[Do not take the elevator after midnight] [Do not peek through your neighbors’ peepholes] [Do not look directly at a light source before five in the morning]... The words in blood glow an ominous red. Behind them are invincible “residents”: a hunched figure walking on bone spurs in the hallway, a smiling face in the mirror that imitates you a beat too late, and fleshy tumors dripping slime from the ceiling. They are embodiments of the rules. Touch them and you’ll be devoured; resist them and you might as well destroy yourself.
A hastily scribbled note from a friend is the only way to survive. Here, the key to staying alive is never fighting, but obeying, even when the rules contradict one another or change without warning. Light can be both shelter and trap; neighbors are threats who may also hold clues. Even the blurring of your shadow counts down to your death for breaking the rules.
The “Community Guidelines” beneath the ashtray reveal an even deeper horror: the rules themselves are bait, and their friendly-sounding clauses conceal deadly traps. Shen Baizhou watches his hands slowly turn transparent and dark red runes creep up his wrists. He understands that the rules are assimilating him.
