In truth, I had absolutely no idea how long I'd slept, nor whether a new day had already begun.

  "Bright sunshine awakens Liv. Despite a few small mishaps yesterday, the girl, who is away from home for the first time, remains enthusiastic about her new job. She changes into the inn's uniform, neatly twisting her hair up with stolen belongings, and heads toward the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the three guests."

  This was unquestionably Rafe's revenge. Left with no other options, I carefully pinned my hair up into a neat bun using the dried-up finger and cautiously wrote three pages of sentences in an empty spare notebook—knowing full well that writing too much or altering details too drastically would bring upon myself an exhaustion so profound, both physically and mentally, that it would surely lead to my death here.

  The bread I'd dropped yesterday had vanished from the kitchen, replaced by a carton filled with dark-brown eggs and five plump, round potatoes neatly arranged on the cutting board. Rafe, now narrating once again, began recounting the unfolding drama among the guests.

  "No one anticipated Jin's arrival, carrying with her the legendary acorn. With hope finally within reach, Avogadro cast aside his usual caution, deciding to employ 'that thing' to acquire an acorn for himself."

  Then followed a lengthy silence. Refusing to dwell on precisely what that potato-like object might be, I instead meticulously followed the menu on the script—boiling five potatoes and six eggs in a large pot, then mashing the oddly blue-tinted potatoes into smooth mash with a potato masher, and carefully slicing the boiled eggs before arranging them neatly onto the plates.

  Having learned from yesterday’s fiasco, I decided to deliver breakfast one plate at a time, ensuring that nothing would again slip from my grasp and fall to the floor.

  "How could the legendary Lady Jin be blinded by a mere Collection? Can Avogadro keep his head on his shoulders and avoid becoming the latest addition to Jin's collection of souls?"

  Oh, wonderful—a head collector. Determined not to deliver breakfast straight into an ongoing battlefield, I chose instead to serve the meal first to room fifteen, belonging to the third guest who hadn't yet appeared in Rafe’s narrative.

  Holding the plate tightly, concentrating intently on each careful step, I ascended to the third floor without incident, only then noticing there was only one room on this entire floor—was this normal? Such architectural anomalies were irrelevant at this point, as I had no luxury to dwell on questions meant solely for designers. Instead, balancing the breakfast tray, I knocked on the door.

  "Room service. Did you order breakfast?"

  I desperately hoped for a quick reply of "just leave it outside," yet instead heard a hoarse, elderly voice seep through the wooden door—someone speaking slowly, with something seemingly lodged within their mouth.

  "Come inside, young one. The door isn't locked."

  I am the master of my fate,

  I am the captain of my soul,

  None shall take all that I own.

  Slipping the paper inscribed with these words into my clothing, pressing it firmly against my heart, I turned the handle and swiftly surveyed the room.

  The room was three times the size of those downstairs, yet oddly empty, furnished only with the same sparse pieces as the others, giving the living area and bedroom an unsettling barrenness. An elderly man of slight build, neatly dressed in a shirt and tailored trousers, sat on a single sofa, gripping a pale cane as he stared intensely at me, swallowing slowly, deliberately.

  Creepy old pervert. Setting the tray hastily on the solitary table, I rushed through my scripted lines, already moving to leave, only to be halted abruptly by the old man.

  "Don't hurry away, child. Have you heard of the 'Regret Pill'?"

  "Apologies, but I must deliver breakfasts to other guests—I’ve never heard of it."

  "You're young; you don't yet need such things yet," murmured the old man, slowly rising from the sofa. "I'm sorry."

  The paper cutter blade clicked loudly as I pushed it forward, swiftly slicing into his aged, layered palm. From everywhere at once, Rafe's impassioned voice boomed alongside resounding bell chimes: "Liv doesn't yet know—the sharpest blade cannot sever fate itself."

  Warm blood splashed onto my face. The brass knuckles the old man wore broke like flimsy paper, along with three of his fingers.

  Before the blade, all is but paper. This blessing, etched onto the cutter, granted it an almost magical ability to slice effortlessly through any substance.

