Chapter 101 Escape from the Underground Level and Basement
You fiddled with an old, worn-out brass handrail that you casually picked up, then crossed your arms over your chest and glanced indifferently at Tamara.
She maintained her forward-leaning posture in a friendly manner, gathering her hair to one side and wearing a polite smile as she awaited your reply.
"So, is it okay now?"
Hmm, the conditions she offered were indeed very tempting.
You didn't respond to her friendliness, but simply asked quietly, "So what exactly happened to you? What's going on here? Tell me first."
Tamara stopped laughing, a moment of hesitation flashing in her eyes, but she quickly regained her composure. She put her hands in her sweater pockets, kicked the edge of the floor tiles, and shrugged. "You're too clever for your own good; there's no way to hide it from you."
You responded with a cold laugh.
Without speaking, she only looked down at the water-stained floor at her feet. In the silence, Tamara was the first to sigh.
"Okay, you win."
Taking a few steps closer, she sat down against the wall opposite you, crossed her legs, and began slowly and deliberately: "I've checked it out. That vent was some kind of specially designed 'escape route.' You only need to get here to escape. Look over there—" She gestured with her chin toward a dark, shadowy place, "That should have been the staircase leading to the apartment floor, but now the staircase is gone."
"That's nothing, there's also a private entrance to the basement on the other side. But guess what? I went around in circles here... and ended up back where I started on the other side."
You twitched your brow slightly but didn't speak; clearly, this wasn't enough to move you.
Seeing this, Tamara gave a wry smile and pulled down the collar of her sweater.
You paused for a moment.
On the skin of her collarbone and chest, there were countless shallow but neat and regular marks, as if they had been repeatedly punctured by a fine needle—each cut was less than a millimeter long, but the scabs had already turned grayish-black.
Tamara ran two fingers over the marks, her voice lowering: “I wasn’t attacked, I didn’t hear anything, there was no direct threat… but every time I try to leave this place and come back, these wounds are a little more numerous.”
She looked up at you, her eyes weary: "Neither of us are beginners, we should know what this means—I couldn't have really just walked around a lot, my memory must have been attacked to varying degrees."
"Have you had too much to drink?" you asked.
Tamara stared at you as if you were crazy, paused speechlessly for a moment, and then continued, "In short, I don't think I can do it on my own. I think at least one person needs to keep watch while another person goes out to find out."
You finally moved, took two steps closer, and stood in front of her, examining the scars on her body.
It was fine and dense, as if something small and sharp had hit me.
You take out your phone to take a picture as evidence, and coldly say, "Then go through it again, I'll be watching from here."
Tamara laughed in exasperation, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't coax you into going on your own. After a moment of impotent rage, she went and walked around in front of you.
You watch helplessly as she suddenly stops in the small space, seemingly lost in a maze. No matter how you call her, she doesn't respond. Then she turns 180 degrees and walks back towards you.
"Hey, wake up!" You shook her shoulders, and the girl's lifeless eyes regained their light.
"See, I didn't lie to you." She pulled down her collar again and compared it with the photo; there were indeed more scars now.
"Why is there nothing on your face?" you asked. Tamara paused, then thought to pull down her sleeve to check. Sure enough, there were quite a few marks on the outer part of her forearm.
“I can only say that I didn’t feel any pain here, so I didn’t think to go see a doctor,” Tamara analyzed. “Theoretically speaking, my clothes are thick enough to protect my limbs, but I didn’t button up my coat, so it’s reasonable that I got injured here. I didn’t even think that my arm would be injured.”
"Probably without either of us knowing, you instinctively raised your hands to protect your head, so only your face is unharmed." You raised your arms in a blocking stance. "The only strange thing is why you didn't have any clothes on, but your arms were injured."
Looking into her eyes, you say calmly, "Let's walk together and see, you go ahead."
Tamara is a very cunning person, but at this moment she finally gave up on trying to be clever again and dutifully led the way, while you followed a couple of steps behind, deliberately keeping your steps light.
After taking only a couple of steps, you felt a tightness in your chest, a sense of unease. Was it distrust? Looking at Tamara's retreating figure, you admitted that after what happened upstairs, being alone with someone like that would definitely be uncomfortable, but the underground level was also unusually quiet.
