my first scene partner, the baker Hoffman, who delivered bread to the Blue Vulture Inn every three days. According to the narrator's description, I was trying to perk up and play the role of a qualified inn attendant.

  "Hello, Mr. Hoffman."

  I couldn't say "hello" in German, nor could I give a smitten smile to a man whose half face seemed to be melting like wax, but a force made every muscle in my body cooperate perfectly, achieving a near-perfect performance: "Let me help you."

  The script carried me like a small boat towards Hoffman and the basket of bread. The closer I got, the more I could smell a faint, pungent odor - the smell of organic solvents. Hoffman wiped the flour on his shirt and offered to help me with my luggage.

  This wasn't in the script, not only because I remembered the content, but also because I didn't feel that force manipulating me.

  "No need, I can manage it myself." I secretly hoped that my scene with Hoffman wouldn't conflict with the script and was unwilling to give up the only familiar thing that could protect me. I was even prepared to pin Hoffman down with that finger I'd snatched from Rafe, and see if I could "turn a person into an eternal being." But Hoffman just smiled at me, letting me shift my satchel behind me and cross my arms as I stared at him.

  That malicious gaze, combined with his disfigured half-face, was enough to trigger a primal fear in humans. I averted my eyes silently, as if I were reluctant to stick my hand into a cow dung cake, and grasped the handle of the wicker basket. My fingers accidentally brushed against a piece of bread.

  The smooth and warm touch made my mind go blank. Before I could react, my subconscious had already converted the tactile and olfactory sensations into something understandable, and finally screamed in silence in the form of words.

  It was a basket full of huge, wriggling creatures that gave off a putrid stench.

  Before I realized what was happening, I just stared at the "bread" scattered on the ground, the rattan basket still rolling, and Hoffman's smile.

  "Trigger egg: The clumsy maid. Please act as you see fit to ensure the hotel can operate normally."

  That was Rafe's voice. It wasn't the first thing today that I couldn't understand.

  "Oh dear, the bread on the ground can't be eaten anymore." Hoffman squatted down and put the bread back in the basket, moving as slowly as an old man with heart disease.

  I sincerely hoped he would be killed by heart disease—or anything else. But this thought vanished completely under three loud thoughts.

  This wasn't in the script. I could only choose one of these three sentences to say. It was like playing a game, but I had to bear all the consequences myself. There was no save point, no chance to start over.

  The first option was "I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry!" Just saying a few more words made me want to cry, like a child who had done something wrong.

  Or I could say "Damn it" irritably and squat down to pick up the bread with Hoffman. In this choice, I wouldn't feel guilty at all. Like a tired and slick worker, this was just another insignificant bad thing among countless others, not even worth a sigh.

  I hated the last option the most—

  "Will Lady Blue Ibis be angry?"

  The last thing we needed was another person who might be the innkeeper, and I didn't know if they were a hunter or a resident.

  Hoffman reached for the bread even faster than before. When I took my next breath, I opened my mouth and let out a sound as if it was squeezed out of my throat.

  "Will Lady Blue Ibis be angry?"

  The hand with large scars finally grabbed a piece of bread. The owner of the hand seemed very agitated, and the five short, thick, and powerful fingers dug deep into the surface of the bread. I seemed to hear a short scream coming from the bread.

  "Baker Hoffman is a good man. He doesn't want to see a girl who just left home lose her first job in this way." Rafe's voice seemed to come from every direction, with an annoyingly drawn-out tone. "He decides to take you to Lady Blue Ibis himself."

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I could imagine how bad my face looked, but under the script's control, I held Hoffman's hand and thanked him excitedly.

  When we looked at each other, we saw deep malice in each other's eyes, but under the script's control, we acted like long-lost friends, which was truly disgusting—especially when I heard "You're like my child" from Hoffman's mouth, I almost laughed out loud.

  Behind the counter was a door covered only by a curtain. If this wasn't... God knows where, I thought there was an office or a warehouse behind it. The script carried me to the door, and that force that seemed to control fate suddenly vanished.

  For the first time, I felt the existence of intuition—if I didn't do something now, something even more unbearable than death would happen.

  "Let me..."

  More content was interrupted by a loud swallowing sound. My heart almost burst out of my chest from fear. I quickly pulled out the notebook from my crossbody bag and threw it at that melting face.

  This was a goddamn nightmare. I sat down on the wooden steps, watching the red hydrangeas grow from a person's body, covered in flesh membranes and snow-white blood vessels. Little snakes emerged from all the "holes", swallowed their tails to form a pulsating ring of flesh on the ground. The already sparse hair was drilling into the pores on the face...

  But there was one thing—something that still shone brightly in the midst of the terror I had never seen before, shining in what I would call hands.

