"The Sixth Sense activates even on guests who've left the hotel."
"Yes."
"It also helpfully broadcasts scenes I'd rather not see."
"Yes."
"Has it lost its mind?"
This ability apparently had no concept of privacy invasion.
"It wasn't like this when it was a game. Really disappointing in so many ways...."
Yeon-woo lay down on the bed in the Operator's Quarters. His eyes burned from staring at the Management Module's hologram the entire time.
It wasn't his imagination. Yeon-woo wiped the bloody tears streaming from his eyes with his hand.
'My body truly doesn't listen to me.'
A blood-soaked hand.
"......"
Revulsion washed over him.
This hotel didn't have a single proper set of sleepwear, and his body spilled blood at random intervals. His compulsion about keeping his bedding and clothing clean at all times was rendered meaningless by reality's state.
Being unable to live as a person was a far more draining affair than one might imagine.
"...Ha...."
He felt like losing his mind, but he composed himself.
"One thing became clear through my conversation with Mr. Baek Mu-jin. The background lore of this game has also been made real. At minimum, a corresponding weight of time exists."
Baek Mu-jin had said it plainly. That he'd smelled corpse-stench and blood. That he'd heard screams layered upon screams, and even sensed prayers directed at a god that should not exist.
"If he was the type of person with that kind of supernatural ability, then yes. That...."
"Pardon?"
"The fact that our nation's conglomerate chairman is secretly an Esper remains staggering, but setting aside that impression and returning to the main point."
"Yes."
"What he perceived clearly aligns with Hoone's background lore."
A disguised hotel built for the unethical experiments of a cult. A massive dungeon born from the negative sentiments concentrated there. That was the hotel's true identity as described in the game.
"But questions remain. The game was nothing but fiction, and just because it's been realized in reality, a history that never existed can't suddenly spring into being—that's a causal contradiction. It doesn't make sense."
"......"
"Where did that history originate? Was the in-game narrative actually a real history that existed, and an entire hotel from another dimension was transferred here? Or... if not even that...."
"Hello."
Squish—.
Just as he was about to sink into a swamp of thought, a soft sensation pressed against Yeon-woo's face.
"......"
"......"
"...Please get off."
"Eeh."
"Tsk."
"Eeeh."
Even while grumbling, Coco obediently climbed down. When it wasn't about hotel management policy, it was a remarkably agreeable cat. Not that it was by any means a well-behaved one.
"...At any rate, the one certainty is that the game has become reality."
And so.
"The sheer absurdity of that is what gets me."
"Pardon?"
"To me, it was just a game...."
Every gamer has imagined it at least once. How wonderful it would be if in-game currency and resources were real. How fun it would be if this virtual world actually existed.
'Of course, given this game's nature, I never once thought that.'
Regrettably, that fantasy had now become reality.
"I'm not exactly thrilled."
"No?"
"How unfortunate."
It wasn't some other genre—it was a horror hotel management simulation. A world brimming with every kind of monster, wicked resource, and cruel recipe. This sort of thing was rather inconvenient to have actually existing in reality.
'And now I'm one of this hotel's co-owners.'
Truly maddening. Yeon-woo rubbed his face with dry hands.
"My body's become a game character, the hotel's history and resources all originate from the game. And yet I'm hearing people seriously talk about 'devouring' and 'repeating death'... that's a bit."
"A bit?"
"A bit...."
It was.
"......"
Honestly, he was embarrassed.
'It's all game lore.'
There was a cringeworthy aspect to claiming he'd actually experienced it.
He'd certainly gone through it as a game—but it hadn't been real. Yet now, that fabricated history had become fact. He really had died, too. Though he'd come back in the end.
"I feel like I'm not acting my age."
"A bit."
"You're making excellent use of that phrase, Coco...."
The impact was considerable. It felt like hearing a friend or colleague say, 'Yeah, that's a bit much.'
"It's not that I'm failing to grasp reality. I'm not avoiding it, either. I clearly recognize that this hotel, my body, and the surrounding situation are all real."
"Yes."
"But with each passing day, I find myself regarding myself more as a game character than a human being. Despite being on guard against it. As if it were a natural evolution."
"Yes."
"Maybe that's why... the situation doesn't feel all that serious."
If it were anyone other than Yeon-woo, they would die. Inside this hotel, Yeon-woo wouldn't. That was why, at this juncture, he couldn't help but sink into a fundamental dilemma.
"How am I supposed to go on living?"