It felt like a heavy, dense blanket of cotton was pressing down on you; with each step you took, you felt like you were sinking deeper. You couldn't help but become more vigilant.
The paint on the walls at the end of the corridor is peeling, and in some places you can even see the rough cement layer eroded by moisture, like dried blood vessel cracks. You slow your pace, your eyes quickly moving between the pipes on the walls, floor, and ceiling.
From here on, the basement level is no longer what you just saw.
The previous basement was an empty, abandoned basement. Now, although it is just as old and dilapidated, the corridors are complex and there are many cubicles.
It can be seen that this used to be a basement activity room for the entire building. The garbage room, laundry room, and a public reception room were all located here.
Keeping an eye on your surroundings, you continue onward until you return to the same spot, where you call out to Tamara.
“We’ve been here once already. If I’m not mistaken, the thing you experienced before, ‘going back to the starting point and losing your memory,’ has been solved.” As you spoke, you wrapped your hand in your sleeve and left a mark on the accumulated dust on the wall.
"Keep going," you said.
Another lap.
In the same place, no trace remains. Not only that, but even the dust on the ground where you walked is as if it had never been stepped on.
I glanced at my cuff again, and before I knew it, even the dust I'd picked up earlier was gone.
You step back a few steps and let Tamara move forward.
She was reluctant, but had no choice, so she took a few steps anyway.
You hurried to catch up with her.
"So what happened?" Tamara asked.
“Your shadow fades considerably when it’s a little further away from me. It’s like…” You carefully chose your words, trying to piece together all the clues in your mind to form a possibility, “You simply exist here, without interacting with it in any way. You’re like… Yes!” You clapped your hands, a little excited, “like you’re not even on the same level as this place.”
Tamara listened intently, repeating what you said in murmurs.
To test your theory, imagine you take a few steps forward, remove Tamara's jewelry, and forcefully carve a small scratch on the wall. Then step back a few steps and turn to look at her: "Can you see that?"
“What?” Tamara frowned.
The two walked forward together and reached out to touch the engraving, but it was as if it had never existed; they only felt the smooth wall plaster.
“If we’re not on the same ‘layer,’ then we definitely can’t have a real impact on it,” you analyzed.
“You make a good point, but how do you explain the scars on my body?” Tamara asked.
You fall into deep thought. Now that you've thought of layers, your mind quickly continues to expand.
“Traditional painting also involves layering colors, especially when using non-blending pigments, each layer will be different. The top layer will not be affected by the layers below, but it can cover the layers below.”
"You can draw too?" Tamara interrupted you, asking curiously.
As an all-around master who rose to fame through short videos, you coughed and kept a low profile.
“This isn’t necessarily a painting, but the logic is roughly the same: it only shows that the layer here is on top of us, so it can leave traces on us, but we can’t affect it in return,” you said.
"Speaking of which, didn't you encounter this situation when you came here before?" The rules of the dungeon shouldn't change that quickly, right?
You've been pondering this for a while, but you didn't ask Tamara first because you were afraid she'd lie and influence your judgment. You looked at Tamara scrutinizingly: "So, now it's your turn to explain."
Tamara waved her hand, shrugged, and said softly, "Don't talk to me like that. Our lives are tied together now. Even if I wanted to trick you, I'd have to think twice."
"All I can say is that everything went smoothly during the site scouting. Then I went out through the ventilation duct."
She shrugged: "It's that simple. I've never encountered this situation before, no ghost walls, no layers or anything like that... I've never experienced anything like this before. What you're going through is something I've never experienced before myself."
You stared into her eyes without saying a word.
“If things hadn’t gone so smoothly, how could I have dared to bring you here?” she added, as if to further clarify her responsibility. “How did things go wrong? Sigh, I was too careless. I should have given more time to sort things out…”
"?" You raised an eyebrow.
"Wrong, wrong." Tamara quickly slid to her knees.
You remained unmoved, only asking, "So you always came down here alone before?"
Tamara shook her head: “No. I brought a local with me… The rules for scenarios involving private residences are generally related to the structure of the house and what happened here before, so I found a man who is self-studying architectural engineering and is a firefighter by profession. He easily found the way to the ventilation duct, and then the two of us went out together.”
