Lin Xi stepped into the darkness, expecting the world to collapse into something obvious—like a trapdoor opening, or a sudden drop, or a scream-worthy twist. Instead, the transition was quiet. The classroom vanished as if it had never existed, and the door behind her closed without a sound, leaving no trace of its presence.
The hallway stretched out ahead, narrow and dim, with walls that seemed to flicker between solid and nothingness. It was not the kind of corridor that led to another room. It was the kind of corridor that felt like it was leading into a thought.
The floor under her feet was cold, but not with the bite of metal or the dampness of stone. It was cold in a way that felt intentional—like the world was trying to remind her that she had stepped into a place where warmth was not guaranteed.
She lifted her phone, expecting the streaming interface to be back, expecting the chat to be waiting with its noise, its jokes, its cruelty. But the screen was dark.
No chat. No viewer count. No system prompts. The only thing visible was the camera viewfinder, black as the hallway.
Lin Xi swallowed.
"Hello?" she said, and the sound of her voice disappeared into the darkness as if it had never been spoken.
The hallway did not answer.
She took a step forward. The walls around her were not smooth like concrete. They were like giant screens—seamless, black panels that absorbed light. As she moved, the screens flickered, showing images that were just faint enough to be ignored, but clear enough to make her skin crawl.
She stopped.
The images sharpened.
They were her.
Not the Lin Xi in the hallway, but versions of her from other moments—moments that were ordinary, embarrassing, or painfully real. The screens showed her on streams, in her room, laughing too hard at something that wasn't funny, wiping away tears when the chat went quiet, staring at a blank wall when the viewers left.
Her life was playing out in fragments, projected onto walls that had no edges.
Lin Xi's heart hammered. She moved forward slowly, watching the screens change with each step. She saw herself on a stream where she was wearing a costume she hated, forced into a character for attention. She saw herself eating instant noodles alone after a long night of streaming. She saw herself receiving a donation message that made her smile like a person who had just been rescued.
The images shifted too fast to be random. It felt like the hallway was trying to tell her something, showing her the parts of her life she had edited out.
The phone in her hand vibrated once.
The screen lit up.
The streaming interface returned, but it looked wrong. The camera was facing her, and the recording indicator blinked red. Her phone was streaming her without her consent, and the viewer count sat at zero, as if no one was watching.
Lin Xi's fingers tightened around the phone. "No," she whispered. "I didn't start this."
A line of text appeared on the screen, centered and calm, like a message from a system that didn't need to shout.
STREAMING HAS ALWAYS BEEN ACTIVE.
Lin Xi's breath caught. She looked down at her phone again, and the message changed.
YOU JUST DIDN'T NOTICE.
Her mind raced. She remembered the night she lost her voice. The shadow. The feeling of being watched. She had assumed that was a one-time event, a weird glitch in her life that she could laugh off. But the hallway was showing her that the watching had never stopped.
The walls shifted again, and the images changed. The screens now showed a chat window overlaying her life. Comments appeared in a fixed position, not scrolling, not moving. Like the messages were carved into the world.
"Say something funny."
"Smile."
"Why are you so quiet?"
"Don't stop streaming."
"Look at the camera."
Lin Xi's stomach twisted. The comments weren't coming from a live audience. They were coming from the hallway itself, from the world she had entered.
She took another step, and the screens showed her again, but this time she was not alone. The shadow was there behind her in the images, always standing just out of frame, always holding a phone.
The shadow didn't look like a person. It looked like a void shaped into a person, like the absence of someone who had never existed.
Her phone vibrated again, and a new message appeared.
YOU HAVE ENTERED THE OBSERVATION PHASE.
Lin Xi's mouth went dry. "Observation of what?" she asked the darkness.
The hallway responded without sound, without a voice, without any of the familiar cues of a game. The screens began to change in a pattern, one after another, like a slideshow that refused to stop.
The images now showed the same moments, but from a different angle. They showed her streaming from the perspective of a viewer, the camera pointed at her like a lens into her life. The viewer's perspective was not flattering. It was invasive. It was the kind of perspective that made her feel like she was being looked at through a keyhole.
She realized with a sick feeling that she had been living her life through that lens for years. She had been the performer, yes, but she had also been the audience. She had watched herself on screens, edited her own image, curated her own persona.
The hallway was not just showing her the past. It was showing her how she had always been seen.
The phone vibrated again, and the message changed.
BY THOSE WHO WATCH.
BY THOSE WHO WERE WATCHED.
BY YOU.
Lin Xi's throat tightened. "That's not fair," she said, though no one could hear her. "I didn't choose this."
The screens around her dimmed slightly, and one image remained.
It was a clip from her first stream. Her face was young, nervous, and awkward. She was talking to nobody, her voice shaking.
Then, a comment appeared.
"Nice."
Just one word.
Lin Xi's heart sank. She remembered that moment. The feeling of being seen for the first time. The relief that someone was there, even if it was only a stranger on the internet.
She had been desperate for that feeling ever since.
She had chased it.
She had built her life around it.
The hallway was showing her that the first viewer had not been a person. It had been the feeling of being noticed. The moment she realized she could be watched.
She looked up at the screens, and the words appeared again.
THE FIRST VIEWER IS NOT A PERSON.
THE FIRST VIEWER IS THE MOMENT YOU BECAME A PERFORMANCE.
