The whole world got sucked into a survival horror game. While everyone else was grinding mobs and trying not to get wiped, the system bugged out and tagged me as an NPC. My role? Takeout girl.

I cruised around on my busted scooter, dropping food at boss lairs. If my rating dipped under 9.0, I'd keel over instantly.

I figured I was just some unlucky idiot skating on death's edge.

Then a pack of dumb players tried to jack my ride.

That's when the scariest bosses in the game roared at once:

"Who the hell thinks they can touch my crew?!"

"Shit!"

I clung to my Phantom Scooter's half-dead handlebars, flying over a hallway smeared with who-knows-what slime.

Dashboard screamed in blood-red: 00:59. A literal death timer.

"Overtime termination! Terminate my ass!"

I roasted the system six ways to hell and floored it like I was chasing a warp zone.

Third floor. Haunted High. The emergency lights flickered puke green over a ghost girl brushing her hair, back turned, dress in tatters.

"Move it! Delivery inbound!"

She froze. Head turned slow—click, click, click. Hollow black eye sockets zeroed in.

No time for ghost tag. Deletion was one second away.

I yanked the handlebars. Scooter tilted almost vertical, scraping the wall, missing her by a hair.

[SYSTEM NOTICE: Delivery point reached. Don't screw this up. Have a nice day.]

Slammed the brakes. Skidded clean in front of the principal's door. Nailed it.

I grabbed the pumpkin spice latte from the box, booted the creaky door open, and bolted in.

"M-Madam... your latte..."

Panting like I'd just run a boss raid, I held out the drink like it was a damn life token.

She turned. Smooth face. No eyes. No nose. No mouth.

Madam Faceless didn't need features to slice me in half.

"Evelyn Shaw. Two late deliveries this month. Average time over by thirteen seconds. Know what that means?"

"Yup, yup," I grinned like I wasn't dying inside, my tee already soaked through. "Traffic jam. Some noob blocked the hall. Won't happen again."

She ignored me, one pale, clawed hand tapping the cup.

"It's cold."

"No way, ma'am!" I blurted. "It's a Thermal 4.0 Superbox! Built-in heat mode!"

"I said—it's cold." Voice like a blizzard. "0.9°F below optimal. Quality control, Evelyn. That's your lifeline. This? Not impressive."

I was toast. All I could think.

If my rating dipped below 9, I'd be doomed.

She lifted her hand, swiping invisible menus to score me.

And yeah—I actually wondered: 'when the system deletes you, is it lights out or does it HURT?'

[SYSTEM NOTICE: Order complete]

[Customer: Madam Faceless]

[Service Rating: 9.1]

[Customer Note: Temperature was slightly off, but considering the rider dodged 17 Roaming Specters and drifted through the Hall of Echoes, performance is barely acceptable. Try harder next time.]

My knees gave up. Almost hit the floor crying with relief.

"Thank you! Thank you for the review!"

I bowed out like a maniac, stumbling backward and tripping my way out the office—because yeah, survival literally depended on it.

Collapsed on my dented scooter, still panting, when the devil chimed back in.

[NEW ORDER: One extra spicy, double garlic topping Tripas Tacos to Crimson Keep. ETA: 44 minutes.]

I stared at the screen angrily and cursed it.

"Goddamn it. Born to suffer."

Twisted the throttle. My scooter roared like a beast, hurling the last food rider alive straight into her next doom run.

Darren Crowe coughed up blood and collapsed against a cold tombstone outside Crimson Keep, chest heaving.

"Damn it... almost bit it."

Next to him, Howie trembled as he fumbled with gauze. His arm was practically shredded—Grade-A potion barely held it together.

"This dungeon's nuts, man. We lost three people for one crappy clue about the Crimson Keep Pass..." His voice cracked, holding back tears.

Darren didn't answer. He just wiped his bloody dagger clean, eyes locked and stormy.

In this cursed game, switching zones was like trying to climb to heaven barefoot. Either grind until you drop for a pass or drop a fortune on black market trash.

They'd been stuck here a week, just trying to get through.

Then came the buzzing—low at first, then louder.

"What is that?" Howie glanced up, jumpy.

Darren's frown deepened. He followed the sound.

Down the path, a girl in a ragged tee and ponytail wobbled toward them on a beat-up scooter.

A box printed with the words 'Cosmic Eats' clunked on the front.

"Wait, an NPC? They do delivery runs here?" Howie blinked.

Darren said nothing. Just stared, eyes narrowing.

