The shotgun's blast was about ten times stronger than an air rifle. When I fired, the pig-headed man’s head exploded completely.

The head shattered, but he didn’t die. As expected, the pig-headed man wasn’t the contamination source.

From what I saw in Danger Sense, I knew there was a tentacle monster in the trash bin.

Without waiting to see the results of my shot, I fired at the trash bin and then turned and ran.

The combined threat of the pig-headed man and the tentacle monster was formidable, far beyond the level of the fish-headed man.

It had only taken them thirty seconds to completely finish me.

I wasn’t planning on facing them head-on.

The backyard was a closed space, so there was no way out. I had no choice but to go back into the hotpot restaurant.

The pig-headed man struggled to riose. “You... you’re not eating?”

I ignored his nonsense and dashed inside, just in time to hear screams erupt in the dining hall.

Monsters crawled out of the hotpots, long tentacles slithering up the chopsticks and pulling the diners into the boiling broth.

In an instant, the spicy beef tallow roiled, and the hotpot restaurant was engulfed in screams and blood.

They weren’t even pretending anymore.

The dining area was a no-go. The pig-headed man was already adapting to the loss of his head and getting ready to chase after me.

I was faced with eight doors. I already knew what three of them led to—the prep room, the freezer, and the back door leading to the trash area.

Which of the other five should I choose?

I glanced around and spotted one with a sign that read: “Female Staff Dormitory.”

I should add a new rule to the Cleaner’s Handbook---Rule Number 10 : In an abnormal place, do what appears normal.

I was playing the role of the cashier, an employee of the hotpot restaurant, so it would make sense for me to enter the staff dorm.

Without hesitation, I slammed the door shut and locked it.

There were some basic rules within contamination zones. This was the female staff dorm, and the pig-headed man was male. He had no valid reason to enter.

I dragged a cabinet in front of the door and, without turning on the lights, used the night vision function of my helmet to scan the room.

It was a double-occupancy dorm with two beds, each set up as a bunk with a desk underneath.

One bed was covered in dust, but the other looked like it was still in use.

I quickly searched the room and found a work log wedged in a corner of the cabinet.

A clue.

I opened the bright red logbook. It was meant to be a work log, the kind issued by many companies, but the cashier had used it as a diary.

New Calendar Year 50, January.

The first line made me pause.

Year 50 of the New Calendar—the year the hotpot restaurant disappeared.

I remembered that it had shut down in April of that year. The forum post was dated April 13th.

This diary was from before the “incident.”

January 2, Year 50 of the New Calendar.

"I’ve been working as a cashier at the ‘Come Back Hotpot’ restaurant for three days now, but this place is so strange. I need to write this down, or I’ll lose my sanity.

Business is booming at Come Back Hotpot, and I’m exhausted from standing at the register all day. I’m thinking about quitting.

But the staff meals are so delicious that I can’t bring myself to leave.

We eat the leftover ingredients meant for the customers, so it’s pretty much the same as what they get.

I don’t know what kind of meat it is. Maybe it’s the secret ingredient that makes this place so popular."

January 10, Year 50 of the New Calendar.

"I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been having nightmares and feeling anxious every day.

Lately, I’ve even been feeling dazed. I thought I was just tired and that a few days off would help.

But I took a day off today, and it didn’t help at all. In fact, it got worse.

Should I see a doctor?"

January 14, Year 50 of the New Calendar.

"I think I’m going insane. Today, while I was working the register, I saw fingers in the drawer.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

How could there be fingers?

Am I hallucinating?

I can’t stay here any longer. If I keep this up, I’ll lose my mind."

January 19, Year 50 of the New Calendar.

"I told the manager I wanted to quit and go home to rest, but he refused. He asked me to think it over.

Think about what? The manager's head is starting to look more and more like that of a pig. I can’t stand it.

But he won’t let me leave. He says I’ll grow to love this place.

Damn his love. I feel so weak lately, like I’m on the brink of death.

There’s definitely something wrong with this restaurant. I keep hearing strange noises from the basement.

The owner is sick, and I’m sure something happened to him.

They seem to be working on some new kind of drug."

January 30, Year 50 of the New Calendar.

"Today, I finally found out what we’ve been eating.

It’s disgusting. How could they serve this to the customers?

I wanted to call the police, but I’m too scared. I can’t even protect myself.

I have to run.

I have to run, I have to run!

Run, run, run!"

February 15, Year 50 of the New Calendar.

"I’ve made a detailed escape plan. The manager and the owner have meetings in the basement every Wednesday. That’s the best time to get out.

I’m at my limit. This is my last chance.

I have to succeed. I have to, I have to."

I flipped through the remaining pages, but there was nothing more.

The diary ended there.

Ssshhhh—

A dragging sound came from outside.

The pig-headed man must have revived. I tucked the diary into my gear.

The cashier’s experience mirrored mine. It seemed this was the restaurant’s standard tactic.

There was a peephole in the dorm door. I peered through it.

The peephole distorted the view of the hallway.

Frank was dragging an axe along the ground, his severed neck now sprouting a new “head”—if you could even call it that.

His parasite clearly lacked patience. Instead of a full head, it had formed only the necessary parts.