  I could pick up my phone from the toilet in the bar. Now I could handle this situation too. I wrapped two beads in a piece of gauze and put them in my bag. I walked up the creaking stairs, following Rafe's narration, and reached the wooden door. I knocked on it as instructed: one tap and then scratching with my fingernail.

  "Child, come in quickly. We've been waiting for you for too long."

  The voices of a dozen people, both men and women, young and old, came clearly from behind the door. I pushed it open and found myself face to face with several snow-white wings with eyeballs.

  Amazing! They were just like angels.

  "Lady Blue Vulture? Hello."

  I had lost most of my means of protection, so I could only hold the folding knife tighter and sit down on the only sofa in the office in front of the "angel" named Blue Vulture.

  "Hello, new one. It's intermission time now. You can get off the script - if you still want to leave here like a human being, don't lose it."

  It was a gentle female voice. A brand-new wing emerged from the cluster of wings, like a chick breaking out of its shell.

  No, the angel in front of me still had a human female body, with clusters of wings growing where the head should be. I was relieved to see that Blue Vulture still had human features, and I was amazed by the beauty of the seven snow-white wings and the eyeballs on them. I obediently held the script as Blue Vulture asked and sat down on the sofa.

  This was a small office with obvious signs of use, but it was impossible to tell its age. It could be the manager's office in a gas station, or it could fit in a school or prison - of course, it could also be the office of a hotel owner.

  "Dear, our time is limited. If you stay here too long, the audience will be unhappy." The angel gave a tinkling laugh. "You have a great Path, a great Skill, and you've met great friends."

  "Child, don't be afraid. You will have a wonderful life."

  Yes, I couldn't imagine how creative my death would be.

  "Thank you. If there's nothing else, I hope to go on stage as soon as possible." I didn't want to have too much contact with this beautiful and mysterious creature and just wanted to leave quickly.

  There was a little dog trapped in a cage outside. I had to free it as soon as possible.

  "What a child. Take good care of what you got from that hunter. It will be very helpful when you take your bow."

  I had an interesting experience of meeting an angel without dying. I left the office and wrote down Blue Vulture's words in my notebook as I walked down the stairs.

  Hoffman's body had disappeared.

  In the empty reception area, the script guided me as I carried the bread into a modest yet spotless kitchen. I hung a ‘discount’ tag on the basket, sincerely hoping it wouldn’t end up as my employee meal. As I mindlessly polished beer glasses like a puppet on strings, the distant chime of a copper bell echoed from the counter.

  “Welcome to the Blue Vulture. May I help you with… a room?”

  The moment I saw the woman, a deep, primal instinct wrestled with the script for control over my body. There was the briefest hesitation in my delivery, a fleeting pause in my recitation.

  “Yes, dear.”

  A voice as smooth and rich as a saxophone drifted from beneath the wide-brimmed hat. Every inch of her skin bore the natural imprints of time’s passage, yet the fine lines at the corners of her lips reminded me of sunlit riverbeds—emerald strands of waterweed swaying beneath the current and glistening grains of sand catching the light.

  It was a beauty so close to nature’s essence that, in this moment, the world’s standards of aesthetics could only bow in agreement.

  “Do you like Room Seven? It’s in the center of the second floor, where you can enjoy the unique midday sun and auroras of our quiet zone.” From the four scripted responses, I chose the one that included the best room. “One hundred fifty thousand pounds per night, breakfast included.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow in slight surprise. “Looks like today is my lucky day. Card, please.”

  I swiped the pitch-black card across the cover of the hotel ledger, the motion feeling almost like a game of pretend. Then, I retrieved the key to Room Seven from beneath the counter and picked up the slightly bulging burlap sack she had brought along—it was surprisingly light in my hand and carried a faint, sweet fragrance.

  A murmur of hushed whispers and excited gasps rippled through the lobby behind me. Among the indistinct chatter, I caught snippets of words—“Gold”… “Where did it come from?”—spoken with an unmistakable thrill.

  Was “Gold” the woman’s name?

  A proper staff member shouldn’t let curiosity get the better of them. I simply opened the room door for her and, as instructed, placed the sack on the sofa.

  “Thank you, dear. Such a thoughtful, well-behaved child. Your father must be so proud of you.”

  Even after returning to the small room behind the front desk, I couldn’t shake the lingering weight of her words. Absentmindedly, I fiddled with the tip she had left me—a single, slightly rusted one-yuan coin, its country of origin impossible to determine.

  My first day of performance had come to an end. In an instant, the fading daylight outside gave way to the deep embrace of night. From my window, I gazed at the three moons in the sky, sleep washing over me like a tidal wave, pulling me swiftly into its depths.