With a Melancholy Persona, I Strayed Into a Horror Survival Game

I am Lila Voss, twenty-five years old, a cold and melancholic beauty blogger adored by a hundred thousand fans online. No one knows that I’m secretly a timid, hopeless romantic who obsesses over fictional couples. I’ve faked my melancholic image for four full years, hiding even the tiniest smile, all to earn enough tips from my persona and retire early to watch romance shows peacefully. Until I was violently pulled into a 100-player death game, broadcast live to the entire world. For fifteen days, a terrifying ghost would appear every midnight. No hints, no help, only my own instinct to survive. I’m not afraid of death. I’m terrified that, in front of billions of viewers, my carefully built melancholic beauty persona will completely collapse. If I break character, I won’t be killed by the system right away—but I will be publicly humiliated across the globe. Four years of work will be ruined, fans will turn on me, and my reputation will be destroyed. It’s worse than death. Before me lies an abandoned orphanage, soaked by endless rain. Rusty iron fences stick crookedly into the mud. The stench of mildew and rust chokes the air, and crows cry shrilly overhead. Puddles on the ground reflect my pale, paper-like face: downcast eyes, pressed lips, a perfect shadow at the corners of my eyes. This is the look I’ve practiced thousands of times—the melancholic muse, a broken beauty who tugs at everyone’s heartstrings. Only I know my heart is about to burst out of my chest. My fingers are white from gripping tight, my whole body tense and trembling. Not from sadness, but from bone-deep fear. Ten minutes ago, I was curled up comfortably in my pink gaming chair, watching a sweet romance show, squealing over my favorite couple. My phone pinged with a tip notification, and I almost smiled. Then a blinding scarlet light swept over me, bringing dizziness. When I opened my eyes again, I had fallen into this living hell. Ninety-nine panicked strangers surround me—screaming, crying, lost. Only a few wear cold, calculating grins: veteran players who use newbies as bait. A cold metal bracelet is locked around everyone’s wrist, and in each palm lies a black, shatterproof phone. The screen shows only two pages: personal stats and a live global comment section. I keep my head down, sliding my finger across the screen slowly and gently, maintaining my cold, distant image. Inside, I’m a panicked mess. Followers: 100,000. Heat Value: 100,000. Current Bonus: $100,000. Game Rules: 100 players survive in the abandoned orphanage for 15 days. A ghost appears every midnight. Alliances, betrayal, and looting are allowed. The sole survivor wins $10,000,000. The entire game is broadcast live, with zero blind spots. Live broadcast. Those two words suffocate me more than any ghost. My entire career depends on being cold, broken, and delicately melancholic. I can’t even breathe loudly in my streams— I drink slowly, speak softly, and control every tiny shift in my emotion. Now the whole world is watching. If I show even a little fear, panic, or any reaction unfit for a melancholic beauty, my persona will shatter. Death is not scary. Public humiliation is. “Everyone shut up!” A buzz-cut man shoves through the crowd roughly. His bracelet glows pale blue, his tone arrogant. “I’m a veteran on my third game. Obey me if you want to live—don’t get clever.” His gaze lingers on me for three seconds, a malicious smile curling his lips. “Especially a pretty, delicate little thing like you. Stick with me, or you’ll be the first to die.” Laughter echoes around me. I keep my head down, not lifting my eyelids. My fingers rest lightly on the screen; I’ve already marked him as extremely dangerous—no word from a veteran can be trusted. I step silently into the corner, leaning against the cold wall with my arms crossed, remaining cold, broken, and detached. But from the corner of my eye, I scan the area wildly: locked gates, boarded windows, a dry well, broken toys scattered about, a rusted slide, and a swing swaying creakily in the wind, as if pushed by an invisible hand. The live comments explode instantly. My hundred thousand fans flood in, along with countless passersby drawn by the “Global Death Live” title. “Lila! My melancholic muse—how did you end up here?!” “Baby, don’t be scared! I’m here for you!” “Your face is so pale… my heart aches.” I glance quickly at the rising tips; a little of my fear is drowned out by greed. I’m a master at faking melancholy—even in hell, I can act perfectly. The live broadcast is a blessing: more fans, more bonus money. Ten million dollars is enough for me to retire and obsess over fictional couples for the rest of my life. I close my eyes and lean against the wall, breathing softly. A tiny, secret smile tugs at my lips before I suppress it. I repeat frantically: Lila Voss, stay calm. Keep your face still. Don’t break character! Night falls quickly over the orphanage, pitch black—so dark you can’t see your hand in front of you. The cold wind howls, and dead silence makes my scalp tingle. Only the bracelet on my wrist beeps softly every hour, counting down to midnight. The ninety-nine players gradually huddle together: newbies terrified, veterans watching coldly. Everyone is afraid. Everyone except me—standing quietly in the corner, eyes closed, face calm, as if the terror around me doesn’t exist. Comments full of pity and tips keep rising. Everyone praises me for being calm, elegant, broken, and strong. On the surface, I’m as calm as water. Inside, I’m screaming hysterically: