Chapter 45: Haunted House Prank
*Timeline: After the first public performance
When the loudspeakers started playing the theme song that felt engraved into his DNA, Lai Yudong was in the cafeteria having lunch with Liang Zhisheng, who had just woken up. The familiar background music almost made him reflexively lift his chopsticks and start dancing along.
He tilted his head toward the loudspeaker. “Recess exercise?”
[Do you think you’re a middle schooler or something hahaha]
[Who does recess exercise while eating lunch, you little dummy!]
…Well, that was the only possibility he could think of.
“Liu Qichu said they’d play the theme song in the morning or at noon as a wake-up call, because some people completely mess up their schedules the moment there’s a break. People like me,” Liang Zhisheng sighed, the terror of being ruled by the theme song flooding back to him. “This thing is scarier than an alarm clock.”
Lai Yudong nodded in agreement. An alarm clock he only listened to for a few seconds, but this theme song—he’d heard the full version hundreds of times.
They were probably going to record more material again.
A few days ago, after casting his votes, he was suddenly called over. He thought they didn’t have enough footage and needed a retake, but instead, completely unprepared, he was told he had taken first place in the looks ranking and was asked to “sell” himself to the Starseekers on camera.
Good thing he had already thought up countless possible endings for the theme song back then. Otherwise, apart from flashing a scissor-hand pose and grinning like in a tourist photo, his mind would have been completely blank.
The music stopped after thirty seconds.
This time was different from usual—rather than waiting for the trainees to gather in the recording room before announcing the shoot’s theme, the production team broadcast it directly over the loudspeakers.
“Dear trainees, you’ve worked hard chasing your dreams up to this point. Surely there are some heartfelt words you’d like to say to your past, present, and future selves? The production team has prepared a Healing Phone Booth for you. Take this chance to give yourself a call!”
“The Healing Phone Booth will open for business in ten minutes. At that time, please follow the instructions to head to the first-floor recording room. We look forward to your visit!”
[The production team really loves their gimmicks—now they’ve even got a phone booth]
[Feels like it could double as a scene from an idol drama]
[Do people even still use phone booths? So retro]
[This would make a good photo spot]
The two at the table looked at each other.
Lai Yudong muttered under his breath, “Why does this feel kind of creepy?”
A “healing phone booth” was basically just talking to the camera by yourself, right?
This kind of theme could easily be done as a straightforward interview—there was no need to go out of their way to dress it up as a phone booth. Did the production team think this setup would give it more atmosphere?
Or, as the comments suggested, maybe they just wanted to get more use out of the set and grab a few photos while they were at it.
“Probably a sentimental segment,” Liang Zhisheng guessed, using variety-show logic. “Give everyone a bit of prep time to gather their thoughts or jot down a draft. They didn’t say everyone has to join in, did they?”
Lai Yudong shook his head. “They didn’t.”
“If it’s not mandatory, I’m not going.”
[Yuzu isn’t going to skip it too, right?]
[I doubt it—someone with social anxiety would probably hate this kind of setup.]
[But I want to see Yuzu cry QAQ]
Lai Yudong: “?”
He wasn’t about to talk himself into tears on camera!
He wasn’t sure if the production team would call people in or if it was self-service lining up. If it was the latter, for the sake of screen time, he’d definitely go.
The problem was—he had almost nothing he actually wanted to say to himself, and the things he did want to say would never make it past the censors.
Ten minutes later, the loudspeakers came on right on time, announcing that two trainees should head to the first-floor Healing Phone Booth.
“Calling people in, huh?” Liang Zhisheng sighed at the inescapable segment. Picking up his tray, he stood and said, “Come on, let’s head back to the dorm and think about what to say. Hopefully it won’t be my turn too soon.”
But the moment he got to the dorm, the loudspeaker called his name, and when he came back, his expression was… complicated.
“How was it?” Lai Yudong asked curiously.
