【Quest Accepted: Complete before dawn.】

It was 12:06 AM. Dawn will break at 6:02 AM. That gave me about six hours.

Before heading out, I searched the Center’s forum. I found only one post from 32 years ago, claiming the hotpot restaurant was “a must-try.”

And then, nothing.

That “graveyard post” I’d browsed earlier vanished as soon as I accepted this quest.

I had the address in my mind, though, and the navigation software was still working—thankfully. Otherwise, I would’ve been completely lost.

Before leaving, I found myself staring at a box of standard-issue weapons.

What arms should I bring for a hotpot treat?

At last, I grabbed a shotgun, a submachine gun, and two knives. Plus, there was an explosive on my system panel that could level a thirty-story building.

Compared to combatting the fish-headed man, this time at least I’d be well-armed.

I put on my uniform to avoid contamination from the spores, followed by my helmet. I made sure to grab the full cleaning kit as well.

Before I left, I checked myself in the mirror.

The woman who stared back was wearing something resembling a “motorcycle suit,” carrying a black backpack that stretched over a meter long. Her face was hidden behind the sleek black helmet, its high-tech material giving off a cold, menacing shine.

Perfect. Like a real criminal.

I lived in a slum called the Hive, which was densely populated with defective citizen. It was a place where identities weren’t checked—there could be all kinds of shady tenants around.

I figured my neighbors were probably a bunch of criminals or wanted fugitives. After all, who else would want a row of black-market stores right at the foot of the apartments.

Time was ticking. I couldn’t just walk to the scene. I needed to choose a mode of transportation.

The second I boarded a public Hover Bus wearing this outfit, I would be reported to the Cleaning Center. I needed an alternative.

Suddenly, I noticed that out front of one of the black-market stores was a sleek, low-profile motorcycle. Its curves were smooth, and the frame was perfect—like a crouched leopard, it practically screamed my name.

It was made for me.

The owner, a woman with sexy wavy airy hair, was standing outside smoking. She gave me a quick once-over, sizing me up to see if I could afford it.

I wasn’t short on cash today, so I stood tall. “How much for the bike?”

The owner blew out a puff of smoke. “4 million credits.”

Good. I'd gone broke.

After working my ass off cleaning up garbage, I couldn’t even afford a damn bike?

“Can I rent it?” I asked quietly.

She flicked her ash. “Not for rent.”

I lowered my voice. “So... ”

She interrupted, “I’ll give you a ride. 5,000 credits for a one-way trip.”

That was something I could afford.

I felt my confidence shrink as I stood there, all decked out in my standard gear, clutching my weapons like some kind of hired killer. In front of her, I felt small and soft as a lamb.

“Ready to go?” she asked, flicking her cigarette to the ground.

“Let’s go.”

She glanced at the address I gave her. I’d been careful not to tell her the restaurant’s name. I picked up a random address a couple of blocks away.

“You sure this is the spot?” she asked.

“Yup.”

She gave me a side-eye. “You do know how to please yourself, uhh?”

I glanced down at the address I’d set—an upscale escort club. Handsome escorts available for pleasure starting from a mere 8,888 credits.

Great.

I was secretly relieved I’d worn the helmet.

The owner didn't say a word after that. She just tooked me there, dropped me off, revved the engine, and sped off, leaving only the smell of exhaust behind.

I stood there, under the garish pink "Noble Queen" sign, feeling like a lost child.

Stolen novel; please report.

A well-dressed, prince-charming pimp standing out front gave me a look. He lit up when she saw me, his voice low and inviting. “Wanna try?”

Those two words crushed what little dignity I had left.

I’d had quite the night, but that just about pushed me over the edge.

I wanted to ask if he knew where the hotpot restaurant was, but I froze when I saw his lavender turtleneck and tight-fitting suit jacket.

Dealing with pimps was clearly not something in my survival skill set. I wasn’t about to let his talk me into anything I didn’t want.

“No thanks,” I said, forcing the words out of my throat. “I’m not here for that.”

I reminded myself—focus, Nina. You have a mission.

The time was 12:56 AM. I had just five hours left to complete the quest.

“I see,” the pimp replied, his tone unchanged. “Can I help you with anything else?”

I didn’t trust him, so I kept my response short. “I’m looking for a hotpot restaurant.”

“A hotpot restaurant?” His face changed.

“Yeah, the one called ‘Come Back Hotpot’.”

He paled when I said that. “We don’t go near there. It’s a ghost restaurant, you know. It’s been shut down for decades. Every time we pass by, there’s this strange smell of hotpot wafting through the air. It’s unsettling.”

I frowned. I knew from my research that the place had closed thirty years ago. And yet, it still smelled like hotpot?

“It’s... strange,” he continued, his voice lowering. “There’s a weird meaty smell. I can't place what kind of meat, but it doesn’t smell like pork or beef. Some people say it’s human meat.”

I froze.

Human meat in a hotpot?

“Why did it close?” I asked.

He shuddered, rubbing goosebumps. “I heard it was thriving back in the day when people lined up for 3 hours to get in. But the owner got sick. He couldn’t keep up with the business, so he shut it down to focus on treatment. But no one knows exactly what happened to him.”

“What kind of illness?”

