(This chapter stays exactly the same as the original )
"Still not sold on ghosts, huh? How about a little game, then? Open your eyes, and the truth will stare back at you."
As before, the Nightmare Mission's description was maddeningly cryptic, yet it oozed an unsettling chill that prickled Chen Ge's skin.
"A game? How does that qualify as a nightmare?" he muttered, brow furrowed. The Normal Mission had drained him—hours of relentless mannequin repairs, finished just under the wire. Now, fiddling with the black phone, a spark of curiosity flared. "Should I give it a shot?"
The thought took root, tendrils of temptation coiling through his mind, tightening their grip with every passing second.
"Nightmare Missions promise the juiciest rewards," he reasoned. "The Easy and Normal ones today are dead ends. This is my best shot." The haunted house teetered on the brink of collapse; this off-season could be its death knell. Stumbling onto this app felt like a lifeline—a fluke he couldn't afford to squander.
"Fine. I'll face a Nightmare Mission eventually—why not now?" He bolted upright in bed and tapped the final option.
Are you sure you wish to accept the Nightmare Mission? Unknown events may unfold.
"Yes."
The screen pulsed, unveiling the true task:
"Courage, luck, and a nudge are all it takes to glimpse the hidden world. The game is 'Another You in the Mirror.' At 2:04 a.m., enter the bathroom alone. Lock the door. Kill the lights. Face the mirror, place a lit candle between you and it, then close your eyes. Focus. Chant your name slowly. In the dark, anything might stir—an unfamiliar face in the glass, eyes glinting from the shadows, blood seeping from above or within the walls. Whatever happens, stay silent. Stand still. After thirty minutes, the mission completes—eyes shut, no matter what."
Chen Ge's pulse quickened, a tremor of fear lacing his excitement. "A hidden world… really?"
It was well before 2:04 a.m. Instead of heading straight to the bathroom, he dove online, hunting for scraps about this so-called game. What he found were ghost stories—curses trailing players, friends vanishing, whispers of a mirror realm swallowing souls whole.
"These all sound so real," he breathed, enthralled. Running a haunted house was his trade; he lived to craft safe scares. This game, though, cracked open a door to something wilder—a realm he couldn't resist exploring.
"Playing a creepy game at night in a haunted house? That's a thrill I can't pass up!"
He checked his phone's battery—plenty left to record this madness. "If it's as freaky as they say, I'll turn it into a new scenario!"
He rummaged for a candle and lighter. At 2:00 a.m., he gathered his gear and crept to the first-floor bathroom—a strategic choice. If things went south, the window offered a quick escape. The haunted house lay silent, a tomb under the moon. Clutching a flashlight and candle, the young man who pinched pennies on electricity stepped into the cramped, shadowed space.
"Dark, tight quarters breed fear," he mused. "Bathrooms carry that heavy yin vibe—mirrors, cisterns, everyday stuff twisted to crank up the dread. Whoever designed this game's a genius—they weaponize human weakness with the simplest tools." It was a masterclass in terror, one he intended to study.
"True horror doesn't need flash. It just amplifies the anxiety we all carry." He took a steadying breath, hit record on his phone, and spoke: "No clue what this game'll do, but if I don't make it, keep this video. It's a key—a damn valuable one—to unraveling the lies."
He propped the phone by the cistern, angling it to catch both him and the mirror. "2:01 a.m. Three minutes to go."
Waiting felt worse than any jump scare. The bathroom's stillness magnified every creak, every echo. His heart thudded louder as the seconds crawled by.
At 2:04, he doused the flashlight and lit the candle, setting it between himself and the mirror per the rules. The flame danced—sole light in the void—casting jittery shadows that blurred the line between reality and reflection. A beacon, perhaps, for whatever lurked beyond.
Staring at his mirrored self, a shiver crawled up his spine. "Game on?"
He bowed his head, shut his eyes, and began: "Chen Ge… Chen Ge… Chen Ge…"
The chant droned on, each repetition spaced by three beats—a trick to track time and fend off the odd detachment that comes from hearing your own name too long, like a word losing its shape. Half an hour, eyes closed, no distractions allowed—that was the deal.
Standing alone in a haunted house at 2 a.m., chanting to a mirror with just a candle? If I weren't doing it, I'd call it insanity, he thought, a wry smirk flickering through his nerves. This game's all mind games. The real fight's not ghosts—it's keeping your head from spinning nightmares. Eyes shut, and I'm golden.
Easier said than done. Ten minutes in, something shifted.