Aaron's hands trembled as he balanced a silver platter in one hand, his other hand clutching the serving list like a lifeline. Beside him, Eli nervously glanced around the dimly lit Hall No. 2, the ever-present mist clinging to their uniforms like a cold sweat. They had barely adjusted to the rules posted by the unsettling bunny-headed manager before being thrown into the chaos of serving ghostly patrons.
The ghost servers around them glided silently—no footsteps, no expressions, only dark, foggy forms in identical uniforms. They moved with robotic precision, placing dishes onto tables without flinching. One bumped into Aaron once. It didn't apologize. It didn't even seem aware of him.
Eli looked ready to faint. "This place… I think I just saw one of the dishes move."
Aaron didn't reply. His eyes were focused on the first table. A translucent woman sat there, her mouth stitched shut by invisible threads. She lifted her hand and pointed at her order card without speaking. Aaron leaned in and read it: Chilled Eyeball Stew with Acid Drizzle.
He placed the bowl down in front of her.
The stew was a thick, purple-black soup, with pale, floating orbs swirling in a lazy circle. The acid drizzle sizzled as it hit the surface, releasing a noxious green vapor. The ghost lady took a spoon, dipped it in, and let the bubbling soup drip through her stitched mouth. Aaron shivered as the ghost moaned with delight, steam rising from the tears in her face.
Across the hall, Eli was trying to serve a guest whose face looked like it had melted into his chest. The ghost growled as Eli hesitated too long.
"Just set it down!" Aaron whispered urgently.
Eli obeyed, setting down a Tongue Carpaccio with Maggot Glaze. The "tongue" twitched as it touched the plate, but the ghost picked it up with one long claw and slurped it down in one gulp.
Aaron wiped his brow. "What kind of freakshow did we walk into?"
His pendant pulsed faintly, and he activated Eye of Analysis. The symbols above each ghost shimmered—some turned crimson, others flickered with grey. Hostility levels. Hunger levels. Behavioral tendencies.
"Okay…" he muttered. "If we keep serving in time and follow the damn rules, we're safe. Probably."
Just as he was gaining confidence, the bunny-headed manager approached again, gloved hands tucked behind its back.
"You," it said in a distorted, layered voice. "Table 27. A special guest. Handle it yourself."
Aaron's chest tightened. The manager handed him a separate tray—covered—and turned without further instruction.
Table 27 was placed in the far corner, shrouded in shadows darker than anywhere else. The guest waiting there didn't resemble the others. It had a full skeletal head, grinning with a wide jaw full of mismatched teeth, wearing a velvet smoking robe. Smoke curled from its empty eye sockets.
Aaron peeked at the card: Do not look the guest in the eye. Do not set the food directly on the table. Speak exactly three words while serving.
Aaron lifted the lid.
The dish was a roasted black heart impaled with a silver fork. It beat faintly, leaking dark blood onto a bed of white flower petals—real or bone shavings, he wasn't sure. The air around it chilled instantly.
Aaron took a breath. Destiny's Shield, he reminded himself.
He stepped forward, his boots thudding slightly.
One mistake.
He accidentally looked up—brief eye contact with the skeletal guest.
The ghost's smile widened. The shadows around it lengthened.
Aaron felt a tightening in his throat.
"Dine… with me?" he said weakly—more than three words.
The shadows curled around his arm. A chill crawled up his shoulder, spreading like frostbite.
Destiny's Shield activated.
A brilliant shimmer burst from his pendant, cracking the shadow tendrils like brittle glass. The ghost hissed and backed away slightly.
Aaron took the dish and held it above the table, not setting it down, then whispered, "Your meal, sir."
Three words. Close enough.
The ghost cackled, reached up, and plucked the heart off the plate. The danger passed.
Aaron staggered back, drenched in sweat.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the horror had taken a different form.
Leah adjusted her apron and looked over at Mark, who was carefully slicing something that looked suspiciously like a human spine. The recipe said "Bone Noodles," and the texture matched. They worked fast, dodging boiling cauldrons and clanging knives that moved on their own.
"Are we seriously cooking… people?" Mark muttered, half to himself.
Leah didn't answer. She just kept peeling something that resembled a baby's face—but the skin crumbled like pastry under her hands.
A sudden loud clang. The head chef appeared from the shadows, towering and grotesque—six arms, each wielding a different kitchen implement, and a cloth mask tied too tightly over his face.
