"W-w... why? Why didn't you just trade me away? He was much... stronger than you..."
"Did you want me to trade me away?" Chen Mo asked calmly, his tone level, not mirroring Amelia's overwhelming surge of emotions in the slightest.
"Ah... uh..." Amelia fidgeted nervously with her hair, her fingers tangling awkwardly in the strands, her head trembling faintly as she struggled to find the right words. "No... he looked terrible. Those girls looked like they were in so much pain too..."
"Then that's why," Chen Mo replied simply, his voice steady and unwavering. "And maybe because you remind me of her."
Amelia wiped at her tears, her voice soft and fragile. "Who... who's her?"
"It..." Chen Mo hesitated briefly. Even he seemed caught off guard by his own hesitation, as if the pause itself surprised him. "It doesn't matter. I just want to end the game's tyranny and bring slavery to an end."
"Oh... heh..." Amelia exhaled quietly, a faint trace of warmth and relief slipping into her expression. She rolled her shoulders gently, bare due to the sleeveless uniform. Then, raising her voice as much as she could, standing as confidently and sincerely as she was able to, she spoke:
"Thank you. Truly. I cannot imagine a kinder master."
"Don't call me that," Chen Mo replied immediately, without even a moment of hesitation. "I'll leave now before anyone at my university reports me missing. Tomorrow night, I'll try to earn enough to get you a better place to sleep."
"No. You don't have to do that..." Amelia shook her head weakly, her strength clearly fading. Her neck slumped slightly, and her silver bangs fell forward, obscuring her vision. "You've already done so much... I can never ask for—"
When she lifted her gaze again, Chen Mo was no longer there.
He had already left the game.
———
The building was weathered and worn, and the signboard above was stained with something that seemed completely irremovable by any amount of wiping. Nonetheless, the name 'Schwartz's Diner' could still be made out, it simply required a bit more effort and attention to read clearly.
Behind the glass walls was a typical family diner, lined with black-and-white tiled flooring and filled with multiple scarlet-cushioned booths. The ceiling fans above were ancient enough for rust to build up along their edges, causing persistent, irritating creaks that somehow bothered no one inside the diner.
A single chef worked quietly in the kitchen, his laid-back demeanour clearly visible even to the customers through the open hatch. Although, there were only two customers present, and neither of them paid any attention to the preparation of their food.
The diner was otherwise empty, occupied only by the occasional mice and insects; the sun had barely begun to rise, after all, so it was still dim and shadowed outside.
Seated in a booth, waiting for company, was a carefree woman, dressed in a tight, black, sleeveless turtleneck top that matched her raven hair, which was loosely bundled in a messy knot at the nape of her neck. Her leggings clung tightly to her curves, revealing the bewitching, athletic voluptuousness of her well-trained body.
The only hint of colour on her outfit was the beige jacket she wore half-off, and the pale belt that accentuated the impressive length of her legs, and, by extension, her overall flawless body proportions.
She ruffled her own hair as she yawned herself awake, her groggy emerald eyes fluttering open slowly.
A man sat across from her, one with significantly less personality in comparison. A full black suit, neatly side-parted hair, and a face so ordinary it bordered on forgettable.
The man initiated the conversation. "Four thousand."
"Ehhhhh..." The woman lazily propped her face against her palm. "Well, whatever. It's an easy target anyway."
"My employer wishes to know your details. Your name, your residence, your age, et cetera," the man stated, his tone formal and entirely unreadable.
In contrast, the woman sounded increasingly bored with every passing breath. "What is this? A job interview? Oh wait, it literally is. Tsk."
The man simply waited patiently, his fingers interlaced and resting firmly on the wooden table between them.
The ceiling fan creaked above them.
"Hehe..." Eryn smirked slyly as she introduced herself. "Name's Eryn Jaeger. Like the dude from Attack on Titan, but with a 'Y' instead of an 'E', which is why I'm a gal. As for where I live? Ew, no, creep." She exaggerated a grimace while raising an open palm. "Buy a girl dinner first."
The man didn't entertain her humour. He remained perfectly stoic, composed, and rigid.
Eryn's eyelids drooped lazily. "Eh, no fun. I don't live anywhere, I hop towns. So tell your employer to increase the pay. Living's expensive."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," the man replied with a slight shake of his head. "Age, phone number, or another form of contact."