Lin Xi's eyes burned. She had never thought of it that way. She had always assumed the first viewer was a stranger, a random person who had typed a comment. But the hallway was telling her something else: the first viewer was the moment she chose to be seen.
The hallway began to tilt.
The walls seemed to bend inward, and the floor under her feet felt like it was shifting. The images on the screens began to blur, then sharpen again, showing her in a different setting.
It was her bedroom.
Her bed. Her desk. Her posters. The same room where she had started streaming.
But the room looked different now. It looked like it was lit from within, like the light was coming from the screens themselves.
Lin Xi stepped forward, and the hallway opened into the room without a door. The transition was seamless, as if the hallway had always been a part of her bedroom.
She stopped at the edge of the room and looked around.
Her phone was still in her hand, streaming. The viewer count had changed.
One.
Lin Xi's heart thumped. She looked at the chat.
The messages were different now. They were not random comments. They were not mocking or encouraging. They were quiet, almost intimate.
"Hi."
"Hello."
"Are you there?"
"Please don't go."
Lin Xi's eyes widened.
The messages were from the first viewer.
But the first viewer wasn't a person. It was a feeling. It was a connection.
So who was typing?
The screen blinked.
A system message appeared.
THE FIRST VIEWER IS THE CONNECTION BETWEEN YOU AND YOURSELF.
THE FIRST VIEWER IS THE VERSION OF YOU THAT WATCHES YOU WHEN YOU ARE NOT LOOKING.
Lin Xi's hands shook. "No," she whispered. "No, that's not possible."
The room responded with a soft, almost tender, hum.
The phone vibrated again.
The viewer count increased.
Two.
Lin Xi stared at the screen.
She looked around the room, searching for the source of the messages. The room was empty. There was no one there. Only her. Only her bedroom.
But the feeling of being watched was stronger than ever.
She turned her phone camera toward herself.
Her reflection filled the screen.
And behind her, in the camera, she saw the shadow.
The same shadow from the classroom. The same shadow from the hallway. The same shadow that had been watching her all along.
The shadow stood behind her, holding a phone, watching her stream.
The viewer count increased again.
Three.
Lin Xi's breath came in short gasps. "What do you want?" she asked the shadow.
The shadow did not speak. It simply raised its phone, and the screen on the shadow's phone showed Lin Xi's stream again, like a mirror inside a mirror.
The viewer count increased.
Four.
The chat messages appeared again, but now they were not comments. They were questions.
"Do you remember the night you lost your voice?"
"Do you remember the first time you felt like someone was behind you?"
"Do you remember the moment you realized you could be watched?"
Lin Xi's throat tightened. She remembered the night clearly now—the sound behind her, the shadow, the fear that had made her scream until her voice cracked. She had never told anyone about it. She had buried the memory.
But the Live World was forcing it back to the surface.
The viewer count increased again.
Five.
Lin Xi's heart pounded. "Stop," she whispered. "Stop counting."
The hallway—or the room, or whatever this place was—did not stop.
The viewer count increased.
Six.
Lin Xi's skin prickled. She felt a cold wave of nausea wash over her. "What happens at seven?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
The phone screen flashed.
A system message appeared.
THE SEVENTH VIEWER IS THE FINAL JUDGE.
IF THE SEVENTH VIEWER ARRIVES, YOUR GAME ENDS.
Lin Xi's hands trembled. "So I have to find the first viewer before the seventh arrives," she said, repeating the rule like a prayer.
The room seemed to breathe. The shadow behind her moved closer.
The viewer count increased.
Seven.
Lin Xi's stomach dropped.
The screen flashed again, and the chat messages disappeared.
The viewer count changed.
It no longer showed a number.
It showed a word.
YOU.
Lin Xi stared at the screen, unable to move. The word felt like a verdict.
The shadow's phone screen lit up, and a message appeared on it.
PROVE YOU ARE WORTH WATCHING.
Lin Xi's voice shook. "I don't know how."
The shadow raised its phone higher, and the screen showed a new message.
YOU MUST CHOOSE.
The room around her began to distort. The walls flickered, and the images on the screens blurred into static. The feeling of being watched intensified until it was almost unbearable.
The phone vibrated one last time.
A message appeared.
ENTER AS A STREAMER.
OR ENTER AS YOURSELF.
Lin Xi's mind raced.
Enter as a streamer meant continuing to perform, continuing to chase the feeling of being seen. It meant feeding the system with her fear and her need for attention.
Enter as herself meant abandoning the performance, stepping away from the audience, and facing the emptiness of being unseen.
The shadow behind her remained still, waiting.
Lin Xi looked at her phone, at the word YOU on the screen, and felt something inside her shift.
She realized that the Live World wasn't just a game. It was a test of identity. It was a choice between who she had become and who she could be.
Her hands shook, but her eyes were steady.
She whispered, "I choose myself."
The room went silent.
The screens around her went dark. The images disappeared. The feeling of being watched faded, like a curtain being pulled closed.
For a moment, Lin Xi thought she had won.
Then the shadow's phone screen lit up one last time.
A message appeared, written in the same scratched font as the chalkboard.
GOOD.
NOW YOU ARE READY FOR THE NEXT DOOR.
The room shifted.
The hallway returned.
But this time, the walls were not screens.
They were mirrors.
And in every mirror, Lin Xi saw herself—streaming, smiling, performing, crying, alone.
She walked forward, toward the next door, knowing that the Live World had changed her.
And that the watchers had not stopped watching.