You squint, reorganizing the information she had inadvertently mentioned earlier. Your clever mind begins to work:
The first time, she didn't come alone; she came with another local to scout the location. The second time, just now, she was alone, and then she got stuck in a "ghost wall," only able to circle back to the starting point. The third time—this time, she came with you, and the ghost wall phenomenon didn't happen; it just seemed like she entered a deeper layer.
You pursed your lips and stated your conclusion: "The three states were completely different."
"What hasn't changed is you; what has changed is the local person you're with and me."
You look at her, extend your finger, and begin to search for logic: "Perhaps this is some kind of underlying rule of the scene: based on 'how many outsiders are in the same space,' different states are presented here."
Tamara: "...What do you mean?"
You close your eyes and whisper your reasoning: "The first time, an outsider and a local entered together, and the scene was 'undefended,' so we can consider this as it opening a 'temporary passage.' The second time, you were alone. As an outsider, the scene triggered the underlying rule of trapping 'outsiders,' but one outsider isn't a big deal, so the scene simply kept you in place—to prevent you from moving around. The third time, with me in tow—now that there are two outsiders, the scene enters a high-alert state. We are no longer simply trapped in place, but enter a 'layered closed system.'"
"As for why being an 'outsider' would be targeted..." You looked into the void and slowly said, "First of all, this is a very old house, so it's normal for it to have some underlying rules that discriminate against outsiders. Secondly, when the locals break the rules or are trapped by the scene, they just react with fear like supporting characters in a horror movie, or blankly accept their fate. In short, they pose no threat to the scene. But..."
“Outsiders are different. We will find the rules, use the rules, leave this place, and perhaps even destroy it.” Your voice lowered.
"In short, everything that's happening right now is probably in the hope of erasing any trace of our actions and preventing us from damaging this place," you said.
Tamara was somewhat stunned. She knew about the existence of instance consciousness and the like, but she hadn't expected that such a small scene could be like this: "Anyway, you're right. So that means... this 'space' isn't the space we were standing in before?"
"Ah, what nonsense am I talking about? It's definitely not a different space..." Tamara slapped herself on the head.
You nodded and further speculated: "If the 'layer' speculation is correct, then we should be in the 'overlay layer' that the copy has set up for us, or in other words, a realistic canvas that is overlaid on the original space."
Tamara stopped talking, and you knew she understood.
You point to the cold stone bricks on the ground: "Our current actions are futile, so no matter how many times we walk, we won't leave a trace. The copy only needs to maintain this fake layer to keep us occupied indefinitely."
Continuing from the perspective of scenario-based thinking, it is not difficult to conclude that this scenario believes you may pose a threat to the core structure, but it is more inclined to isolate you in the "overlay layer," restricting you from leaving traces that can be verified by others, while consuming your time, will, and cognition until you are completely lost here, but you have never "existed effectively."
You tightened your grip on your fingers.
Tamara suddenly spoke up: "So, if we want to get out—we have to break through this 'canvas'?"
"But how can we do that? Since it has confined us to a place where it doesn't actively attack us, we lack a way to interact with it and find its weaknesses..."
"Who said it didn't attack us on its own initiative?" Your eyes lit up.
Tamara was still a little confused.
"Look at your body! Aren't those scars evidence of aggression?" You were quite agitated.
Wait, that's not right.
You were originally going to say: The logic is finally closed! "The underground scene has three 'layers': the one that covers all scenes is naturally the top layer; the middle layer is the one that lures people in, then erases their memories and keeps them going back and forth; and the layer that you can walk out of directly is the bottom layer."
However, this seemingly logical and leaping line of thought overlooks a very important point.
If Tamara were alone and covered the scene and herself with the middle layer, the attacks that would harm her body would inevitably tear her sleeves as well.
The truth is, she was attacked by something from the scene, but her clothes were not.
But her clothes couldn't possibly be on a different layer from her.
Tamara sensed the problem from your sudden change in attitude, and during the brief pause in your speech, she quickly realized the same contradiction.
The two of you looked at each other, especially you. Your well-thought-out calculations were suddenly interrupted, and you felt your head spinning.
No, not all ideas are wrong.
In any case, it's always right to look for the rules and logic of a scenario from the perspective of "attacks".
What could have left such a mark on Tamara? And what has caused you to be trapped here without being able to leave a trace?