"Age: seventeen, so congrats, you're grooming," Eryn said dryly, glancing upward as if genuinely recalling. "Contact detail? 5318008—"
"Please be more serious," the man urged, his patience thinning slightly.
"Increase the pay," Eryn repeated with a soft, teasing simper, as the man suddenly felt something beneath the table.
Eryn's high heel brushed slowly against his calves, almost affectionately. He struggled to maintain his professionalism under the subtle pressure from the emerald-eyed beauty. "I-I cannot do that."
"You can definitely ask though?" Eryn tilted her head innocently. Her raven bangs shifted with gravity, framing her already striking features.
"Uh... I can—"
"You can?" Eryn lit up before he could even finish, emerald eyes scintillating like actual jewels. "Five thousand. Five looks better than four, come on. If you watch TV, you'd set the volume to fifteen, not fourteen, even if fifteen is too loud."
"I'm... uh..." The man stammered, realising the high heel had slid up to his knee, inching dangerously closer toward his inner thigh. "I'm not sure how that last part is relevant..."
"Five thousand?" Eryn leaned forward eagerly, eyes glinting.
"I'll... pass the request along," the man conceded.
"Yes!" Eryn leaned back, retracting her foot while clenching her fist in small victory.
Without the sensation, the man suddenly felt an odd emptiness, his hand subconsciously drifting to his knee, mimicking the same motion. His composed facade faltered slightly. "Heh... hehe..."
"Age: twenty-one. Contact detail: bat signal," Eryn continued casually. "Or, if you're boring, phone. 002347771."
The man quickly typed the number into his phone, abandoning his cold demeanour entirely. "If you want the extra thousand so badly, you could always—"
"Not sucking your dick," Eryn cut him off immediately. The lone chef had just handed her a takeaway cup of steaming black coffee. She took it, sipped, and began to leave the booth.
"Wait," the man called out, stopping her. "How about—"
"No. Not doing it," Eryn replied flatly, pointing off in a random direction. "You can head down to 47 7th Street and wave some dollar bills, you'll get one, if not several flat bitches bouncing on it."
"But—"
"Nope." Eryn didn't leave any room for argument. "Repay my leg massage by asking your boss for more money. Other than that, I'm not agreeing to anything."
She stepped backward with a lazy smile, but paused just before pushing open the glass door. Turning back, she asked:
"Final confirmation, my target is Chen Mo, right?"
"Mm," the man affirmed.
"Hehe. Asians," Eryn muttered. "I'll check if the stereotype of them having small penises is true after I kill him."
She said it casually, without concern for how public or loud her words were.
The bell above the glass door rattled as Eryn exited the diner.
———
Chen Mo woke up lying on his bed.
The ceiling was the same: alabaster, stained faintly with grey marks, with a slowly rotating ceiling fan attached. He sat up, and his dorm room looked unchanged as well: small, cramped, containing only a desk, a closet, and little else.
He felt unusually energetic, despite waking earlier than he ever had before; sunlight had only just begun to seep faintly through the window.
It was as if the game didn't exist at all, as if he had simply gotten a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, instead of fighting apparitions alongside a girl named Amelia in a haunted high school.
But then, the neon-lime system interface appeared abruptly before him, shattering that illusion:
[Choose a phrase to enter Game.]
[Player must enter...]
Yeah, one minigame every month, one multiplayer minigame every year. Chen Mo already knew that. He didn't bother reading further past the first line prompting him for a phrase.
He didn't think it mattered much, so he initially chose something simple:
"Enter—"
Wait.
Chen Mo paused. A better idea surfaced almost immediately.
"To not exist."
[Your phrase: To not exist.]
[By chanting these three words with intent to enter the game, you will be teleported back into the Game Lobby.]
Then, just like that, the system vanished without another word.
Chen Mo stepped out of his bedroom into the shared dormitory space. As he walked, he was suddenly met with muffled, and deeply unpleasant sounds.
The privileged bastard, Vincent's room somehow still echoed with a woman's moans.
"Ah~ Oh fuck~ Oh fuck, fuck~"
Yeah. Fuck you, Vincent. Chen Mo cursed silently in his mind.