I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die! What’s coming at midnight?! “Beep—beep—beep—” A sharp alert cuts through the dark. The numbers on the screen jump wildly, finally stopping at 00:00. Midnight. The ghost has arrived. Bloody rain falls without warning, like torn rouge, smashing onto the stone paths and splashing rust-scented droplets. Wind wraps around me with bone-chilling cold, howling through rags and dead leaves. Despair weighs so heavily I can barely breathe. Players shrink into a terrified cluster: some cover their mouths and tremble, others slump on the ground, empty-eyed. No one dares to breathe loudly—everyone knows the bloody rain hides a ghost that can kill in an instant. The live comments flood the screen. “Bloody rain! This only appears in S-class terror stages!” “Lila is still standing outside? Is she crazy?!” “How can she not move?!” I freeze in place, my heart pounding so hard it’s going to break through my ribs. Fear is about to overwhelm me, but my face remains pale and calm, eyelashes lowered, melancholic and indifferent—not a single trace of panic. I can’t break character. Never. At that moment, a tall figure steps slowly out of the shadows. Black clothes, pale skin, handsome features, surrounded by an icy aura—but breathtakingly beautiful. He has no umbrella, just stands in the bloody rain, staring quietly at me. Then he speaks, his voice cold yet gentle, cutting through the rain: “I don’t have an umbrella. May I share yours?” The whole area goes dead silent. Players hold their breath. The live broadcast blows up. Refuse equals death—everyone understands that. Inside, I’m crumbling in terror. On the surface, I stay calm and melancholic. I turn slightly, tilting the umbrella gently toward him, my voice soft and indifferent: “Of course you may.” He steps under my umbrella and stands beside me. I smell his cold, frosty scent—no violence, but overwhelming pressure. A few seconds later, my shoulder sinks: he’s growing taller. An inch, two feet, three feet—his body shoots upward wildly. In a blink, he towers over me like a giant shadow. His gentle aura vanishes, replaced by biting cold and raging malice. He looks down slowly, his shadow swallowing me completely. His voice is ice-cold: “You agreed to hold the umbrella. Don’t let me get wet. Otherwise, you will regret it.” Players close their eyes. The screen is filled with “It’s over.” I’m going to die—that’s what everyone thinks. I’m terrified out of my mind, my legs weak, but my eyes stay determined, my melancholy unbroken. I lift my gaze to his giant figure, my voice soft but clear, cutting through the bloody rain: “I like you. Don’t grow any taller. I can’t hold the umbrella for you if you do.” Absolute silence. The violent malice vanishes instantly. His towering body freezes, then shrinks visibly, returning to his original handsome form. His cold eyes flash with shock, and the tips of his ears turn bright red, spreading faint pink down his neck. He flusters and avoids my gaze, falls quiet for a moment, then awkwardly takes the umbrella from my hand. He tilts it far toward me, leaving half his body exposed to the bloody rain, not caring at all. When our fingertips brush, both of us freeze. His ears turn even redder, his voice hoarse but deadly serious: “Next time it rains, I’ll pick you up.” A system alert rings out sharply: Player Lila Voss has successfully triggered a hidden storyline. Gained the Umbrella Keeper’s bond. Unlocked temporary protection privilege. The whole area erupts in shock. The live broadcast goes wild, gifts and paid reminders flooding the screen. The tension in my chest collapses; my back is soaked with cold sweat. On my face, I’m still indifferent and melancholic. Inside, I’m shaking with terror—I was so close to dying. The bloody rain gradually stops. Surviving players snap back to their senses and scramble to find shelter: some help each other, some huddle for warmth, some follow veterans toward the seemingly safer hallway. Everyone understands: in a terror live game, sticking together is the only way to live. Noise, footsteps, and whispers fill the orphanage at once. I stand still, watching the crowd rush in the same direction. Inside, I’m nodding like crazy: Yes! Huddle together! Safety in numbers! I want to too! But I can’t. I’m Lila Voss, the internationally recognized cold melancholic beauty. Fitting in, panicking, crowding together, begging for protection—none of that fits my persona. If I run with the crowd, my broken image collapses instantly. The live camera will expose my “un-melancholic” self to the whole world. I take a deep breath and suppress all my survival instincts. While everyone crowds into the hall for warmth, I turn slowly, my steps light, my posture distant. I walk alone toward a closed, empty room at the end of the hallway. My back is lonely, cold, and isolated from the world—the perfect melancholic muse. The live broadcast explodes again. “Everyone else is huddling! She’s going into a room alone?!” “This broken vibe is legendary!” “Isn’t she scared? I’m so nervous!” I wrap my hand around the cold doorknob and push it open gently. The room is dim and quiet, with only one small window letting in faint light. I walk in expressionlessly, ready to close the door. At the moment the door is about to shut, from the corner of my eye, I see something on the floor behind the door. Something that doesn’t belong here. Something weirdly familiar. My fingers pause. My face remains indifferent, but my heart sinks sharply. The door closes softly, locking away the noise and danger outside—and locking me inside another, unknown secret.