  My script bore the ominous title "What is Killing Liv?" and until the mystery was solved, everyone was a potential murderer. My next strike would sever this man's throat.

  Yet intense pain exploded in my palm, deep bruises blossoming instantly upon the fingers clutching the knife.

  "How...?" The elderly man's terrifyingly aged features twisted with shock into a deathly grimace, "You're not a newcomer—"

  The remainder of his words dissolved into blood, splattering upon the carpet. Clutching desperately at the wound in my carotid artery, adrenaline dulled any pain as I rummaged through my pockets for something useful.

  The protective poem, now tattered, had surely saved me from outright death like the old man. Everything I'd written during this time was contained in the notebook I'd thrown at Hoffman. All I had left now were a crowbar, this paper cutter, and two sheets bearing the protective poem.

  Nothing remained that could keep me alive.

  Warm blood streamed continuously through my fingers, eroding my ability to think clearly. Rafe’s maddening narration blurred into meaningless noise as I slid helplessly onto the floor, feeling a hard object pressing painfully against my scalp.

  Right—I couldn't be saved by my own creations, but I still possessed stolen items like the finger bone tucked in my hair, and two beads I'd plucked from Hoffman's corpse.

  Exhaustion dragged heavily at my consciousness. I refused eternal sleep—leaving the "eternal" finger alone, I retrieved the small glass vial containing two beads from my apron pocket. Blood rendered the glass slippery, and after several futile attempts to unscrew the cap with one hand, I abandoned pressing on my wound to use both hands.

  Time ran short.

  The human body's strongest muscle is the masseter, located on each side of the jaw. I shoved the vial between my teeth and shattered it with my last shred of strength, tasting iron and sweetness as darkness overwhelmed me.

  Upon awakening, my first thought was the unexpected comfort of rest—but immediately afterward, fear crashed over me in suffocating waves.

  Something was crawling from within the old man's corpse, stretching his wrinkled skin grotesquely like a flesh-colored plastic bag. Scrambling backward out of the room, I slammed the door shut, barricaded it hastily with a wobbly chair from the hallway, and only after several panicked breaths did I remember to touch my throat and hair.

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  The artery wound had vanished, the finger bone hung tangled in my hair, but the paper cutter was missing—presumably left behind in the room.

  The script! Somehow, at some point, I'd slipped free of its control.

  "You have lost your script. Retrieve it within five minutes or lose your actor status."

  Dammit.

  No other choice remained. Slipping the finger bone securely into my clothes, weaponless, I shoved aside the chair barricade and reopened the door.

  My script was inside—held by two naked figures, reading it intently. Beside them lay the discarded skin of the old man.

  So this is how corpses disappeared here.

  "Excuse me," I said, calmly waving a folded piece of paper from my apron pocket at the two figures and their empty skin companion. "Would you kindly return my script? You've just been born—surely you wouldn't wish to end up like your father?"

  Exchanging glances at this absurdity, the two erupted into piercing laughter.

  I sighed. If the inhabitants of this world were all as mindless as these creatures, then truly, there was nothing to fear.

  “You think that just because a hunter birthed only the two of you, that makes you superior to the others?” I unfolded the slip of paper and held it up for the newborns to see. “You’ve ruined my chance at being the good guy. Now, I’ll tear you apart over and over again.”

  The eyeballs of the two beings exploded like fireworks. I lunged forward, grabbing the paper cutter from the ground. Without hesitation, I plunged my fingers deep into the eye socket of one, slicing through its skull with ease. The other’s head rolled off its shoulders, and I quartered it like a watermelon, chopping it into chunks no larger than an egg.

  So this is what eternity looks like.

  I pried the script from their lifeless hands, smoothed out the creases, and stomped it underfoot. Almost instantly, Rafe’s fervent narration echoed through the vast chamber.

  “A miracle has occurred! The first hunter in history to consume the soul of another hunter! Miss Liv is disassembling our beloved residents!”

