Jihoon, our flight leaves in an hour! Come down we need to get to the airport!"
"I'm almost done! Just give me a sec I'm trying to clean up the room a little!"
Jihoon hastily brushed the bed and straightened the covers. His eyes swept across the room, making sure everything was in its place.
"You know they've got people for that, right?" Seokjin called out.
"I know, I know… but at least let me help a little. I don't want them thinking a pig stayed here."
He rushed into the bathroom, folded the towels, and flushed the toilet one last time.
"That's what they get paid for to clean up after pigs," Seokjin muttered. "I'm sure they've seen worse than an empty bag of chips and used toilet paper."
Ignoring the comment, Jihoon grabbed his backpack. He always traveled light just a few clothes, enough for a week, his toothbrush, skin moisturizer, deodorant, and body spray.
He walked to the window and paused, taking one final look at the beautiful city of Shanghai. The cool morning breeze brushed against his pale skin. Deep down, he wished he could stay away from the worries, the deadlines, the gnawing dread of another rejection email.
But he couldn't. He had a loving father and a beautiful younger sister waiting at home.
With a heavy sigh, he closed the window, shutting out that small voice in his head whispering against his better judgment. He picked up his phone and keys and stepped out of the hotel room.
The hallway was still and empty. As he walked, he glanced at each passing door, trying to distract himself from the haunting images of yesterday's rejection. There wasn't anything he could've done differently.
"I guess it just wasn't meant to be," he murmured.
That's when he saw it.
In the distance, a pool of red liquid seeped from beneath a door room 505.
His steps faltered.
The door looked worse than before: its edges chipped and bent outward, as if something had forced its way out. The handle, once twisted, now lay ripped from its bolts, half-submerged in the crimson pool.
His pulse spiked.
Jihoon approached slowly, careful not to step into the spreading liquid. As he neared, a foul stench crept up his nose distant, but familiar. The sour rot of flesh steeped in butyric acid.
During his short internship with KCC Remediation back in Seoul, he'd seen enough mutilated and decomposing cadavers to scar the average person for life.
He didn't want to know what was behind that door.
He began backing away, moving toward the elevator.
With his third step, he heard it a low, dog-like growl from behind the disheveled door.
A cold shiver crawled up his spine.
"A rabid dog? On the sixth floor?" he muttered.
It didn't make sense unless someone had snuck it in.
Scratch.
Another sound. Claws, maybe, dragging along the wooden edge of the door.
His palms went slick with sweat. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst through his chest. His feet went numb.
Then another hit.
Thump
this time. Violent. Aggressive.
Whatever was inside wanted out.
Jihoon spun and bolted toward the elevator.
The door trembled behind him groaning under the weight of the thing hammering it.
"Come on! COME ON!" he screamed, jamming the elevator button again and again, praying to any god that was listening.
Then aloud crash.
The hallway shook. Dust burst into the air like smoke. Jihoon covered his mouth, heart thundering. His teeth rattled in his skull.
Silence followed for what felt like years, but lasted only seconds.
The dust began to settle.
And that's when he saw it.
The door to Room 505 still stood.
But beside it
massive hole had been torn through the wall big enough for two grown men to walk through side by side.
Time stood still.
His body screamed to run, to flee, but he couldn't move. His feet felt welded to the floor.
Then a growl.
Louder. Closer.
Jihoon's breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs.
An arm long, human-like emerged from the dust, fingers digging into the debris. Then another.
And out crawled a creature.
On all fours. Human-shaped, but...
Its skin was burnt beyond recognition.
Its face blank. Smooth, as if scraped off and polished with glass and sandpaper.
Blood dripped from its sides, where ribs had torn through its own flesh. Each movement dragged bone deeper into raw muscle.
Jihoon stared in horror as it crawled forward, cautious and slow. It sniffed the air, its faceless head turning slightly to the left.
Then it turned to him.
No eyes. Yet Jihoon felt its gaze.
It had found its next meal.
Its empty face lingered on him for what felt like an eternity like a predator watching its prey, savoring the fear before the kill.
Then it moved.
Like a child learning to walk, the creature shifted its arm to bear its weight, brushing its legs out of the debris. Its limbs, blackened with burns, trembled slightly as it straightened.
Black blood poured down its side as it rose to its full height over eight feet tall. The tip of its head scraped the ceiling.
Faceless. Towering.
Its ribs gleamed through its scorched flesh, its arms hanging low to its knees. And then gradually it raised one arm, pointing straight at Jihoon. Each finger was longer than the foot of an average man.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, snapping Jihoon out of his daze.
He spun, leapt inside, and slammed the ground-floor button.
The doors began to close.
The creature's fingers twitched, stretching, tangling together then shot forward, spearing toward the elevator at a speed Jihoon couldn't even follow.
The doors sealed shut just in time
but the attack didn't stop.
The fingers punched through the metal, bursting through the opposite wall, drilling deep into the concrete beyond.
Sparks flew. Metal screamed.
Jihoon ducked, covering his head as debris and dust showered him. His legs shook uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps.
What could he do if that thing forced its way in?
