When Ji Wuhuan regained consciousness, hazy white flashes danced behind his eyelids before scattering like ash. Then came the headache—a jackhammer pounding against his skull. His mind felt stuffed with cotton that dissolved into shards of glass, stabbing at his brain with every attempt to move. His body refused to obey. Only his thoughts remained clear, slicing through the fog with urgent precision.
*What happened?*
He tried to scream, but icy fingers clamped around his throat, dragging him deeper into frigid darkness.
**[Player successfully loaded into Cube Survival Game. Current instance: A10086. Enjoy your game.]**
The melodious voice—a woman's whisper against his ear—unlocked his paralysis. Ji Wuhuan's eyes flew open only to slam shut against searing light. Blurred shapes resolved into pockmarked bluish-gray ceiling tiles and a dusty pendant lamp. Something dangled from its chain...
He lay on thick carpet, its fibers scratching his cheek. When he finally blinked through tears (damned contact lenses drying out hours ago), the room snapped into focus—a gaudy mismatch of retro floral wallpaper, leather chesterfield, and wrought-iron coffee table. The dissonance crystallized as his gaze landed on the left wall: a rusted hospital cot with stained sheets occupied the space where modern furnishings should've been.
*No electronics. No windows. And why does my face feel... wrong?*
The lock screen of his phone answered both questions. Dozens of grotesque infant faces leered from the reflection above him, stitches stretching their grins ear-to-ear. Ji Wuhuan's scream died as he registered the stranger in the glass—*his* glass—blinking tear-swollen eyes from a softer, rounder face. Familiar only in the panic widening those hazel irises.
"Holy *shit*!"
The second shock came when he looked up.
Dozens of plastic babies clung to the ceiling, their grayish limbs frozen mid-crawl. Empty eye sockets tracked his every twitch. Ji Wuhuan backpedaled to the door, hand freezing on the knob as realization struck—their vinyl skin had faded to the same sickly hue as the walls. Props. They had to be props.
A groan shattered the silence.
Across the room, a heavyset man in black athletic gear staggered up from behind the sofa. "The *fuck*—?!" He gaped at the ceiling before zeroing in on Ji Wuhuan's tear-streaked face. "Newbie?"
Ji Wuhuan hefted a bedside lamp, tracking the stranger's movements. The man's calloused hands told conflicting stories—right dominant, burn scars on the knuckles. "You're no factory worker. Chef?"
The stranger froze. "...Lin Gang. And you?"
"Nie Zhizhang." Ji Wuhuan sniffled, tears flowing freely now. Allergies be damned—he needed intel. "Call me Nie Shabi if you prefer."
Lin's eye twitched. Before he could retort, the feminine voice purred again:
[All players awake. Game commencing.]
[Proceed to lobby within 15 minutes.]