Among the newcomers, one bold player dashed to the far end of the road, glanced around, then returned breathlessly. "This road is so long… and dark. It feels like it never ends."
Parker piped up next. "There are so many people. Have your past dungeon runs ever had this many players?"
A veteran replied curtly, "Sometimes it's crowded. Sometimes, there are only a handful."
"Oh, got it. Thanks, bro."
Yet the atmosphere only grew heavier. Even Parker, who had been the most talkative, gradually fell silent.
Eighty players stood there, yet not a single voice broke the oppressive quiet—only the sound of shallow breathing and the occasional shuffle of feet.
Eric had mentally flagged every player as a potential threat, even those who appeared completely harmless.
In this dungeon, she trusted no one but herself.
Suddenly, two beams of light pierced the darkness. All heads turned toward them in unison.
"Is that the bus?" someone asked.
No answer came. They all stared ahead in tense silence.
Eric squinted slightly, shifting her gaze to avoid the glare. As the vehicle neared, the glowing red digits became clear—**144**.
Bus 144 had arrived.
The driver appeared expressionless and said nothing, simply opening the door.
The bus was empty.
Players exchanged uneasy glances. No one wanted to be the first to step aboard.
The driver showed no impatience—take it or leave it. It made no difference to him.
At last, one player broke the silence and boarded.
Only when the others parted did Eric follow, merging quietly into the flow.
It was a large city bus, just enough to fit eighty passengers. Those boarding later had no seats and were forced to stand, gripping the hanging loops for balance.
By the time Eric stepped on, all the seats were taken. She silently grasped a strap and melted into the crowd.
The door shut with a hiss.
The engine rumbled to life. Bus 144 rolled forward, packed with silent passengers.
Eric stood fairly close to the front and stole a few glances past the crowd at the driver. He looked thoroughly ordinary—but in a ghost story like this, who could believe he was truly human?
After all, this was the fabled haunted bus from an urban legend. Could its driver possibly be "normal"?
Her heart thudded. This journey would not be a peaceful one.
As Bus 144 glided through a road shrouded in darkness, the veterans kept to themselves, their silence a strategic survival tactic.
The newer players grew visibly uneasy. Parker finally broke the silence. "You're all so quiet. Are we just going to ride this thing to the last stop? In horror novels, these ghost buses always end up in hell. Aren't you scared?"
This time, even the older player who had been answering him earlier remained silent.
Parker nudged him again. "Hey man, why aren't you saying anything?"
Jax, clearly regretting having humored him at all, muttered, "Shut up," and turned his back on him.
Parker blinked, baffled.
Eric had already gathered a sense of who Parker was—probably an anime-obsessed shut-in in real life. Though he appeared to embrace this game world, it was clear he only processed it through the lens of "infinite flow" web novels. He still believed he was the protagonist in a book, unaware that this dungeon was real, and he was already part of it.
If he didn't shed that flippant attitude, he was bound to suffer.
But this wasn't the time to correct him. She had to focus on protecting herself first.
The bus moved steadily along an unlit road. Only the headlights illuminated the path ahead—beyond them, all was swallowed by blackness.
Silence blanketed the bus like a shroud. With no clear threat yet revealed, the players chose to wait and watch.
And then—something changed.
Eric had kept her gaze fixed on the road. Suddenly, her heart gave a jolt.
A woman stood by the roadside, long hair billowing, dressed entirely in white. A scene straight out of a horror cliché.
She raised her hand to signal the bus. Though she wasn't at a designated stop, the vehicle slowed. It was stopping for her.
"Don't stop! A woman in white in the middle of nowhere at night—that's not right!"
"Yeah, driver, keep going! Don't pick her up!"
Panic broke out as several players tried to stop the bus.
The driver ignored them. The bus rolled to a halt before the woman.
**Click.**
The door opened.
The woman boarded, head bowed, silent. Just like with the others, the driver said nothing, closed the doors, and drove on.
The interior was already packed. The woman stood just behind the front door, motionless, head still bowed.
Something about her was deeply wrong.