What would become of him if it caught him?
Every second stretched into an eternity. Sweat and tears blurred together on his face as he crouched, trembling beneath the cracking ceiling.
Then with a sharp jolt the elevator began its descent.
Jihoon lifted his head.
The walls were clean. Smooth. Intact. No holes. No debris.
The only trace of what had just happened was his pounding heart, his tear-soaked cheeks, and the soft, eerie elevator music echoing through the small space.
Slowly, he got to his feet, legs weak, arms trembling. He checked his backpack, fumbling through its contents until his shaking hand found what he was looking for his inhaler.
Something he hadn't used since high school, but always carried "just in case," as his father used to say.
His lungs tightened, the air slipping away. He pressed the inhaler to his lips.
One puff.
Then another.
Each inhale felt like salvation.
Like he finally had a shred of control again.
The situation. His life. Everything felt out of control.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar, stale lobby—the same dim lighting, the faint smell of disinfectant, and the same receptionist seated behind the front desk.
A generic-looking Chinese woman: black hair that matched her pupils, a striped button-down shirt tucked beneath a dark blue waistcoat. Her lower half was hidden behind the desk.
Jihoon, still trembling, stepped out of the elevator and began walking toward her.
Something felt… off.
At first glance, she looked perfectly normal. But as he got closer, he noticed her eyes.
They weren't moving.
She sat perfectly still. Her gaze fixed on the marble wall across the lobby. Not a blink. Not even a twitch. Seconds passed. Then more.
Her eyes began to redden from dryness, but she didn't react didn't even flinch.
"Um… excuse me?" Jihoon said quietly. No response.
He hesitated, then slowly reached out, intending to shake her shoulder.
The moment his fingers neared her, she moved.
Her head turned toward him stiff, mechanical, like a puppet's neck forced into motion.
A cold smile cracked across her face. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Dear customer," she muttered, voice trembling, "how can I be of help to you?"
Jihoon flinched, retracting his hand. He set his room card down on the desk with shaking fingers.
"I'd… like to check out now," he said. His voice was barely audible, on the verge of breaking.
"Most certainly," she replied, tone eerily steady. "I just have to search up your room. And how long was your stay?"
She turned toward her computer, movements too smooth, too deliberate.
"Mr. Han Jihoon, Room 510. You stayed for a week, correct?"
"Uh—yes. That's me."
"It seems all your payments have been handled by another party. They even left an additional 500 yuan. Let me just get that for you and your invoice."
Her voice remained flat, drained of emotion.
Ding.
The sound echoed again this time from the elevator.
Jihoon froze.
His eyes darted toward the source of the noise. The elevator doors were closed, but he saw no one nearby. No footsteps. No sound of movement.
Realization struck him like lightning.
What if that thing… took the elevator?
His pulse spiked. His chest tightened. He stared at the doors, waiting, terrified, imagining the faceless creature stepping out, fingers stretching toward him again.
"NO NEED FOR THAT!" he blurted. "YOU CAN KEEP THE 500!"
Before the receptionist could respond, Jihoon turned and sprinted for the exit.
He burst through the lobby doors, the humid Shanghai morning slapping his face like a wave.
Outside, a bald man leaned against the gate, eyelids heavy, his mind fogged with exhaustion.
Mr. Xing hadn't slept all night. The hotel manager had fired the younger guard over a few careless mistakes, and now the old man was stuck pulling a double shift.
He didn't complain much—rarely ever did—but fatigue hung on him like a soaked coat.
His body stayed still, but his mind wandered. To his daughter's quiet smile when she dropped off breakfast earlier that morning. The food had gone cold hours ago, but he still felt her warmth in the gesture.
Then, out of nowhere—
Jihoon ran past him, eyes wide, breath ragged, like a man escaping hell itself.
Mr. Xing barely blinked.
Their eyes met for a second one pair trembling, the other too weary to comprehend what had just happened.
Then came the blare of a car horn.
"Dude! There you are—what happened? You look like sh*t."
Seokjin, leaning against a waiting taxi, lowered his sunglasses. His grin faltered the instant he saw Jihoon's face.
Jihoon barely registered him. His steps slowed, his breathing heavy.
"I'm fine," he muttered, brushing past.
Seokjin frowned. "You're not fine. You're sweating like crazy. Jihoon, what happened?"
Jihoon looked up, eyes bloodshot. He opened his mouth then stopped.
"I… I don't know," he whispered.
Seokjin rested a hand gently on his shoulder. "You don't have to say anything. Just breathe. I've got you, okay?"
A pause.
Jihoon gave a small nod. The tension in his shoulders eased, if only slightly.
They climbed into the cab.
Inside, Seokjin glanced over again, concern etched into his face. "Whatever it was… it's over now. We're getting out of here."
Jihoon didn't respond. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing as the taxi pulled away.
Back at the Yunxi Hotel
Mr. Xing stood frozen, still dazed by what he'd just witnessed. The drowsiness that had plagued him minutes ago had vanished, replaced by a crawling unease.
He replayed the scene in his head Jihoon bursting from the doors, face pale, eyes wild.
