[XX Major Flooding: Evacuation Notice for Residents of Outdated Suburban Apartments]
The waterlogged newspaper was barely legible, its ink blurred beyond recognition. But after careful examination, Takakai and Maki pieced together the key details:
This was an evacuation notice from a historic flood.
Shirakawa Apartments—now a cursed ruin—had once been a normal complex, subject to government orders like any other.
"So there are at least three eras to this place," Maki murmured, her voice low.
"First, the normal period—when it was just an apartment building. Then the transitional phase, where anomalies appeared but survivors like Xusheng could still organize. And now…"
Takakai finished her thought.
"This. The worst version."
Kaguya, perched by the ceiling hole, carefully peeled apart the sodden newspaper.
Inside, sealed in a plastic sleeve, was another printed sheet—identical to Xusheng's first set of rules.
[Shirakawa Apartments – 1st Floor Temporary Survival Guidelines]
"Green, bring Sun Dajun here," Kaguya ordered.
The middle-aged man arrived, now armed with a small toolkit—screwdrivers, pliers—scavenged from the apartment.
"My body's not what it used to be, but I can fix things. Maybe even 204's broken lock," he offered, his earlier despair replaced by grim determination.
Kaguya handed him the top half of the rules while she took the bottom.
Sun Dajun struggled—his memory and reading speed weren't sharp—but they managed to cross-verify the contents without triggering any anomalies.
Perhaps Xusheng's writings are safe to read?
Or maybe only full documents carried risks.
The Rules (Abridged)
NO LIGHTS. The flooded 1st floor has regressed to a decades-old state. Things lurk in the water—and they're drawn to light. Move in darkness.
IGNORE THEM. The apparitions—people in rooms, voices from the water—are mostly harmless. But interacting could change that.
TRUST NO ONE. Some survivors now act like "model neighbors," refusing to leave. They'll drag you down with them.
WHEN CHAOS ERUPTS— (screaming, shattering glass, crowds)—GET INSIDE A ROOM. The hallway replays a fatal moment. Witnessing it means death.
IF YOU HEAR A CHILD'S WAIL GROWING LOUDER—
Pierce your eardrums.
Or kill yourself.
"You don't want to know. Death is better."
DIRECT ALL "LI FAMILY" INQUIRIES TO 304. Let them knock. ("Maybe the door will open. Maybe something will come out.")
DON'T OPEN THE DOOR FOR KNOCKING CHILDREN."No one here would. We all know better."
DON'T BLAME SANCHEZ. The fractures among survivors were inevitable. The pressure broke everyone.
AVOID 109."The words there… they spread. Like sound. Like images. ESCAPE BEFORE THEY REACH YOU."
DON'T EXIT THROUGH THE MAIN DOOR WHEN IT OPENS."It's a trick. I can't see clearly anymore."
The final lines devolved into manic scribbles:
[Did you receive this? Did you receive this? Did you receive this?]
[Mama did you receive it did you receive it did you—]
Green's Quiet Resentment
As Kaguya relayed the rules to Takakai and Maki below, Green seethed silently.
The American ex-con noticed the preferential treatment—Sun Dajun, the "useful elder," was trusted with reading. He was relegated to babysitting Maeda Miwa.
Fucking yellow monkeys sticking together, he thought, masking his sneer.
In his past life, Green had preyed on timid Asian immigrants. Now? He was the one groveling to survive.
But he'd lick toilets if it meant living. Pride was for the dead.
Takakai processed the new rules.
The flooded 1st floor was a snapshot of the past—complete with ghosts of its tragedies.
And somewhere in the dark…
109 waited.
A room where words became contagious.