Chapter 1：Midnight Invitation
1545words
My phone's vibration jolted me awake—that insistent buzzing like something desperately pounding on the door of my consciousness. The screen's blue glow cut harshly through the darkness, revealing a text message.
Sender: my own number.
Content: "Welcome home, new administrator. The key is under your pillow."
Sending time: Tomorrow 3:33.
I stared at the screen, my mind going blank. Tomorrow 3:33? What the hell? I never sent this message—how could anyone send a text from the future?
With trembling hands, I lifted my pillow. There it was—an antique bronze key lying quietly beneath.
The key was heavy—much heavier than it looked—with intricate patterns etched into its surface alongside four numbers: 4271. The moment my fingers made contact, a strange warmth spread through my body, as if the key had been waiting for my touch all along.
I'd never seen this key before, yet holding it triggered an inexplicable sense of déjà vu.
I tried convincing myself this was just a prank. My roommate, maybe, or some friend with a weird sense of humor. There had to be a reasonable explanation. I placed the key on my nightstand, lay back down, and closed my eyes.
Exactly 3 minutes and 33 seconds later, my phone buzzed again.
Same message. Same sender. Same impossible timestamp.
I deleted the message, powered off my phone, and pulled the blanket over my head. But the key began to heat up, its warmth radiating through the wooden nightstand, making it impossible to ignore.
Another 3 minutes and 33 seconds passed, and my powered-off phone suddenly lit up. The screen showed the same message, but with a new line added:
"Time is running out."
I leapt from bed, ready to chuck the damn key out the window, but when I touched it, the metal burned like it had just come from a furnace. I dropped it with a yelp of pain, and it hit the floor with a sharp metallic ping.
Strangely, the sound didn't fade. Instead, it transformed into rhythmic knocking coming from everywhere at once—floor, walls, ceiling. The entire room resonated with the sound, like hundreds of invisible fists demanding entry.
The knocking grew more urgent, more deafening. I realized that unless I followed the instructions in that message, this nightmare wouldn't end.
With shaking hands, I picked up the key—now perfectly cool to the touch—and checked the address in the message.
Apartment 4271, just three blocks from where I lived.
The midnight streets lay deserted, streetlights casting long shadows that reached toward me like grasping fingers. My footsteps echoed loudly in the silence, each one announcing my presence to the darkness.
Building 4271 was an old Victorian structure, its exterior walls draped with ivy. The entire building stood pitch black except for a single lit window—apartment 4271.
Motion-sensing lights in the stairwell flickered on as I passed, but they always died just before I could clearly see the path ahead, forcing me to navigate in darkness. Each step produced a slight creak, as if the building itself resented my presence.
The door to apartment 4271 was painted dark green, the numbers marked in faded gold lettering. I raised the key, my hand still trembling.
The moment the key entered the lock, I heard a faint click—not the sound of a bolt retracting, but more like some hidden mechanism activating. The door swung inward on its own, revealing warm light within.
As I stepped inside, the door gently closed behind me.
The apartment's interior left me stunned. Everything matched my tastes perfectly: minimalist Nordic design, warm wooden floors, a plush fabric sofa, and even the abstract paintings I'd always admired. The bookshelf held titles I'd wanted to read but never found time for, and the kitchen featured the exact coffee machine I'd been eyeing for months.
This place seemed custom-built for me, down to the smallest detail.
But what caught my eye were two items on the desk: a beautifully bound document titled "Resident Instructions" and a thick leather folder with a note attached: "A gift for the new manager."
I opened the "Resident Instructions" first. The opening page contained a welcome message:
Welcome to Apartment 4271! As our new resident, you'll enjoy unprecedented comfort. However, please adhere to these rules, as they directly impact your safety and wellbeing:
1. You must wake up before 6:47 every day, or one day will be deducted from your lifespan
2. You must not remain in the basement for more than 47 minutes
3. You must complete one 'Neighborhood Mutual Aid' activity each month
4. You are forbidden from revealing the true nature of the apartment to outsiders
5. The administrator's instructions have absolute authority
Violation of any rule will result in severe consequences. We wish you a pleasant stay!