He didn't know much about Han Jihoon, only what little he'd gathered from their brief morning chats. The young man was polite, but not naïve. Xing had seen the way Jihoon brushed off the scammers who prowled outside the hotel gates men and women eager to take advantage of tourists.
Yunxi might not have looked like much, but it had a reputation: the number-one hotel for foreign visitors in Shanghai. That also meant it attracted its share of swindlers and predators. Some guests left richer in memories, others poorer in dignity.
But Jihoon? He'd always stood firm. Sometimes he'd smile politely and walk away, sometimes he'd ignore the flirtatious chatter of the local lǜ chá girls entirely.
No Han Jihoon wasn't weak-minded. Definitely not someone who'd run out of the hotel like a madman.
Mr. Xing turned toward the entrance. The glass doors reflected the late-morning light.
"What could be going on in there?" he muttered.
His eyes drifted to the metal bat resting against the wall. He picked it up.
He wasn't about to risk his life recklessly, but a little protection couldn't hurt. His grip tightened.
Step by step, he crept toward the doorway. Each movement felt heavier than the last. Something inside him screamed to stop to drop the bat and run.
But he couldn't. Not with his daughter's college tuition due in a few weeks. Not after losing his partner on the night shift.
Sweat trickled down his scalp, slipping beneath his collar and tracing his spine. His palms slickened, the bat threatening to slide from his grip. His face remained composed, but his lips betrayed him quivering in silent fear of the unknown.
The automatic doors opened with a soft hiss.
Cold air rushed out, slicing against his skin like a blade. Hours under the punishing summer sun had almost made him forget the comfort of air-conditioning.
But there was no comfort waiting inside.
He stepped into the lobby.
The silence was wrong too still, too heavy. The faint hum of the vents seemed louder than it should have been.
Mr. Xing tightened his hold on the bat and moved forward, eyes darting between the walls and ceiling.
He headed toward the front desk, praying to see the receptionist still sitting there
hoping, somehow, that everything was still normal.
Mr. Xing thought he could at least get some information from the receptionist or the manager, whose office was just behind the front desk.
As he had suspected, the front desk was empty. He looked around for the receptionist, then jumped over the counter and headed toward the manager's office. He knocked once to make his presence known, expecting an immediate response but the only sound that answered was the ticking of the amber clock beside the front desk.
Not waiting any longer, he vaulted back over the counter and made his way toward the elevator. Maybe they were somewhere else in the building. Hitting the button for the second floor, he waited, his eyes scanning the lobby for any sign of his co-workers.
That was when he heard it a faint click, followed by another… and another. The sound of typing. Hesitant, he turned around. The once-empty front desk was now occupied by the receptionist a short, curt young woman.
Trying to understand where she came from, his mind raced. The toilet? No, that wasn't possible. The employees' restroom was too far from the lobby; he would have noticed anyone coming from that direction.
Determined to get answers, he tightened his grip on the metal bat in his left hand and walked toward her.
"Hi, gūniang," he said with a dry smile.
He expected at least a nod, but she didn't react. Her fingers hammered away at the keyboard, her eyes fixed not on the monitor but on the keys.
Maybe she didn't hear him.
He called out again louder this time. Still nothing.
Curious about what she was typing so furiously, he leaned sideways to look at the monitor.
It was blank. Completely blank. The only thing staring back at him was his own reflection on the glossy OLED screen.
Ding!
The elevator chimed open.
The blood drained from his face. His arms trembled as his eyes fixed on the figure inside.
If it weren't for the person hanging limply behind the creature, he might've thought this was some sick prank. But it wasn't.
The lifeless body of Manager Jiu dangled in the air blood oozing from every pore, dripping from his fingertips onto the pristine marble floor. His eyes were hollow, emptied out.
Then Xing's gaze shifted to the creature itself.
It was motionless. Inhuman. Its body was a grotesque collage of burns, cuts, and twisted flesh, ribs pushing out through its sides.
It took a step forward.
Then another.
Each step heavier, faster like a predator closing in on its prey.
Xing couldn't think straight. His body moved on its own as he turned and sprinted toward the exit.
He looked back mid-stride, praying the creature hadn't followed.
But the elevator was empty. Spotless. Even the blood was gone.
It was as if nothing had happened at all like his mind had made it up. But Xing didn't stop. He slammed his hand against the glass doors.
Nothing.
They were automatic they should've opened the moment they sensed him but they stayed locked. He pushed, then rammed his shoulder into them. Still nothing.
Panic surged. He started punching the glass. Each strike louder, harder, until bones cracked beneath his skin. Blood splattered against the door, trickling down to the marble floor.
He didn't stop.
Then he felt it.
A presence behind him.
The creature was back.
So close he could smell its rancid stench.
The receptionist's typing grew faster, louder, filling the lobby with a maddening rhythm.
The monster raised its arm toward him.
Every muscle in Xing's body froze. Terror gripped him so completely that the only thing he could feel was the warm wetness spreading down his legs.
And then he screamed a blood-curdling, soul-splitting scream.