At first, Trashy Trash wasn’t willing to help. But, in the end, the “power of cash” won out—I bought the service for 10,000 credits.

We exchanged contact details, and I told Trashy to send me any video recordings from the past month, if they found anything.

Trashy Trash caved to the charm of credits—not to mention my charismatic appeal—and agreed.

Leaving the garbage dump, I decided to walk home. I timed it before; it would take me about an hour and forty minutes on foot, whereas a hover car ride would only be about eight minutes. The day I woke up in this world, I’d taken a hover car after buying that high-strength healing shot.

Pulling up the map, I checked the area again. This abandoned dump was the closest camera-free place away from my apartment. Whoever chose it did so with a reason.

When I reached the entrance to my building, I ran into Mrs. Wayland, who was on her way down after collecting rent, leaning on her cane.

For some reason, I couldn’t shake a slight feeling of unease around her. I remembered her comment about my frequent “mad fits,” which I guessed had been about the original Nina.

How had she been acting before?

Mrs. Wayland must know something about her. I mulled over how I could tactfully get her to talk, but I shut my mouth just as quickly.

Trusting anyone wasn’t a safe option yet.

Then, in her casual, dry voice, she said, “Figured out where all that money came from, did we? Climbing the ladder, are we?”

“???”

Did she have to make it sound like I’d married rich?

She squinted at me. “Luck’s on your side, making it into the Cleaning Center—a cushy position for sure.”

“…?”

From an outsider’s perspective, I could see it. The Cleaning Center was the most stable, best-paying job in District 103. Even if you were just cleaning up trash, it was as good as a lifetime position. Once you became a full employee, you’d get free medical checkups and subsidies even after you retired.

To get in was to secure a comfortable future.

“Oh, and the Center’s looking for you. They’re waiting outside your door.”

I see. So that’s how she knew.

But why would they be looking for me?

I didn’t know that many people there. Daniel was still recovering in the Medical Department.

“Alright, thanks. I’ll head up now.” I started up the stairs.

As I passed, she added, “Be careful.”

I stopped and turned back to find her standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on her cane.

I stood on the steps above her, looking down at her small, stooped figure. She didn’t raise her head, but her eyes lifted, exposing the yellowish whites.

Careful of what? I wondered.

The Cleaning Center? Or maybe… someone else?

I wanted to ask more, but by then, she had already shuffled off down the hall, leaving me to climb the stairs alone.

Sure enough, just as she said, a man in a full Cleaning Center uniform was waiting outside my apartment. He carried a large black suitcase, like a delivery guy.

“Miss Chase,” he said with a polite smile, “I’m here to pick up the contract.”

A Cleaning Center employee—Emily had mentioned someone would come by for this once I was officially hired.

I checked his badge and verified his ID with my wristband.

He was legit.

After handing him the contract, he handed me the suitcase, topped with a large bow.

“Congratulations on joining the team, Miss Chase. Here’s your onboarding gift.”

Onboarding gift? The suitcase was large enough to hide an entire grown-up's body.

It wouldn’t be a corpse, would it?

Without a word, he nodded and left, not one for small talk.

Once he was gone, I opened the suitcase.

It left me speechless.

Inside was a complete set of standardized weapons, nothing like the air-guns we’d used during the last mission. There was a shotgun, a handgun, a submachine gun, and even a sniper rifle, along with a set of military-grade knives.

Explosive devices were included as well.

Beneath it all was a Cleaning Center protective suit—black leather, a helmet, and tools for containing contamination spores. There were even high-strength healing shots and similar medical supplies.

With everything in this suitcase, I could practically go rogue and operate independently.

I loaded one of the guns. No resistance—it was fully functional and unlocked. I wouldn’t need any authorization from the Cleaning Center to use these weapons.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This didn’t seem like the Cleaning Center’s usual style at all. Even if they were undergoing changes, this was too drastic.

I logged onto the Center’s forum and searched “employee gifts,” browsing through dozens of posts. They were mostly about things like mugs, herbal tea, and occasional cash bonuses.

I combed through two pages but didn’t see anyone else mentioning receiving a suitcase full of weaponry.

Who’d sent this?

Prometheus?

What was I supposed to do with a “gift” like this—overthrow the Cleaning Center?

The sight of all these weapons made my palms sweat.

I pulled up my wristband and was about to message Emily. As the Center assistant, she would know if this was standard protocol or not.

But I stopped short.

I couldn’t tell her.

I didn’t know where Emily’s loyalties lay, and the fewer people who knew, the safer it would be—for both of us.

Right then, a message popped up from her: “Congratulations on your new position. Welcome to District 103’s Cleaning Center.”

I took a breath and texted back. “Thanks, looking forward to working together.”

I acted just like any regular new employee.

Emily responded, “I’m surprised you chose to stay.”

After some polite chitchat, I asked, “Did you receive my contract?”

“It just arrived.”

So, that guy was indeed here for the contract.

I added, “Any missions coming up?”

I still had no leads on the truth behind my host’s death. Trashy Trash might take a while to find anything on those recordings, but I couldn’t just sit idle.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve requested a seven-day leave for you.”

“?” Seven days? Why force a break on me?

“It’s Center policy,” she explained. “There must be a minimum seven-day interval between missions to allow for mental recovery. Even though you don’t need it, the rule is the rule.”

Emily added, “Even after the seven days, you won’t be on a mission right away. The Center’s undergoing reorganization, so you’ll need to attend training once it’s complete.”

