Apartment 2507 remained almost exactly as it had been.
Everything Mr. Zhao once owned was still there—the cabinets, the sofa, the coffee table.
All the furniture he had used in life remained untouched.
Mr. Zhao had been an extremely frugal man.
The decor was bare and outdated, the room cold and desolate, filled with an indescribable chill.
Rain hammered against the windows.
The sky was heavy and dark—barely past six in the evening, yet the apartment was already drowning in shadow.
Vivian Shaw didn't turn on the lights.
She walked straight to the balcony, gazing down into the central courtyard, watching the storm.
After a fierce internal struggle, Gavin Moore stepped inside Apartment 2507.
Almost immediately, his eyes were drawn to the living room wall.
In the most prominent spot hung an enormous frame, completely covered in black cloth.
"Do you want to know what that is?" Vivian asked without turning around, as if she could read his thoughts.
"You can take the cloth off."
Gavin grabbed a corner of the fabric and gently pulled.
As the cloth slid down, a massive black-and-white wedding photograph was revealed.
In the photo, Gavin and Vivian were smiling happily.
Yet only Gavin was in color.
Vivian—radiant, beautiful, and wrapped in an extravagant wedding dress—was entirely black and white.
"Another death portrait?" Gavin whispered.
He had no memory of ever taking such a photo—let alone one so deeply unsettling.
"Do you remember anything now?" Vivian turned to face him.
Her smile was warm.
Her expression gentle.
Yet something about her presence was profoundly wrong.
Deep warned secrets hid behind her beautiful eyes.
"What exactly happened in the tunnel that night?" Gavin asked, never straying far from the door.
"You boarded a vehicle you were never meant to take," Vivian said softly.
"And went to a place you were never meant to reach."
Her gaze was filled with twisted affection—unnerving, yet strangely familiar.
"You forgot what happened in the tunnel because your body was protecting you.
Your subconscious knew you couldn't accept the truth… so it chose to forget."
"Then why do you know what happened?" Gavin pressed.
"You only exist because of my game. Chronologically, you shouldn't know anything about my experience."
"Because I was the one who brought you home that night."
Vivian stepped closer.
"Do you remember the ninth route in To Our Doomed Love?
I always knew where you were. Watching you was my favorite thing."
"That disturbing ability—and that uncontrollable love—made me seek you out the moment I woke up."
Just listening made Gavin's skin crawl.
He had never designed a dating game before.
He had no idea they could be this terrifying.
"What did you see?"
"The tunnel walls were embedded with bodies—twisted faces frozen in agony.
When I arrived, you were talking to something, walking deeper and deeper inside.
I dragged you out."
She didn't know whether what she said was true—but fear flickered in her eyes.
"If it were only bodies, I wouldn't have lost my memory," Gavin said slowly.
"But I did hear something… Do you remember what it said?"
Vivian nodded.
"Everything is losing control.
Vengeful spirits roam freely. Abnormalities multiply.
The evil inside human hearts will overturn the city."
"All the games you made—based on murders and urban legends—can become real.
They will crawl out from rotting memories."
"To weaken them, more people must play your games.
You can guide them to completion… or sacrifice them to feed the legends."
"Different choices bring different costs. And different rewards."
She paused.
"The voice said you should have died.
It gave you a chance to live.
You made a deal."
"I should have died…" Gavin murmured.
Did he actually die in the tunnel?
"If you don't believe me," Vivian said calmly, sitting on the sofa,
"you can find the other passengers from that night.
I saw living people when I pulled you out."
"There warned survivors?"
"Yes. I didn't see their faces.
Otherwise, I would have imprisoned them and uncovered the truth."
She said it in the tone of someone discussing groceries.
Night had fully fallen.
Gavin stepped back again.
"Done satisfying your curiosity?" Vivian smiled sweetly.
"You don't remember what you promised me in the tunnel, do you?"
"No."
"That's fine. You'll remember eventually."
She pulled a black-and-white death photo from beneath her clothes.
"When I woke up in reality, this was beside me.
As I eliminated the other female leads from the dating game… the wedding dress began to change."
She held the photo next to the massive wedding portrait on the wall.
The dress in her hand was slowly gaining color.
"The other girlfriends were also manifestations—dead from the start," she said, eyes blazing.
"Death portraits preserve memory.
If black and white turns to color… doesn't that mean the dead are returning to life?"
"Killing other dead people seems to loosen my restraints."
"So that's why you can move freely?" Gavin whispered.
"Like a normal human?"
Cold sweat soaked his forehead.
Three days. Eight girlfriends.
The most ignored side character—twisted, abandoned—had become the one who understood reality better than anyone.
Vivian had opened Gavin's eyes.
In horror games, it wasn't just monsters and ghosts that were dangerous.
Some madmen were far worse.
"I just want to become someone like you," Vivian said rapidly, her instability rising.
"I discovered that games becoming reality is a process.
The more dangerous the game, the slower it fuses with the city."
"To trigger it early requires three things:
A fresh murder house.
A death photo from the other world.
And you."
Gavin finally understood.
She wanted to hunt urban legends—to consume them before they fully formed.
"The murder house is the map.
The death photo is the entry ticket.
And you're the gateway."
She grabbed his clothes.
"The voice wants you to bring players into the game.
I count as a player too, don't I?"
She opened her bag.
Inside were eight blank death portraits—no faces.
"Tickets aren't a problem."
"Calm down," Gavin said evenly.
"This is still just your hypothesis."
But he met her gaze calmly.
"I'll help you.
Tonight, we test your theory—here, in Apartment 2507."
Gavin Moore was a prison therapist—
a doctor who danced with caged beasts.
He knew how to face danger.
Just as he agreed, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
The doorbell rang.
After Vivian covered the wedding photo with black cloth, Gavin opened the door.
The Scarred Investigator stood in the corridor, gasping.
"This room is extremely dangerous," he said urgently.
"You need to leave. Immediately."