He'd seen glitchy NPCs before—but this one felt... real.

Then it happened.

The girl didn't stop. She gunned that junk scooter straight into the domain wall between Crimson Keep and Haunted High.

One of their teammates had straight-up disintegrated trying that.

"She's nuts!" Howie shrieked.

They watched, frozen, as the scooter passed through like it was nothing. No resistance. Just taillights fading into Crimson Keep.

Silence.

Howie's jaw dropped. The gauze slipped from his fingers.

"D-Darren... did that really just happen? Did she actually—"

Darren didn't answer. He stared at the spot the girl vanished, expression shifting from shock to something darker—something hungry.

That scooter—or whatever she had—had to be it.

The Omnipass.

Forget S-Rank clues. Forget the whole damn dungeon.

He shot to his feet, eyes gleaming.

"Howie. Burn every scouting tool we've got. I want her route, her habits, everything."

He licked his cracked lips, grinning like a lunatic.

"The master key must be mine. "

***

Never in my worst nightmares did I think some loot-hungry player would already be gunning for me.

But hey, priorities—like not dying while hand-delivering garlic-bomb tacos to a vampire clean freak.

Scooter screeched to a halt at Crimson Keep's drawbridge. The smell hit me like a dumpster fire—blood stew with a side of corpse flowers.

Almost face-planted from pure disgust.

"Nope. This smell is criminal." I yanked a gas mask from under my seat.

Got it from the Warden of the Rotting Hosts after a Limburger run—dude said my face hurt his eyes and chucked it at me.

Joke's on him. Thing slaps.

I snatched the thermal box and hustled into the castle.

At the far end of the hall lounged Grand Duke Nortune—looking like he'd stepped straight out of a perfume ad, all perfect posture and unbearable attitude.

I barely crossed the threshold before he pinched his nose. "Remove that foul parcel from my presence at once!"

I rolled my eyes. Classic. He always put on the act, but no one drooled harder for garlic trash food than him.

"Your Grace, Tripas Tacos. Garlic topping, extra spicy." I set the box on the table. "Five stars, don't forget."

He cracked the lid with two fingers like it was toxic waste. The ghost pepper-garlic blast wiped out the entire bloodstink of the hall.

He flinched, but yeah—his Adam's apple gave him away, jumping like crazy. "How base... how utterly common," he scoffed, already reaching for his utensils.

I didn't stick around. Too many orders left.

"Wait!"

I turned. He frowned, then pulled a small crystal vial of deep red from his throne's armrest and tossed it. "Leftover from a wretched ball. An eyesore. Perhaps your pitiful contraption will find use for it."

I caught it midair—warm in my palm. HUD flared:

[SYSTEM NOTICE: Acquired "Essence of Life" x1. Restores stamina / Fuels spectral vehicles.]

Inside, I was buzzing. Out loud? Cool as hell. "Appreciate the tip, Your Grace."

I cruised out of Crimson Keep, but a chill crawled up my spine. Someone was watching. I glanced back—nothing but red mist.

Figures. In this freakshow, acting normal makes you the freak.

I shook it off, hopped on my scooter, and sped to the Slaughterhouse of Despair.

Boss there? King Butcher. Silent, ripped, built like a tank. Favorite food? Garden salad.

The irony kills me every time.

He didn't say a word, just took the salad. Then he grabbed a cleaver—tiny one, palm-sized.

My brain went straight to 'oh great, bug in the salad, I'm about to get diced.'

But nope. He pulled out an apple and carved few little bunny out of it, like some Pinterest mom.

I held the rusty-edged apple bunny like it was treasure, babbling thanks.

Last stop: Carnival of Screams.

Harlequin Rex, the Joker Monarch, always had the dumbest cravings. Today? Deep-fried Oreos.

His laugh hit before I saw him. I handed over the snack, still hot. He whined about missing a carousel explosion because I was "late," then shoved a rainbow gift box into my arms. "For you! Surprise inside!"

Yeah, hard pass. His "surprises" are either punching springs or exploding ink flowers.

I muttered a thanks and bolted.

Scooter purring, humming to myself, vial of Essence pocketed, bunny apple in hand, and a booby-trapped gift box balanced on my lap—felt like I'd won big today.

***

Evelyn had no clue Darren was spying from some tower, monocular glued to his face, his stare getting darker by the second.

"Vampire Prince... King Butcher... Joker Monarch..." His jaw clenched, eyes blazing. "Who the hell IS this girl?!"