It sounded like there was some kind of shake-up going on inside the Center. I was just a low-ranking employee, though; I didn’t need to know the details.

I sent a sticker in response, then closed the chat.

After the grind of my old world, where taking breaks felt like a luxury, suddenly being forced to rest felt strange.

With no other option, I settled in and did what any bored shut-in would do—scroll through the forum.

The Cleaning Center’s forum was more lively than I’d expected. I thought it would be all technical posts, but the discussions were oddly… mystical.

One thread caught my eye: “Nighttime Graveyard Posts! Newbies Beware!”

Graveyard posts? I thought they referred to long-dead posts that people dig up, but that didn’t seem to be the case here.

Reading through, I got the gist.

It seemed Cleaning Center employees sometimes came across “graveyard posts” around midnight. These posts had a grayish hue and could only be accessed after the poster’s death.

Normally, posts from the deceased would fade into obscurity, lost in the flow of new content. But these posts were said to bring messages from beyond.

One user claimed they’d received a message from someone who’d died seven years ago.

This was… eerie.

Wasn’t this supposed to be a high-tech, science-based world?

Didn’t the Cleaning Center employees see this as superstitious nonsense?

Apparently, graveyard posts had been around for ages, and there was a consensus that if you followed the directions in a post, you’d end up in a contaminated zone.

People believed these posts were sent out by contaminants.

Opinions were split on how to handle these messages. Some saw them as cries for help, urging them to vanquish the contamination and give peace to the deceased. For some, taking on these missions was a personal cause—they’d even earn rewards for defeating contamination.

To others, though, these posts were traps meant to lure people into contamination zones, where they’d be consumed and transformed into contaminants themselves.

It's just like predators poaching their prey.

Midnight passed as I scrolled through the discussions, a mix of fear and excitement bubbling up, like I’d stumbled onto a forbidden initiation ritual in college.

The clock read 11:59. Just one more minute until the hour when graveyard posts supposedly appeared.

I refreshed the page.

The forum’s homepage updated, but everything looked normal—all the threads had colorful titles, no sign of any gray posts.

I refreshed repeatedly, like I was sniping for a deal on a shopping website.

After a minute, still nothing.

So it really was down to luck?

Just as I was about to close the page, my finger froze. There, among the brightly colored threads, was a single gray post.

The title read: “Hidden Gem in District 103’s Alley: A Spicy Hotpot Haven for Chili Lovers.”

It looked like a simple food recommendation.

When I clicked it, the screen flickered, like it was struggling to load.

After two seconds, the full post appeared.

The title was followed by the posting date.

This post was published in the year 50 of the New Calendar.

After the radiation disaster eighty years ago, humanity walled itself in and adopted a new calendar system. Year 50 was fifty years after the fallout—thirty years ago.

Was this luck… or something else entirely?

The post’s entire page was a dull gray, even the food photos attached to it.

The writer raved about the hotpot’s deliciousness, highlighting the restaurant’s spicy beef and squid. But the pictures, drenched in gray, made it look less like food and more like props from some vintage Chinese zombie movies.

The post ended by naming the restaurant: “Come Again Hotpot.”

Just as I was piecing this together, a familiar ding sounded in my head.

【Congratulations! Random quest triggered: Cannibal Hotpot. Mission: Clear the contaminated zone, contain contamination spores, rescue survivors, and assist in uncovering the truth behind your death. This is a random quest and not mandatory. Please choose whether to accept.】

【This quest will automatically close at dawn. Please choose carefully.】

“…?”

Two quests in one day?

I hadn’t even started on the side quest for the truth behind my death, and now the System was pushing this on me?

Wait.

This new mission had some odd implications. Rescue survivors implied there were still people alive in the contamination zone. And assist in uncovering the truth behind your death—could that mean there were clues related to my death at the hotpot restaurant?

Could these two clues be connected?

I glanced at the weapons case. Were these armaments meant for this mission?

Had they come from the System, not Prometheus?

That didn’t make sense—the System could give rewards directly in the panel without taking up physical space. And it tended to be generous, with explosives strong enough to level a building. This suitcase didn’t fit that style.

But this was not a mandatory mission, unlike the others I’d encountered.

After interacting with the System more, I’d gotten a feel for its logic. Main quests, long-term side quests, mandatory short-term side quests—and now, random quests.

The System’s logic seemed to sync up with reality.

Emily had warned me about my limited lifespan. I needed every point of Health I could get.

I selected Yes.

【Mission accepted. Please complete the task before dawn.】

...

The Come Again Hotpot was packed, its spicy aroma filling the street outside.

A group of four sat around a central table, a young woman with blunt bangs fishing through the bubbling red broth with her chopsticks. “Where’s my beef?”

She stirred skillfully, but found nothing.

“Who took my beef?”

“I didn’t! Try the skimmer.”

She was about to grab it when she froze.

Was it her imagination?

It felt like something was pulling her chopsticks deeper into the broth.

She leaned closer.

Half the chopstick was in her hand; the other half dangled in the reddish spicy-oily broth, a small black tendril wrapped around it. The suction cups clung firmly, defying the boiling heat of the broth.

“Who ordered squid?”

“Squid? Not me. Did you—oh my god!”

A girl in a red T-shirt screamed as a tentacle, as thick as a wrist, surfaced from the broth.

The tendril coiled around the girl with the blunt bangs, yanking her hand down toward the pot.

Screams filled the restaurant, as the smell of blood and fear mingled in the air.