Using your phone as a light, you and Tamara both stare at the scars on her arm.
Why, why, why?
You feel your hands shaking, and you really... have a hard time calming down...
Keep in mind that most of the time, you can easily decipher the copy and find the right path.
But today, you're completely wrong... Were you too confident? Or...?
Your phone fell to the ground.
"Are you alright?" Tamara asked anxiously.
She is indeed a very sensitive and meticulous person; she didn't miss a single subtle change in your state.
"I'm fine, or rather, I'm excellent." You straighten up and show her your phone, which you just picked up.
Your phone was unprotected, without a screen protector or case, and when it was dropped, a corner of the screen was cracked.
Fine shards of glass fell from that corner. When the phone was turned on again, the undamaged parts could still display the images, while surrounding the shattered areas were patches of leaking liquid and a small portion that was completely black.
You and Tamara both turn your heads at the same time, toward the old television set with its black screen in the corner.
If Tamara gets cut all over by glass when leaving a space, it can only mean that she needs to break some glass artifact.
The only thing with a glass structure in this underground level was the screen of this television set. Tamara, who loves tinkering with old things, even recognized it as one of the earliest LCD televisions.
Are you inside a television set?
"So we're just going to smash this TV and crawl out like this?" Tamara asked suspiciously, clearly not agreeing with the idea.
“…The three scenarios remain unchanged,” you said. “If it’s a television set, then, in the first scenario, you and that male firefighter are viewers outside the television; in the second scenario, you wandered around in a daze and then came out in a daze, which can be seen as a traveler; in the third scenario, if we want to get out now, we have to find our location first. This should determine how we leave.”
"Nothing we do will affect this place..." you suddenly thought, and turned around to cut a gash on your body with the jewelry you had previously worn.
That's right, not only can you not affect this place, but your state here is also static.
Television...still...
"Is it possible that we're stuck in a certain fragment?" You look at the distorted shadows of yourself and Tamara on the screen. "This television is broken, so naturally, we who entered it are also stuck in the same moment as it. That's why we can't get out, can't leave, and won't change."
What do you want?
"Perhaps we should try the opposite approach. This time, instead of going outwards, we should find a way to get inside it."
“The outside world, the surface, and deep inside.” You connect all your thoughts, “and these are also possible solutions for the three scenarios in this underground level.”
Tamara looked at you for a long while before speaking: "You mean, if we're now 'deeper' than when I was alone, then instead of jumping out of the screen, we should jump into the machine's structure?"
You nodded: "I'm not sure. But it makes more sense this way."
“Alright then,” Tamara agreed. There was no other way to try anyway.
But how do we get in?
The signal here is bad, and the phone can't connect to the internet. Otherwise, it would be much simpler to find the disassembly structure of the LCD TV directly.
Your gaze is fixed on your phone.
Anyway, it's already broken.
As it turns out, no experience is needed to cause destruction.
Holding Tamara's hairpin, with the thought of "so what if I destroy it?", you easily pry up the screen, and the two of you squat there studying the structure of the display.
“It seems like there are several layers, and each layer has a connection point. If it were an old TV, it would definitely be more obvious,” Tamara concluded.
"Then let's go and see if there's any flaw like that here."
Finally, on a wall at the end of the corridor, you discover a small area with inconsistent brightness: it looks like a dead pixel or a misaligned frame in a video clip.
You kick it.
"Smack—!"
The entire space seemed to flip as if a curtain were being torn apart.
You and Tamara fall into darkness.
You fell into what was later identified as the "color filter layer".
This is a space with bizarre colors and chaotic light and shadow—red shadows flow across the blue floor, and the projections on the walls present an unnatural green distortion.
You try to shout to speak to Tamara, but your voice sounds like a compressed cassette tape, drawn out, distorted, and even echoing in unfamiliar language.
Tamara began vomiting violently.
You grab her arm: "Bear with it—at least this means we're on the right track. Now, let's find the next level!"
"What's on the next level...?" Tamara could barely hold on.
Good question.
This is in color. Even if you don't remember the exact principle, you remember that three colors together make up the primary colors of a color image, and then below that, I don't know which layer, but it must be the light source.
Isn't that the same for phone screens?