"Mark! Rule Broken!" the chef growled, his voice like fire scraping against glass.
Mark froze. "What rule?!"
"You used left hand for the Blood Dumpling. Rule #14—all dishes using organ meats must be prepared with the dominant hand only."
"I—I didn't know—"
The chef's cleaver came down.
Leah screamed.
Blood splashed across the prep table.
Mark's head rolled to the side, eyes frozen in shock. The kitchen turned eerily quiet, save for the hiss of oil in the pans.
Leah collapsed, trembling. The head chef turned away, as if the punishment was routine.
Back in Hall No. 2, Aaron felt a shiver run down his spine. The pendant on his chest glowed briefly, alerting him—something had gone wrong elsewhere.
"Did you feel that?" he whispered to Eli.
Eli nodded, pale. "I think… someone just died."
Suddenly, a faint chime echoed in their minds, and a translucent blue screen popped up in front of each of them—an automatic system notification:
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Player Eliminated: Mark
Cause of Death: Rule Violation – Kitchen Protocol
Remaining Players: 5
Aaron stared at the glowing words, a cold pit forming in his stomach.
Mark was gone. Just like that.
And there were only five of them left.
---------
A bell echoed through the towering halls of Soulfire Kitchen. The sound was sharp, haunting, like it had been rung in some distant dimension. With it, the ghastly dining hall began to empty. The ghosts—twisted, unnatural, grotesque figures who had sat at their tables feasting on unidentifiable dishes—began to vanish, one by one, their movements dissolving into mist.
In seconds, the eerie bustle was replaced with silence.
Too silent.
Aaron and Eli exchanged glances, breath still uneven from the stress of the shift. Both were coated in the heavy air of death and dread, their uniforms stained, their minds worn thin. Yet, they'd survived.
They made their way toward the central hall, where the survivors were instructed to gather.
The place felt different now—colder, more solemn. They weren't the same people who had stood there hours ago.
Sophie was the first one Aaron saw. Her hands were trembling as she clutched them tightly to her chest. Her usual confidence had been stripped away, replaced with something raw. Relief. A kind of disbelief that she'd made it.
"I thought I was done for at least three times today," she whispered, laughing breathlessly. Her voice wavered, and her eyes welled up with tears she didn't try to hide. "But I'm alive."
Jace stood not far behind her. He looked like he'd seen something he could never unsee—his face hollow, eyes sunken, like part of his soul had been left behind in whatever task he'd endured. He didn't speak, just gave a small nod to the others.
Leah… Leah looked like a ghost herself.
Her eyes were red. Not from tears, but from the sheer effort of holding them back. Her jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, and she didn't meet anyone's gaze. Not even Aaron's.
She stood stiffly, like she would shatter if anyone touched her.
Aaron didn't have to ask. He already knew what she had witnessed.
Mark was gone.
The air shifted.
With a flickering noise like a broken light bulb, the manager appeared—dressed immaculately in a black suit, white gloves, and a grotesque bunny mascot head that made its smile all the more unnatural.
"Congratulations, players," the manager said in a falsely cheerful voice. "You all performed well today. At least… you survived."
A faint chuckle echoed from inside the mascot head, and with a simple clap of his gloved hands, glowing stacks of currency materialized in front of each player.
Aaron blinked at the shimmering paper in his palms. It felt cold and oddly textured—Ghost Currency.
+300 Ghost Currency acquired.
Eli's eyes widened as he held up his share. "Whoa… this is real?"
Sophie laughed again—this time with a manic edge—clutching her reward like it was gold. "This stuff buys you food, comfort, even items. It's like money, but for the damned."
In this game,you will feel hunger. You will feel fatigue. Ghost Currency can provide relief. Though… it's not your only option.
The manager took a step back. "Thank you for your hard work today. Please follow the path behind you to your dormitory for rest. Tomorrow is a new day. Keep up the good work."
And just like that, he disappeared.
No door, no fade-out—he simply wasn't there anymore.
The group stood in silence for a few moments before Eli clutched his stomach with an exaggerated groan.
"I'm so hungry," he muttered. "Let's get something to eat first before resting. I feel like I haven't eaten in days."
Aaron gave him a faint smile. He didn't feel like eating. But he understood. If they wanted to survive—physically, mentally—they had to hold on to any shred of normalcy they could find.
Even if it was a meal in a ghost-run nightmare restaurant.