I was on my way home from a late shift when I stumbled upon a livestream of myself. In the video, I was walking alone down a dimly lit street. The title read: [Randomly Escorting a Stranger Home] But the live comments were a cesspool of filth. [Look at the way she walks. I bet she’s going commando. Somebody toss a coin and see if she picks it up.] [Walking alone this late? Gotta be a hooker. Streamer, ask her how much for the night.] [What a coincidence. I just had her tonight.] [Streamer, get a shot of her apartment number when she gets home. Any of you guys wanna form a party?] Watching the gift animations explode across the screen, the streamer was practically vibrating with excitement. He aimed the camera squarely at my form-fitting skirt. A wave of pure ecstasy washed over me. Perfect. I’d finally hooked a soul to take my place. 1 I was born under a dark sign. A psychic once told me my lifeline was tragically short. Because of that, I’ve lived my life in a cage of caution. I avoided cliffs and deep water, stayed away from rooftops, and never touched a sharp knife. I never jaywalked and always steered clear of crowds. I even got a full medical check-up every single year since I was born. I figured that with such vigilance, I could probably live a long, peaceful life. But three months ago, I was diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer. I don’t smoke. No one in my family does. And every previous medical report showed my lungs were perfectly healthy. Typically, cancer cells need time to grow. With my frequency of check-ups, logic dictated that either a previous test was wrong, or they should have caught it in its early stages. But no. My first diagnosis was terminal. After a storm of tears, my parents finally accepted it. This was my fate. But fate isn't something you have to accept. Isn't there a saying? "To defy destiny." My situation was beyond ordinary remedies. So, they immediately tracked down Mr. Corbin, the same psychic who had read my fortune all those years ago. At first, Mr. Corbin just shook his head, refusing to help. He said that every soul’s time is recorded on Death’s ledger. To forcibly extend a life is like secretly adding a weight to the great cosmic scales; when the accounts don't balance, there are consequences. The only way was to steal life from another. He scooped a handful of rice and let it spill onto his desk. “You see this? This granary of rice is the total sum of human life in the world. If I take an extra handful for you, some other family’s pot will be short. For you to live, someone else must die.” This is what’s known as finding a scapegoat. But the method was unconscionably cruel. Psychics like him already feared revealing the secrets of the cosmos; meddling with destiny was a line they dared not cross. My parents went to beg him every single day, showering him with gifts of expensive liquor and cash-stuffed envelopes. Eventually, their desperation moved him. He took a long drag from his pipe, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Stealing a life is a wicked thing,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But as they say, some people dig their own graves. If the soul you take is one who brought about their own doom, perhaps the heavens will look the other way.” 2 Mr. Corbin had strict requirements for the scapegoat. To lure such a person, I took a night-shift job, forcing myself to walk home at two in the morning every day. The problem was, the city had gotten too safe. I’d been at it for almost three months without so much as a single catcall. So tonight, I’d chosen to wear a particularly provocative dress. I recognized this streamer. A few days ago, he’d started a series on escorting strangers home at night, and it instantly became a viral hit, netting him a ton of new followers. He called it ‘escorting,’ but it was really just stalking. His targets were always young women walking alone, so his audience was a predictable hive of creeps. They’d get off on making lewd jokes in the chat, fantasizing about the women on screen who, completely unaware, were having their home addresses broadcast to the world. If a woman noticed and got scared, their panic only made the audience more thrilled. It was like an exhibitionist’s high—the bigger the victim’s reaction, the more excited they became. And if a girl was bold enough to confront him, he’d just claim he was a passerby and taunt her. “Do you own the sidewalk?” So, despite the outrage from many women, no one could do a thing about him. I swayed my hips and turned into a deserted alley. The men in the chat went wild, as if they’d all popped a little blue pill. [With my vast experience, I can tell you that slut is doing it on purpose.] [She’s practically sending an invitation. Streamer, what are you waiting for? Make your move!] [Are you man enough for this? If not, let me take over.] [Don’t make me drop a Rocket Ship on you.] Viewers were flooding in. In the blink of an eye, the count broke ten thousand—a record he’d never reached in his three years of streaming. He could feel a hot rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Alright, brothers, keep those gifts coming! We’re gonna try something new tonight. Drop a Porsche, and you can place an order!” Someone asked what ‘placing an order’ meant. He chuckled. “Placing an order means… you tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” The chat instantly erupted. 