Eric, who stood nearby, dared only a brief glance. A rotting stench clung to the woman—undeniably the scent of death.
She was a ghost.
The packed bus now resembled a grain silo. And the ghostly woman in white? The rat that had slipped inside.
Eric even slowed her breathing, unwilling to attract attention.
But one of the newer players didn't know better.
Parker squeezed forward and asked hesitantly, "Miss, do you need help?"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Where did this fool come from? Was he trying to die?
Parker, however, thought he was being clever. Brave and resourceful, just like a protagonist should be. In infinite flow novels, clues came to those who dared.
The woman in white lifted her head. Her face was deformed, covered in festering boils that oozed pus. Her eyes were pitch black, her pupils impossibly wide, leaving no trace of white.
At a glance, Parker's scalp went numb. Whatever courage or strategy he thought he had vanished.
*Oh God.*
This was beyond any movie makeup. It was horrifyingly real.
"Thank you," the ghost said in a soft, eerie voice. "Could you hold my head up for me? I'm about to lose it."
Only then did Parker notice the stitched line across her neck. No wonder her head had been drooping—*it had been sewn back on.* She had only lifted it because he'd spoken to her.
Realization dawned—and terror followed. Parker said nothing, frozen.
But the woman in white was no longer the silent specter she'd been. She now glared at him, her voice sharp with emotion.
"You're afraid of me? You find me disgusting?"
Her gaze bore into him, ghostly and wrathful. Parker's regret consumed him. Why had he ever spoken to her?
It was his final thought.
The woman's hand stretched like rubber, her elongated black nails plunging into Parker's eyes and emerging from the back of his skull.
**Drip. Drip.**
Blood and brain matter poured from the gaping wounds.
The attack was so sudden, the bus fell into horrified silence.
A new player screamed, panic overtaking him. "Let me off! I want off this bus!"
This time, the driver obliged. The bus screeched to a halt.
Several new players jumped off in blind terror.
Eric wanted to warn them, but the ghost was still nearby. She couldn't speak too plainly.
"Get back on! Think about what the prompt said!" she called cryptically.
The mission had said to explore the *end* of Route 144. Getting off mid-journey would likely result in failure.
"You guys get off too! There's a ghost on the bus!" one of the panicked players shouted.
But the doors closed. The bus moved on, leaving them behind—soon swallowed by the darkness.
Eric lowered her eyes again and went still, as quiet as a statue.
With fewer players, the bus felt less cramped. The front section emptied quickly as everyone shifted back.
The woman in white said nothing after the kill, her head drooping once again. Parker's body lay in a pool of blood and brain matter, the four holes in his skull oozing endlessly.
The remaining new players huddled in fear, sobbing silently, regretting not fleeing when they had the chance.
But those who did get off were far from safe.
As the bus drove away, darkness closed in. They couldn't even see the faces of those beside them. For comfort, they held hands and walked in a line.
They agreed to follow the road in the direction the bus had gone. After all, wasn't that what the prompt had said—to reach the end of Route 144?
They had no choice now.
Clutching one another, they stepped into the darkness.
But unease settled in quickly.
Their palms began to feel slick—not with sweat, but something colder.
Someone swallowed hard, the first seed of regret blooming.
Maybe… they hadn't *needed* to get off.
That kid died because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. If they stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn't be targeted.
But it was too late.
They couldn't catch the bus now.
"Ah! Who touched me?!" someone shrieked.
"What? I didn't touch you!"
"Calm down! We're all holding hands. Who's on the left and right? Did either of you do anything?"
"N-No!"
The two players at either end of the line raised their empty hands. They hadn't touched anyone.
A wave of cold swept through the group. They all quickened their pace.
But it didn't help.
Soon, more began to feel it—grasping, clawing hands brushing against them.
They were no longer a chain of players—they were puppets, played with at will.
Those hands were cold. Deathly cold.
Terror bloomed like wildfire. The fragile "hand-holding" alliance crumbled. Players screamed, flinging their hands away, and scattered into the darkness.