“Too sentimental,” Liang Zhisheng replied, giving the kind of smile you’d expect from someone who had weathered countless storms and could never go back to being a carefree youth. “My self was dissected until there was nothing left unexposed. In that moment, I was the most genuine person in the world. I hope you’ll never understand that feeling.”
Lai Yudong slowly typed out a question mark in his mind.
Why did that sound so world-weary? And… was “nothing left unexposed” even the right way to use that phrase?
Pretending to read but actually eavesdropping, Li Xu couldn’t help chiming in: “Did the production team bring in a psychologist?”
Liang Zhisheng raised an index finger and shook it. “Nonono. You’ll understand once you go.”
Li Xu rolled his eyes. “Tch, keeping secrets.”
Over the next half hour, Li Xu and Xu An were called away one after another. The feedback they brought back left Lai Yudong even more puzzled.
Li Xu: “Heh… there’s something to it.”
Xu An: “The concept was thoughtful, but it went beyond what I can accept.”
Lai Yudong: “???”
Would you guys care to elaborate, dear roommates?
Now they were just making him nervous!
On one side, he had roommates being all mysterious and refusing to explain; on the other, there were the livestream comments, which had been stuck in “anti-spoiler mode” ever since the system forcibly turned it on last time. With no clues, Lai Yudong had no way of guessing what on earth the production team had done to make a sentimental segment equally painful for everyone.
Reading hate comments? Digging up old wounds? Mental manipulation?
But none of that matched the content the production team had publicly announced.
After what felt like an endless wait, the loudspeaker finally called Lai Yudong’s name. He took the elevator down to the first floor.
When the doors slid open, the first thing he saw was Qu Xincheng walking toward him with unsteady steps. His face was deathly pale, and for some reason, his forehead had a faint flush.
Their eyes met. Qu Xincheng gave a wan smile. “They’ve called you, huh.”
Lai Yudong reached out to hold the elevator door, hesitating. “Are you… okay?”
Qu Xincheng weakly waved a hand. “I’m fine.”
[Oh no, the Crown Prince has suffered hahahaha]
[Why is it always you two]
[Yuzu’s expression is so confused right now]
Lai Yudong couldn’t shake a strange sense of déjà vu—like going out late at night, first running into a black cat, then taking a few steps and looking up to see a black crow. All signs pointed to today being an inauspicious day to go out.
But judging from the livestream comments gloating with schadenfreude, whatever was ahead wasn’t necessarily dangerous.
With confusion laced with a tinge of curiosity, Lai Yudong followed the staff’s directions to the so-called Healing Phone Booth.
Pushing open the recording room door, he found the set was just as ordinary as he’d imagined.
In the center stood what looked like a portable soundproof booth borrowed from a company interview room—two sides white, two sides glass, no acoustic foam inside. One of the glass sides was placed against the wall, with a black backdrop behind it.
The room was lit with dim, warm lighting, except for the slightly brighter spot where the phone booth stood. If not for several cameramen aiming their cameras at him and breaking the mood, it would have almost felt like stepping into a fortune-teller’s den.
Lai Yudong stepped into the booth and, never forgetting his socially-anxious persona, immediately closed the door behind him. In front of him hung a wall-mounted telephone, with three buttons underneath labeled Past, Present, and Future.
He pressed the button for Future, lifted the receiver, and held it to his ear.
Sure enough, the buttons and the phone were just props. He understood it was all for the sake of creating a good filming effect and a sense of ceremony, but it still made him feel like he was playing house—and not looking particularly smart while doing it.
[Whoa, all of 707 chose “Future”]
[The younger trainees I like all picked “Future”]
[Of course idols should be looking ahead with positivity!]
Once he entered the phone booth, the livestream comments became much sparser.
“Hello, future me.”
Treating it like an impromptu writing prompt, Lai Yudong followed the usual “composition” formula to pad the time until it was over.