Two eyes, a mouth, and one ear grew out of his neck, without even a nose because it wasn’t neccesary.

“Why don’t you,” Frank said in that strange voice, “eat the hotpot?”

I said nothing.

Was he trying to force me to eat the hotpot?

“Why don’t you...” Frank opened the first door, finding it empty.

“...work the register?”

I had worked the register. I’d opened the drawer, counted the fingers, and even lost one point worth of mental value.

Bang!

Frank slammed open another door, his patience wearing thin. He was growing agitated, his voice turning venomous.

“Why didn’t you check the trash bag?”

He dragged the axe across the wall, producing a sharp, grating noise. “Why can everyone else do it, but not you? What’s wrong with you?”

I said nothing.

Was this pig-headed man trying to gaslight me? His accusatory tone sounded like that of a manipulative partner, implying that I was the problem for not obeying.

Was everything my fault?

Eating the hotpot, working the register, even tossing out rotten meat—all were ways this contamination zone triedto break me down and contaminate me.

But I wasn’t playing along. The contamination zone was running out of patience and had decided to go on the offensive. Frank wanted to use brute force and finish me off, this outsider that didn’t fit in.

Contamination zones operated on a set of inherent logic. When mental contamination fails, they resort to physical assault.

“Why?” Frank stood in front of the dorm door. “Why won’t you follow the rules?”

His voice seeped through the door, and the next moment, there was a loud bang.

Frank swung the axe, smashing it into the door with force.

Wood splintered, and shards flew everywhere, leaving a gaping hole in the door.

Was this turning into some kind of horror movie cliché?

Frank couldn’t justify entering the female staff dorm on legitimate grounds, but he could break in by force.

I stood behind the door, gun ready, aimed at the opening.

If Frank dared to come in, I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. An intruder in a women's dorm? No need for words.

Bang!

Frank’s axe struck the door again. One more hit and it would collapse completely.

He raised the axe for the final blow.

My finger tightened on the trigger, ready to fire.

Ding-ling-ling—

Suddenly, a bell rang out, the noise reverberating throughout the restaurant like a school dismissal bell. The sound was so abrupt it felt surreal.

What was that?

Why was there a bell in a hotpot restaurant?

Contamination zones need to adhere to a certain logic. The fact that a bell was ringing suggested the restaurant once had such a system in place. But who installs a bell in a hotpot place? It’s not like it’s a culinary school that schedules classes.

As the bell continued, Frank froze mid-swing. His towering frame blocked the doorway like a massive shadow.

He stood still for two seconds, then turned and walked away, as if responding to a summons.

Not just Frank. All around the restaurant, the waiters and half-eaten customers followed suit.

Stumbling, they stood up and, without turning their heads, made their way down the hallway—to the staircase leading to the basement.

They were headed underground.

I remembered the diary entry that mentioned the owner and manager holding meetings in the basement. It had been the perfect opportunity for an escape.

Was the bell a signal for a meeting?

What were they keeping in the basement?

Were they being called by someone—or something?

From what I could deduce, the contamination zone’s hierarchy worked like a pyramid. The employees had authority over the customers, forcing them to keep eating.

Frank, the pig-headed man, outranked the employees and maintained order in the restaurant.

But the bell outranked even Frank. Whenever it rang, no matter what he was doing, he had to stop and respond.

What was above the bell in this chain of command?

I carefully pushed the door open. The bell kept ringing, loud and continuous.

A minute passed, and the hallway emptied as everyone moved downstairs.

The bell hadn’t stopped. I didn’t know how long it would keep ringing, but I figured that as long as it did, I was safe.

I decided to use this time to check the remaining rooms.

Armed with my newfound Danger Sense, I felt more confident searching the place.

I already knew what was behind four doors; now there were four left.

Frank had smashed two doors open. The fifth door led to a cleaning supply room, filled with dirty dishes and mops.

The sixth door was the male staff dorm. I searched it for anything that might offer clues, but found nothing.

I opened the second-to-last door. It was a communal bathroom with facilities for both bathing and using the toilet.

The bathroom wasn’t in great condition, with a constant drip-drip of water and odd stains on the walls.

I didn’t want to miss any details, so I checked every corner, even lifting the lids of the toilet stalls and shower curtains.

In the second stall, taped to the lid of the toilet, I found something.

It was a waterproof pouch taped securely with duct tape.

Inside, there was an old recording device.

It was ancient—practically outdated for this era’s tech standards.

Yet, it was slightly more advanced than what I remembered. It was durable and compact, about the size of a thumbnail.

The device had a plug at the bottom, designed to connect to other equipment.

My new uniform had a compatible port on the wrist, and my helmet was still active. Technically, I was a “device.”

It might be another mental contamination trigger like the fish-headed man’s phone had been. But my mental resilience was strong enough to take the risk.

I plugged the recorder into my wrist. The helmet's interface read: 【Importing audio data... Data import complete.】

At first, there was only static, followed by labored breathing and the sound of someone running. It went on for a long time before the voice came in.

I kept listening as I approached the last door, marked as “Authorized Personnel Only.”

Just as I grasped the doorknob, the recording spoke:

“I found out the hotpot restaurant owner's secret.”

“He... he’s a defective.”