3 [Porsche sent! I want to see what’s under that skirt!] [I’m sending a Yacht! Strip her naked!] [Can a Rocket Ship get us something really wild? You know what I mean.] The streamer’s breathing grew heavy. He stared at the ever-increasing donation amounts, his throat tightening. He quickened his pace, his voice trembling with a feverish excitement. “Don’t you worry, my brothers. Tonight, I promise you’ll get an eyeful…” He hurried to catch up. This area was a demolition zone, surrounded by the skeletal remains of torn-down buildings. Only a single, lonely bungalow stood in the middle of the rubble. There wasn't another soul for at least a mile. The chat roared with encouragement. [This place is perfect.] The streamer rubbed his hands together, gleefully announcing that he was about to start serving the first ‘dish.’ Just then, a user named ‘Oracle_Descendant’ started spamming the chat. [STREAMER, DON’T GO IN. SHE’S A SOUL-THIEF.] [YOUR LIFE IS ALREADY BEING STOLEN.] [WALK BACKWARDS OUT OF THERE NOW. DON’T TURN AROUND. DON’T LOOK BACK.] In the dead of night, these messages were a sudden chill, and the streamer scowled. Others saw it too and quickly piled on. [Who’s this little punk? Get lost.] [Yeah, and I’m the reincarnation of Zeus.] [Probably some self-righteous little snowflake thinking she can scare us off.] [I’ll believe you if you come lick my boots, sweetheart.] Oracle_Descendant: [I’m telling the truth. She had the aura of death when this started, but ever since you entered the alley, her life force has been growing stronger. You must have walked into a Seven-Point Soul Trap.] [If you don’t believe me, look at the sides of the path. See if there are any burnt-out candles or ash.] At that moment, a gust of wind blew a piece of yellow, ash-like paper spinning past the camera. The streamer froze. He quickly panned the camera to the side of the path. Lining both sides of the dirt path, spaced about a yard apart, were the stubs of three burnt-out incense sticks at each interval. [HOLY SHIT.] [Could it be real?] The streamer’s fat, greasy face turned a ghastly white. 4 His voice shaking, he typed, “Then… then can you see how much of my life has been stolen?” [Huh… that’s strange. Your life force hasn’t decreased.] The streamer let out a sigh of relief. [Tch… what a liar.] [First, you say his life is being stolen, then you say it’s not.] [Are you just here to mess with us?] The boisterous mood in the chat quickly drowned out the creeping horror. But standing alone in the dark, skeletal demolition site, he still felt a chill crawling up his spine. The thought of quitting had already taken root. Better to get flamed by his audience than to lose his life. Just then, someone typed: [I know this place. They just started demolition a little while ago. Those incense sticks are from a ritual the developers did before they started construction.] [If you don’t believe me, check the news.] He dropped a link into the chat. The news article showed a photo of a demolition site, and sure enough, there was a single house standing in the middle. The article explained that the ‘holdout’ was a young girl whose entire family had died in a car crash, leaving her as the sole survivor. As for why she was holding out? Too many people had struck it rich from demolitions in the past, so the policies had become much stricter. They used to compensate based on square footage, but now it was a flat rate per person: a 35-square-meter housing credit plus a few thousand dollars in compensation. A large family might be able to get a two or three-bedroom apartment out of it, but for a single person like her, it was barely enough for a tiny studio. She’d probably have to pay out of pocket to cover the difference, not to mention furnishing it. Forget getting rich; she was likely to lose money. She worked in another part of the city and didn't normally live there, but when she heard the demolition crew was coming, she’d moved back overnight. The streamer’s fleeting fear vanished after reading the news. His confidence surged back. The chat was getting rowdy again, urging him to get on with the show. [Don’t be a wimp, bro. Here, I’ll send you a Lion to give you some courage.] The flashy animation of the Lion gift exploded across the screen. The streamer grinned from ear to ear. If it was all just a misunderstanding, then he had nothing to fear. “Alright, brothers,” he announced. “Let the show begin!” He strode purposefully toward the small house.
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