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1123 Words
More than half the time had passed, and the clock kept relentlessly counting down each second.
The only source of light in the coffin was a narrow, dim countdown timer. The faint glow fell across the outline of Phedra Henry’s face, highlighting his handsome features, now tinged with purple from lack of air.
His lips were tightly pressed together, his eyes closed.
When buried alive in a coffin, the most important thing is to remain calm. Fear and screaming would do nothing except make his heart race, causing his lungs to consume even more oxygen.
He searched all over his body but couldn’t find anything sharp to pierce a hole in the coffin. Phedra Henry tried to breathe through his nose, slowly and evenly.
First, he was buried alive in a wooden coffin underground. Luckily, the coffin wasn’t metal. Ironically, he had nothing sharp to try and break through with.
Second, he didn’t know the bank password, so he couldn’t give it to his best friend to get out of here.
Now, there wasn’t much oxygen left—he could barely breathe. The suffocating feeling covered his entire body.
A severe lack of oxygen makes the mind sluggish and the body weak. His thoughts began to blur. His heart pounded faster than usual from stress, and he knew that if he let himself fall into despair, panic would set in quickly.
Phedra Henry feared he wouldn’t be able to stay calm much longer. He realized he was starting to hallucinate.
He imagined himself frantically scratching at the coffin lid, screaming for help in vain, ultimately dying of exhaustion.
Trapped in an enclosed, inescapable space—the thought alone was terrifying.
Phedra Henry closed his eyes wearily. As soon as he did, he suddenly found himself hiding behind a door. A man in an officer’s uniform opened the door, and Phedra Henry slashed his carotid artery with a dagger. The artery, just beneath the skin, needed only a quick cut. Blood splattered, soaking his clothes.
Another man, accompanying the first, tried to draw his g*n in panic and shout. Before he could, Phedra Henry’s knife flashed by—swift and silent, as if slicing tofu.
The second man barely had time to react before Phedra Henry, moving even faster, plunged the knife straight into his chest. With his opponent still dying, Phedra Henry’s expression didn’t change as he stabbed three more times in quick succession.
The man’s eyes rolled back as he slid down the wall, leaving b****y marks.
His fingernails dug into his palms, and Phedra Henry gasped in pain. He woke up.
He patted his forehead in shock; his head ached as if it had been split open.
Suddenly, he punched the left partition of the coffin, realizing: he was starting to hallucinate from lack of oxygen.
His oxygen levels were becoming dangerously low.
Phedra Henry opened the three-dimensional display. There was still nothing in the inventory, only a round zero. The only other thing was the small red number under his profile picture.
He clicked the [Live] button, and the system informed him that there were “audiences” in the room. Currently, it was zero.
Phedra Henry then tapped the White Rabbit icon.
A small white rabbit appeared, vivid and three-dimensional, its expression stiff. It glanced at the countdown timer and said, “You must have come to me out of desperation. I’m sorry, my job is to answer questions, not to interfere with your baptism.”
To save oxygen, Phedra Henry changed the subject: “My question: What percentage of survival do friendly suggestions support?”
If his mental state finally broke, Phedra Henry knew he would go mad, scratching at the coffin in a panic.
Because the question didn’t affect the mission outcome, the little white rabbit was willing to answer.
It said, “Since this is a rookie mission, friendly hints help a lot. Up to 90% of players survive.”
Phedra Henry turned off the screen.
As time dragged on, he rested his hand on his stomach and closed his eyes, thinking again about the system’s “friendly suggestion.”
[Kind hint for new players: After endless greed is satisfied, will you stop the crime from continuing?]
Hints are supposed to be useful—but what did this one mean?
Phedra Henry’s brows furrowed.
Bottomless greed meant something that could never be satisfied.
Why did the hint say, “After endless greed is satisfied”? Whose greed? What did bottomless greed imply?
[After endless greed is satisfied, will the crime stop?]
If he gave his best friend the bank password, would his best friend actually keep the promise and let him go? Or would he just keep committing crimes?
His best friend had asked for the bank password, but Phedra Henry didn’t have it. He wasn’t the original “him,” so he couldn’t possibly know it. The system hadn’t provided it. The only thing buried with him was an old brick phone, and the only contact was the “close friend.”
Phedra Henry checked his phone balance. There was only enough for a single call—just one chance.
Emergency calls were free, but his best friend would know if he tried. He couldn’t call for help, as no one would know where he was buried. Even if he managed to contact emergency services, the conversation would be lengthy, wasting precious oxygen, and he would likely die before being rescued. Worse, if his best friend realized he was still alive, things could get even more dangerous.
He couldn’t call friends or acquaintances—the balance wouldn’t cover international calls, and he was traveling alone anyway.
Phedra Henry stared at the only number in the phonebook.
Piecing things together, he suddenly considered a new possibility.
He opened his eyes and looked at the countdown timer, thinking he might have been on the wrong track from the start.
He looked at the number on the screen and pressed “call.”
Why had his best friend only called him once, according to the log? Why wasn’t there any urgency? Why didn’t his best friend keep calling to see if he’d answer, or if he was dead? Did he think he could get the password and the money without worry?
The default ringtone sounded three times.
On the third ring, someone answered right away. In the background was a faint, small sound—like the call was being monitored.
A warm, pleasant male voice came through the receiver: “Think carefully. Do you promise?”
Phedra Henry frowned.
The first question he was asked was “Do you promise?” Not for a password.
Now he understood—the truth behind this story was becoming clearer.
- Writer