"Don't know."

Weird.

In this wasteland, medical treatment was expensive. If the owner wanted money, why wouldn’t he just sell the place?

That restaurant had to have been popular, and a lot of people would’ve been willing to buy it.

“Do you think there are still people inside?” I asked.

“How could there be?” He looked at me like I was insane. “It’s been thirty years. It’s a dead restaurant. Anyone still in there... are they human or something else?”

That got my mind racing. Thirty years... and now I had to go rescue whoever lived there? In a contaminated zone?

Were they still human?

If they weren’t 。.. then why was the system sending me there to “save” them?

"So it was closed? like close, close."

The pimp replied, "Should be. I peeped inside once and saw a wall erracted behind the glass door, maybe to stop people from going inside."

“Do you still know the way there?” I asked.

He looked worried. "You are determined to go in there? For what?"

"I can't tell you."

He hesitated, then nodded. “If you go down this street and take a right turn, another right, and then a third, you’ll find it. It’s hard to miss, but if you can’t find it, just follow the smell.”

He gave me one last look. “Hope to see you tomorrow.”

I thanked him and left, heading down the street she’d pointed out.

The street was desolate, empty of life. A sign ahead caught my eye: “Contamination Zone Ahead. Please Detour.”

I wasn’t about to back down now. I passed the cordon and found my way easily to the hotpot place.

He was right—it smelled amazing, but also off.

The fragrance of beef tallow mingled with the unmistakable scent of meat. But it wasn’t just any meat. My brain couldn’t place it. It didn’t smell like any meat I knew.

It was weird, but... I was getting hungry.

The place is a half-basement, probably because the owner couldn’t afford the rent. It was a true “hole-in-the-wall” type of place. But judging from my past experiences, it probably served some excellent food when it was open.

The hotpot sign was still lit, but flickering. The letters wobbled and buzzed, probably due to a short circuit.

The sign also had a note: "Open 24 hours."

Before stepping in to face death, I needed some insurance.

I needed to let someone know that I was entering a contamination zone. If I didn’t make it out in time, at least they’d know where to find me.

I found Daniel's contact in my waistband, and it showed his status.

"Mentally contaminated, hospitalized."

I sent him a message: “Are you okay?”

No reply at first. Maybe he was being treated and couldn’t talk.

Then, a minute later, I received a message: “Sis! Woof!”

I stared at the screen.

“...What?” I was awkwardly confused.

He had mental contamination, but this? This was a whole new level of strange.

Daniel’s next message had a mournful face emoji.

I braced myself for more awkardness. “Contamination still not removed?”

“They took so much blood from me. Gave me so many injections,” he sent with a crying emoji.

Was he asking for sympathy?

“Can I ask for a gift?”

“What kind of gift?” I asked.

“I want a pair of wings on fire.”

I closed the conversation.

I couldn’t deal with him. I didn't deserve that.

I took a deep breath, sending scheduled messages to Emma and Emily and the tech support team, letting them know my progress.

If I didn’t come out of the contamination zone within an hour, they’d consider me gone.

I wasn’t planning on needing that safety net, but better safe than sorry.

I descended the stairs slowly, my eyes scanning everything around me.

The stairs were covered in moss, leaves, and trash. This place hadn’t been used in a while.

The shop wasn’t fully open—the shutters were half down, and I couldn’t see inside.

No stone walls.

No walls like the pimp had described.

A warm red glow leaked from inside, along with that delicious smell.

Despite the restaurant being closed for thirty years, it still seemed active.

I’d dealt with the fish-headed man before, and I was more composed now. This had to be a contamination zone.

I’d watched some demon hunter courses back home to prepare for this kind of situation.

I’d only watched three lessons so far, but I had them saved in my secondary brain for later.

The metal shutters had several signs on them.

Help Wanted: Cashier, housing and meals provided, high school diploma or above, under 35 years old. Salary: 3,500 credits.

Help Wanted: Kitchen assistant, housing and meals provided, no education required, 5+ years experience. Salary: 5,000 credits.

Help Wanted: Store manager, housing and meals provided, bachelor’s degree or above, under 35 years old. Salary: 10,000 credits.

The shop was hiring for all kinds of roles—dishwashers, cleaners, cooks, even trash collectors.

There was also a help wanted sign next to a medical request:

Donation request: Urgent need for type C bone marrow match for family member with severe genetic defects. Reward offered.

Next to that, there was a bounty for body parts:

Bounty: Eye, 300,000 credits.

Bounty: Kidney, 800,000 credits.

Bounty: Mutant gene, 1,500,000 credits.

Bounty:...

The more I looked, the more off it all felt. One or two body parts would make sense, but this was like someone wants to build a whole body from scratch.

Given the bounty for mutant genes, this was the same kind of gene that Emily had mentioned—the Sixth-Class citizens.

From what I understood, just one contaminated spore could spread and pollute an entire area, which was why the cleaners were so essential.

I started piecing things together. Maybe someone had died here—a mutant?

Suddenly, a loud noise broke my thoughts.

The shutter jerked up from the inside. Standing there was a man in a butcher's suit, a black leather apron, holding a large cleaver in his left hand.

But above his neck... was a pig’s head.