“What are you doing right now?”
Had he completed his debut mission and returned to his original world to take the end-of-semester exams for his sophomore year, or had he failed and been thrown into the next survival-apocalypse side mission?
“I believe that no matter which path you’re on, you’ll have the determination to do your best in everything.”
Well, obviously.
Either he’d fail the exams and have to retake them, or he’d continue doing missions—if he didn’t give it his all, he’d be finished either way.
Leaning against the white wall behind him, he lowered his head and delivered his speech with just the right amount of emotion, while secretly adding sarcastic commentary in his mind.
Just as he was breezing through about half a minute of filler, a sudden thump came from his side. At first he thought a staff member had dropped something, but listening closely, it seemed to come from the wall side.
He turned his head in puzzlement—and saw a huge, bloody handprint pressed against the glass of the phone booth.
Lai Yudong: “…?”
Before he could react, the black curtain was suddenly yanked open from the middle, and a bloody, hideous ghost face lunged at him with all the force of a horror movie jump scare.
He instinctively took a small step back.
Wh–what the hell was going on?
What, had they foreseen he was about to be eliminated and decided to save time by sending him straight to the next mission world?
Not even bothering to go through the formal elimination process?
Seeing that the light-blond youth’s reaction was so minimal it was practically negligible, the “ghost” amped up her performance, letting out a piercing scream. Another bloody handprint smacked against the phone booth’s glass, then slowly slid down as if clawing at a wall, leaving streaks of red behind.
“…”
Lai Yudong could only remain silent.
It wasn’t that he was especially brave or had the courage to stare down a ghost without flinching—if he really ran into something supernatural that defied scientific explanation, he promised he’d bolt without a second’s hesitation.
But after stepping back half a pace, the first thing he did was lower his head to check the shadow. The silhouette stretched outward from the figure’s feet. He silently raised his head, met the “ghost’s” gaze through the glass as she kept pounding on the wall, and examined the bloodstains smeared there.
The color was bright red, and it flowed just a bit too quickly.
Obviously fake stage blood.
No wonder his roommates were so tight-lipped—fun might not always be shared, but suffering absolutely had to be.
As for running into Qu Xincheng earlier, he was probably so startled he jumped and hit the glass, which explained why his forehead was red.
Everything suddenly made perfect sense.
And thank goodness this wasn’t a new mission world.
Because the host had figured out the truth, the livestream comments that had been hidden by the anti-spoiler mode now came flooding back, confirming his deduction.
[Yuzu didn’t even change his expression]
[Come on, give the NPC lady a little face hahahaha]
[This awkward silence is killing me]
[Finally someone who barely reacted—my eardrums were about to burst from all the screaming earlier]
[Yuzu: …Do I still have to stay in the phone booth?]
Seeing the staff member playing the ghost give up in defeat, Lai Yudong set the fake phone receiver back in place, pushed open the door, and politely asked, “Excuse me, is it over?”
“Ah, yes…”
“Thank you for your hard work.” Lai Yudong glanced at the mess behind him. “It seems like… you diluted the fake blood a bit too much?”
The director in charge wiped at imaginary sweat. “R–Really? We’ll keep that in mind next time.”
[Wow, you even have suggestions]
[I’ve been wanting to complain about how fast that fake blood was dripping]
[Might as well have Yuzu be the one doing the scaring]
Having escaped the Healing Phone Booth unscathed, Lai Yudong ran into the next pair—Zhao Yifeng—on his way back to the dorm. The latter asked about the shoot: “The production team really set up a phone booth?”
“Mm.”
“What’s it like?” Zhao Yifeng frowned in puzzlement. “You just analyze yourself on camera and that’s supposed to be healing?”
Lai Yudong nodded obediently. “Very healing.”
[Healing my ass hahahaha]
[A naughty Yuzu will get eaten by Mom in one bite!]
[Yuzu, you’re gonna get smacked one day /doge]