It was a contemplation of his own trajectory and this hotel's direction.
"Hello?"
"Is that a question asking whether I've already gotten to the point of questioning my identity?"
"Yes."
"If you thought... I could resolve that by worrying about it right now, you'd be sorely mistaken, Coco."
Identity was something that formed naturally as you lived. Just as a kindergartener who screamed 'I'm a fire truck!' would grow up to become an upright taxpayer, he too would one day come to define himself.
"The problem is the process of getting there."
"No?"
"Don't reject it before you've even heard it."
"Yes."
"If I were to return to society someday."
"No?"
"Do you have any intention of listening to me?"
"No?"
Yeon-woo ignored it.
"Even assuming I return to society, normal life is virtually impossible with this body. Thanks to that, I had to exercise extreme caution the entire time Mr. Baek Mu-jin was here."
Game system, Crimson Core Commentary ritual, high-level bug, the Drenched One's contract....
"Because these elements are tangled together, I've been reduced to a vulnerable state and have spent most of my time holed up in the Operator's Quarters. I can perform tasks remotely through the Management Module from inside my quarters, but the survival threat the moment I step outside the door is simply too great."
"Yes."
"It's that kind of game, so naturally."
Hoone was, at its core, a game where you learned by dying.
"The aftermath of dying is one problem, but now that resurrection consumes enormous resources on top of that... a situation where I truly must avoid death has arrived."
Yeon-woo checked the Management Module and added.
"Even if I'm only accepting Monster Guests from the Open Version, that doesn't mean the environment is suitable for housing civilians."
"No?"
"I'm not listening. We're not taking Human Guests. At any rate, for these reasons, the rate at which hotel resources accumulate is painfully slow. At this pace, I can't even procure items to counter the Drenched One's contract penalties."
"Yes."
"Which is why improving my physical condition isn't optional—it's mandatory."
But the concern was.
"The real issue is that, having already entered the main game, leaving this body unattended carries a high risk of system runaway. Under the current operating framework, there's simply no way to carve out research time."
"Research?"
"Right, the body isn't even my specialty. There'll be a lot of trial and error."
And the foundation was woefully insufficient to automate the entire hotel.
"So I've been thinking, Coco."
"Pardon?"
"In this game, there was definitely... *cough*, *gkh*, *BLECH*...!!"
"NOOO!!!"
Having vomited spectacularly on the quarters' bed, Yeon-woo resumed as though nothing had happened.
"In this game, there was definitely a 'Maintenance Function.'"
The Maintenance Function.
A feature that paused hotel operations to reconfigure new facilities, themes, or concept spaces. Hotel decorating—or 'Ho-deco,' as Yeon-woo abbreviated it.
"Originally, it's a feature only worth attempting for veterans who've cleared all the way through the Closed Version. If I recall correctly, it's a hidden function obtained by conquering the non-existent floors—completely unnecessary for standard play."
When you were already swamped just running the hotel, who had time to decorate? For ordinary players, guest management and facility maintenance alone were overwhelming. This was content genuinely meant for players with nothing better to do.
"However, as I recall...."
"......"
"...This feature only unlocks after clearing the Central Control Room, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"How unfortunate."
Yeon-woo dragged his heavy body upright. Sitting blankly at the head of the bed, he looked exactly like an office worker contemplating death rather than the morning commute.
"The need to visit the Central Control Room to activate this function is a confirmed matter. The problem is that it's located on one of the non-existent floors, so the conquest process is rather involved."
"No?"
"I don't think you should blindly defend your own hotel with your eyes and ears shut. There were aspects that were hard to look at even in the game, and now that it's become real, I'm curious how they'll turn out."
This was the part Yeon-woo was worried about.
"Hoone is rated 19-and-over, after all."
It went without saying, but death was commonplace and the process was cruel. That was also why Yeon-woo had died so many times during the tutorial.
"And right now, my body is no better than soft tofu."
"......!"
"...What I'm asking is whether this body can withstand the high-intensity cutscenes of a 19-rated game."
"......"
"......"
A heavy silence settled over the once-comfortable quarters.
"I'm glad I'm not the only one who's worried."
And here I thought I was just being a worrywart.
***
"First."
Yeon-woo spoke while circling the 19th-floor guest corridor.
"I understand that dying is an option."
"No?"
"Yes, it is. I'd resurrect after dying, but because the game system applies imperfectly, there's a high chance my already wrecked physical condition would deteriorate further after each revival."
"Yes."
"Yes."