  This time, it wasn’t an illusion. I clearly heard a wave of cheers, whistles, and screams erupt from unseen spectators.

  Must be the audience celebrating.

  But “soul” was actually a fitting term. As memories from a forty-two-year-old German man flooded my mind, I sifted through the interesting bits and honed in on the details related to Nowhere—starting with the basics.

  Residents are born from the corpses of hunters. On average, a hunter’s body gives rise to five inhabitants. Though humanoid in form, their nature is something beyond human comprehension—twisted, insatiable creatures whose only instinct is to devour, whether it be humans or their own kind.

  Once cut into pieces, the difference between them and humans becomes painfully obvious. (I should clarify—I’ve never done this to an actual person, so don’t worry.) Beneath their human-like exterior, there were no traditional organs. The sliced surfaces were smooth yet pliable, and when I pressed my fingers into them, I felt an odd, pulling sensation.

  …Definitely not a good idea. Too grotesque. I abandoned the thought of keeping a few pieces for personal use and instead carved letters into the severed chunks with my paper cutter.

  Fear of Liv.

  I quickly regretted cutting so many pieces. Maybe because residents weren’t objects in the true sense, but after carving just a few words, an overwhelming fatigue crept over me, as if my soul itself were being drained.

  I still had two breakfasts left to deliver.

  Surprised that I even remembered such a trivial task, I divided the engraved pieces between the twin-like newborns, roughly pieced their heads back together, and set them in place.

  “Please make sure to register at the front desk by tonight.” I flashed them a polite smile, as if I weren’t covered in blood, addressing the two fresh travelers who had just crawled out of another guest. “Your vouchers expired when Mr. Mason died. If you wish to stay, don’t forget to pay—whether with money or something else.”

  Blue Vulture wasn’t the cheap little inn I had initially assumed. It was the oldest, most established comprehensive hotel in Nowhere. This place, where I currently stood, was merely the theater section of the establishment—a live stage, where unseen residents watched me like a reality show.

  With every passing moment, the remnants of Hoffman’s consciousness settled within me, his Skills growing clearer, his most vital possession—his memories—becoming part of my own.

  Nothing could help me survive this place more than those memories.

  “After a bitter parting with Mr. Mason, Liv has not forgotten her duties to the hotel. Cleaning herself up as best she can, she now prepares to deliver breakfast to the remaining two guests, silently praying that they will be easier to deal with.”

  This was nowhere near as easy as that damned narration made it sound.

  The script, almost as if powered by a roaring engine, flung me straight into my tiny room. Within a minute, it had whisked me from wiping blood off my face (with my hair still a tangled mess) to standing in the kitchen, where two now-cold plates of mashed potatoes and fried eggs awaited me.

  I barely had time to snatch a cloth strip from a nearby shelf, hastily tying my blood-clotted, unruly hair back, before knocking on the door of Room Seven in my bloodstained uniform.

  “Ms. Jin, your breakfast.”

  I heard nothing—not even my own voice, nor the sound of my knuckles rapping against the door.

  The eerie silence stretched for a few agonizing seconds before breaking. Ms. Jin, still wearing her wide-brimmed hat, pursed her lips in faint displeasure as she opened the door.

  “I deeply apologize for the delay,” I opted for the most humble response possible. “This won’t happen again.”

  Her long dress glided like flowing water over a massive white cocoon resting on the carpet. Without sparing it a glance, she walked over to the sofa by the window and tapped her slender, bony fingers against the table, signaling me to place the tray down.

  “Since you’re new, I’ll overlook it this once. You don’t need to deliver the last breakfast—he’s already here.” She inclined her chin toward the two-meter-long, snow-white cocoon. “Just leave it there. A guest’s order is absolute.”

  The script provided me with three choices.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

  “This isn’t something that should be happening at Blue Vulture.”

  But this time, the options only flickered in my mind for a brief moment before vanishing. The script beneath my feet trembled violently. I hadn’t even spoken before a tremendous force seized me.

  Darkness consumed my vision, again.