—Apartment 4271 Management Office
My hands began to shake. Lifespan? What the hell did that mean? I flipped to the next page, hoping for clarification, but found nothing. Every page after the first was completely blank.
I set aside the document and picked up the leather folder.
The folder was heavy, packed with handwritten pages. The neat handwriting on the first page seemed oddly familiar, and after a moment I realized why—it belonged to James.
James Chen, my former colleague and brilliant software engineer. Three months ago, he'd abruptly quit his job, claiming he wanted to "find the true meaning of life." No one had heard from him since.
The words on the first page made my blood run cold:
If you're reading these words, it means I've failed. I couldn't escape, couldn't warn you, couldn't stop any of this from happening.
My name is James Chen. I was once a resident of Apartment 4271, and now I am… I don't know what I am anymore.
If you're my successor—if you received that 3:33 text message, if you found that key—then I must tell you a brutal truth:
You have no choices left.
But perhaps, if you're smarter than me, luckier than me, you can do what I couldn't. Maybe you can find a way out.
What follows is a record of my time here, every word written in blood and tears. Read carefully—this may be your only hope.
—James Chen
Written in Apartment 4271
The last day of my life
I turned the page, and James's account began:
Day One
At 3:33 AM, I received a text message from my own number. Exactly like what you're experiencing now, I'm sure.
At first, I thought it was just some tech prank. As a programmer, I knew spoofing a sender's number wasn't difficult. But finding that key under my pillow—that's when doubt crept in.
When I arrived at apartment 4271, I was thrilled. Free housing, perfect decor—it seemed too good to be true. I even wondered if some wealthy relative had left me an inheritance.
I was dead wrong.
The first red flag appeared when I read the 'Resident Instructions.' Those bizarre rules seemed like some artistic joke or a prank from the previous tenant.
I lived here for a week, and everything seemed perfect. Food appeared in the fridge, bills paid themselves, and utilities ran flawlessly. I started believing I'd hit some cosmic jackpot.
Until the morning of the eighth day, when I slept past 6:47.
My phone suddenly rang, the screen showing 6:46.
A wave of panic surged through me. I set down the folder and found myself moving involuntarily toward the window. Outside, dawn was breaking, the sky turning from black to deep blue.
I stared at the apartment building across the street and froze. Behind every window, figures moved in perfect unison, rising from bed simultaneously, their movements mechanical and synchronized—like puppets controlled by the same hand.
At exactly 6:47, every figure stopped moving. Then, as one, they all turned to face me.
Though I couldn't make out their faces clearly, I felt their collective gaze boring into me. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of eyes, all fixed on me.
I realized with horror that I'd already been absorbed into the system.
My phone buzzed with another message:
Welcome to Apartment 4271. Your new life begins now. Please continue reading James's records. You'll need that information.
Remember: every choice has a price, every day is a transaction.
Good luck, new administrator.
With trembling hands, I picked up James's record again and turned the page. Outside, those silhouettes continued watching, as if waiting for something to happen.
The next page contained just one line, written in what looked like red ink:
"Day Eight: I slept past 6:47, and then I began to die."
The moment I finished reading, a figure appeared in the mirror across the room. Not my reflection—James. He stood behind me, lips moving silently, trying to communicate.
I whirled around, but found only empty space.
When I turned back to the mirror, James remained. This time, I could hear his words clearly:
"Don't trust the administrator. Don't trust anyone. Including me."
James reached toward me, as if trying to claw his way out of the glass. I stumbled backward in terror, sending a chair crashing to the floor.
When I looked again, only my own pale, terrified face stared back from the mirror.
But in the corner of the glass, a message appeared in blood-red letters:
"Welcome home, James."