Yeon-woo felt like going a little insane.
'Nothing goes the way I want.'
This hotel wouldn't let Yeon-woo die. He could practically feel its frantic determination to keep him alive through his skin. But if the cost of that was becoming even softer than he already was, that would be a problem.
'Any softer, and I'd just be water.'
In reality, Yeon-woo's current state was little more than a mass of liquid blood. A few more deaths, and he truly wouldn't be able to maintain a human form.
'The thought alone is horrifying.'
"Yes."
"Thank you for understanding."
Humans were creatures that depended considerably on sight. If he became a mass of liquid blood, he couldn't even begin to imagine how the humanity he'd so carefully nurtured would erode.
"...So...."
"Yes."
"Bugs from clearing the tutorial with exploits cause the character sprite to glitch—a known side effect. Let's apply that to this body. What catastrophe would unfold if the real me entered a 'sprite corruption' state?"
"No."
"Your fluency improves at the strangest times. Yes, that's exactly it."
The conclusion was singular. He should avoid dying as much as possible.
"The problem is that wanting to survive doesn't necessarily mean I can."
Muttering this, he surveyed his surroundings.
'I did bring the tools I estimated would be most useful, but whether I can employ them properly in the chaos of the moment is another question.'
But he'd steeled himself mentally. Now he just needed to enter the 'event.'
'...The room hasn't appeared yet.'
He'd been searching from the top down, but Room 14 hadn't been found yet. It was only a matter of time, though. He was looking for the event location—to find the supplies needed to reach the 'non-existent 14th floor.'
"Let's try one more floor down."
"Yes."
The two boarded the elevator. The descent to the 18th floor was brief.
"My senses are far sharper than during the tutorial. It's different from when the player received the game character's information indirectly, like a signal being received. The lack of any sense of reality is the problem, if anything."
The elevator doors opened, and Yeon-woo stepped into the corridor.
"That said, it's an undeniable fact that I've become able to 'perceive' pain."
"Eeh...."
"Which is another reason to improve my physical condition as quickly as possible. In a hotel overflowing with ways to die, if I'm repeatedly exposed to pain and death—even if only as information—it's only a matter of time before my brain is damaged. I don't want that."
"Yes."
"But the thing about humans."
What pitiable creatures.
"Sometimes they die from too much pain."
"......"
"Yes."
Commonly known as shock death.
"Cases where the autonomic nervous system collapses from extreme pain or psychological trauma, blood pressure plummets, and death follows. Or 'Voodoo Death'—psychogenic death, where a powerful emotional shock causes the heart to stop suddenly—these aren't rare among humans."
How much of his thin medical knowledge would hold in this world, he couldn't say. But this body was no longer a mere pile of game pixels. Strangely enough, it was subtly following the composition of a human body.
'I need to dredge up every scrap of knowledge I have and then some. I have to think.'
For the sake of dignity.
"So it's not a situation where I can relax just because it's perceived as information."
"Yes...."
"What if I go into shock from information overload? What if I lose even this form as a result? Or what if a sight before me inspires such terror that my heart stops?"
Then he'd regress beyond soft tofu into water tofu.
"I'd rather avoid that scenario."
"Coco...."
"I see. Thank you. I'll take that to mean you feel the same, Coco."
"Yes...."
"You seem rather deflated."
"Eeh...."
"Indeed."
The prospect of him becoming water tofu didn't seem particularly pleasant for Coco, either. For such a wicked monster cat, it was rather merciful, he thought, as he refocused on the present situation.
"It's a game built on pixel art, but Hoone is a game with cutscenes. I've replayed the files so many times I've memorized them, and there are surprisingly many cutscenes."
And every last one of them was unspeakably brutal.
"So what I'm trying to say is."
"......"
"...This is why I didn't want to leave my quarters."
Room 1814.
A door, slightly ajar.
His gaze dropped.
"......"
...A slender, skin-stripped hand extending from within
had clamped firmly around his ankle.
***
"Oh."
An empty corridor.
"May I have some?"
The blood-loving guest asked. Asked politely. Asked at a bare wall where nothing stood.
"May I have some?"
Since nobody answered, the guest waited. Blood pooled thickly below the wall.
"May I have some?"
Atop it, one neatly severed hand. A single wrist, still primly gloved, vivid red. Upon the gore-stained flesh. Five fingers, straight and splayed. Pretending to be meat.
Velmareth.
So it's you.
"......"
Ah.
Ah.
"...It would taste so good...."