《White Square》苏沐戚

3、The Number

　　"Did you take a number?"

　　Gu Qingchen's voice was soft, but in the suffocating silence of the waiting room it pierced like a needle.

　　Xiao Jingyan froze, following his gaze.

　　And there it was—nearly every "patient" in the hall clutched a small slip of paper. They looked like crumpled tickets from an old-fashioned number dispenser, edges curled and fraying. He couldn't make out the print on them, but the paper glistened faintly with damp, as if it had just been clawed out of the soil.

　　The patients still sat with their heads bowed, shoulders slumped, movements mechanical. Their skin was bleached to the color of paper, as if their flesh was only a flimsy wrapping over emptiness.

　　Gu whispered: "Most of these are NPCs. Only a few are streamers like us. Look closer."

　　Xiao Jingyan raised his eyes and studied them.

　　Yes—most were mannequins repeating the same dead gestures, but scattered among them were a handful that betrayed life. Their eyes darted, nervousness leaking through. A twitch of lips, a swallowed breath, a tongue flicking nervously against cracked lips. They hunched like the rest, but the act of pretending made them stand out all the more.

　　He counted. Two dozen, maybe a few more.

　　Gu, reading his thoughts, murmured: "Not all the streamers start here."

　　Xiao Jingyan frowned, but kept silent.

　　Gu suddenly stood, tugging him up by the arm. "Come. We need a number."

　　They walked together toward the far corner, where an old number machine stood. Its casing was chipped and peeling, the surface scarred with deep scratches, as if clawed by something desperate. The display screen glowed faintly, backlight already dying.

　　Xiao Jingyan pressed it once. Twice. The screen stayed stubborn, frozen like ice. He hit it harder—still nothing.

　　"Broken," Gu said simply. "We'll have to try the counter."

　　The moment the words left his lips, the entire waiting room shifted.

　　The "patients" moved.

　　As if a switch had been thrown, they all raised their heads in unison. Eyes blank, mouths stretching into smiles. And then, grotesquely ordinary: chatting, laughing, strolling to vending machines to buy drinks and snacks.

　　The morgue had become a marketplace.

　　The hidden streamers flinched. A few stood cautiously, still trying to blend in with the shambling crowd, their tension painfully obvious.

　　Gu leaned toward him and murmured: "First to move, first to burn."

　　Xiao Jingyan glanced at him.

　　"In a D-level dungeon, you'll find two kinds," Gu explained flatly. "Fresh meat like you. And people like me—too afraid to try C. Lowest difficulty or not, the death rate is still sky-high. Nobody wants to make the first move. Because the first move..."

　　"...is the spark."

　　Gu nodded. "The dungeon's first target."

　　His tone was clinical, detached. No fear, no hesitation.

　　Xiao Jingyan felt a flicker of respect. He'd endured worse drills, worse terrors. Seeing Gu so calm, he steadied himself. He gave a short nod. "Fine."

　　Together, they walked to the counter.

　　The waiting room was laid out like any hospital—cracked white paint on the walls, ceiling strips of cheap fluorescent tubes sputtering with static buzz, the sour blend of disinfectant and mold hanging in the air. If not for the uncanny "patients," one might almost mistake it for the real thing.

　　Five windows lined the counter. Only one was open.

　　Behind the glass sat a clerk. His skin was ashen, stretched too tight across his skull. The smile on his face looked nailed into place, a grotesque parody of courtesy. His clouded eyes swiveled slowly, fixing on the two of them.

　　"What department are you visiting?"

　　His voice was slow, drawn out, absurdly polite.

　　Xiao Jingyan hesitated. Before he could answer, Gu said at once:

　　"Psychiatry. For both of us."

　　Xiao Jingyan blinked.

　　Gu tilted his chin toward the wall.

　　A glossy poster hung there: Professional Treatment for Mental Illness. The image showed a middle-aged doctor in glasses, smiling warmly. His credentials listed neatly beneath. Reliable. Kind. Too perfect.

　　The clerk asked again, "And what grade of doctor do you want?"

　　Xiao Jingyan assumed they'd choose the expert in the poster, but Gu cut in fast:

　　"The most ordinary one."

　　The clerk's grin widened. His mouth stretched further, unnaturally, as if hooked and pulled toward his ears.

　　"Liu Ye. Intern. Room 2. That'll be 200 points for two tickets."

　　Without pause, Gu paid.

　　Xiao Jingyan stiffened. His own balance barely reached 100. Buying even one number would have left him empty. Yet Gu had covered them both without a second thought.

　　He opened his mouth to thank him, but Gu shook his head sharply. Leaning close, his voice dropped to a whisper:

　　"No points left... you die instantly."

　　Xiao Jingyan froze. A cold bead of sweat slid down his spine.

　　They turned away from the counter.

　　Only then did they notice the line forming behind them.

　　A streamer—clearly a newcomer—stepped forward, forced a smile, and paid 100 points for an ordinary ticket. His balance dropped instantly to zero.

　　The clerk's smile tore wider, his eyes flaring red.

　　Then his jaw unhinged.

　　With a single wet crack, his mouth split open, stretching to an impossible angle.

　　Before the newcomer could even scream, the clerk leaned forward and swallowed him whole.

　　The sound was obscene—meat grinding between teeth, the drip of blood pooling onto the counter.

　　The clerk licked his lips, voice still soft, almost cheerful:
　　"Next."

　　The room did not react.

　　The "patients" went on with their conversations, their waiting, their false lives.

　　Only the few hidden streamers stood pale and trembling, rooted in place.

　　Xiao Jingyan's chest constricted.

　　Not ten minutes into the dungeon, and he had already witnessed death. If Gu hadn't covered his ticket, he would have been the one inside that mouth.

　　Then the system's voice slashed through the air:

　　[Congratulations, Newcomer. You have cleared the first stage of the tutorial.]
　　[Reward: 500 points.]
　　[Keep going. Die with dignity.]

　　His wristband glowed. The number ticked up, from 100 to 600.

　　But Xiao Jingyan's gut only clenched tighter.

　　This wasn't training.
　　This wasn't simulation.

　　This was a stage built on corpses, a theater where lives were chewed into spectacle.

　　And somewhere beyond the glass, unseen viewers laughed as they waited for their turn to watch him die.