“We must get to the light source,” you shouted.
"—Backlight layer?" Tamara gasped.
"Yes, yes."
Like noodle-like figures, you and Tamara flailed your limbs wildly, not knowing which direction to go, just sinking downwards.
Ah, we're almost there! You see, at certain angles it reflects a faint white light, but it has no heat at all.
This means you're close to the backlight layer.
Finding a patch of color floating haphazardly, you bend down and push the color blocks aside.
Below is a thin layer of "light film".
You tear it open, and a blinding white light instantly floods your vision.
You open your eyes in a space so white it almost pierces your pupils.
There were lights all around me.
Instead of modern lighting fixtures, there were rows and rows of cold fluorescent tubes arranged like cages, one by one, meter by meter, extending from the floor, ceiling, and walls.
This is the deepest heart of television.
No, not here yet.
You close your eyes and let yourselves fall into who-knows-where.
finally.
You and Tamara landed in a row of cables, looking quite human.
Amidst the thorny gaps in the electrical wires, there was an old box wrapped in gray cloth, resembling an ancient coffin.
Tamara crouched down to help you lift it out, and the moment her fingers touched it, a layer of accumulated dust rose up.
“…the videotape,” you murmured.
The box was opened, and inside lay a cassette tape, its label bearing a line of handwritten Rossin script: "Festival Party." Tamara translated.
You didn't say anything, but simply inserted the videotape into the old-fashioned projector that came with it and pressed "play".
You hear the mechanical clicking as the belt starts to move.
In this forest of cables, the projector lights up.
It's not like projecting an image; rather, it's like opening a holographic scene. The air in front of you begins to glow, and layers of color flow and intertwine in the space, forming a picture—
A brightly lit underground dance hall.
Red velvet curtains hung on both sides, crystal chandeliers shimmered with golden light, and young people in formal attire danced gracefully, their faces all bearing the same blissful smiles. Music filled the air from all sides—a typical festive waltz, accompanied by candlelight and champagne.
“This is—” Tamara raised her hand, but her voice froze in her throat.
She's looking at you.
When you look down, you see yourself.
You put on a dress.
You look at Tamara—she has changed too.
A revealing dress replaced her thick, warm coat.
And those people who were originally just projections around you begin to brush past you, smiling and nodding at you with gentle eyes, as if you had always been a part of this ball.
You want to speak—but no sound comes out of your throat.
You want to walk away—but your body won't obey.
And that familiar festive waltz began to be played faster and faster, louder and louder.
Well, you guys were "edited" into the video.
The ball continued.
You and Tamara are led by the hand and spun into the center of the dance floor.
Your body rotates, intersects, exchanges partners, smiles politely, circles out, and then returns to the starting point, following the rhythm and movements set in the video, as if you are in a dance that never ends.
Tamara's eyes grew increasingly panicked.
The same to you.
You scream in your head: Stop! This isn't me! I didn't jump!
Yet her body still moved gracefully to the beat, while the dance steps she took were a recurring loop in the video.
You are now part of a recorded sequence, and no longer have any agency.
This is not a "happy dance"—but a prison that strips the soul of the will and traps it forever in a performance of images.
As long as the video camera keeps rolling, you'll never finish this dance.
You bit your tongue hard, the pain pulling you back from the edge of your body. As you spun around to the projector, you slammed your elbow down on the machine!
Click!
The tape was forced to stop.
You and Tamara both fall onto the ballroom floor at the same time, while the "dance partners" around you turn into dust particles in the air and disappear into the void.
You "popped" out of the video.
The air regained its realistic texture, and the dress transformed back into the original clothing. In that instant, you almost collapsed to the ground, your forehead covered in cold sweat.
Tamara, panting, supported you, saying, "I...we...just now..."
You look at the projector.
It was still faintly glowing, as if some kind of will had never been extinguished.
You stated unequivocally: "This video is fake."
Tamara shook her head: "No—it's real, it's just too perfect."
"It's as perfect as a cover-up."
You finally understand.
The purpose of this video recording was to overwrite the "real content" originally recorded by the television.
It was edited by someone later.
"We must find out the truth," Tamara suddenly stood up with an air of righteous indignation and declared.
"We want to recover the videotape, we want to—"
You hit her on the head with a loud thud.
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