Forbidden Rules

Rick barricaded himself in Room 4104, living like a hibernating animal. He rationed the last of the food in the mini-fridge, a collection of gourmet snacks that now seemed like a cruel joke. He didn't dare turn on the lights or open the curtains. He even found himself holding his breath, terrified that the sound of his own respiration might violate some unknown edict. His once-proud vanity, the driving force of his entire life, had been pulverized by an absolute, incomprehensible terror.

But after he consumed the last stale energy bar, a gnawing, visceral hunger began to claw at his insides. It forced him to confront a choice: starve to death in his luxurious cage or step back out into that world of elegant madness.

As he waged this internal war, something slipped silently under his door. A flash of black on the blood-red carpet.

It was a card. Thick, black cardstock with elegant, silver calligraphy that seemed to shimmer in the dim light from the hallway.

You are cordially invited to attend a 'Welcome Party' in honor of Mr. Rick Chen.

Tonight, nine o'clock, in the 42nd-floor Sky Lounge.

We look forward to your presence.

It was signed, simply: Your Neighbors.

A party? Rick's heart sank like a stone. This wasn't an invitation; it was a summons. A royal command. In a place like this, he knew with chilling certainty, being "anti-social" was likely a fatal breach of protocol. He had to go.

At nine o'clock sharp, Rick donned his most expensive Tom Ford suit. This suit had once been his armor, his "battle dress" for corporate warfare. Tonight, it felt like a bespoke shroud, tailored for his own funeral. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting of fear and resignation, and walked out of his room.

The Sky Lounge on the 42nd floor was even more opulent than he could have imagined. A colossal Baccarat crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling like a captured constellation, casting a dazzling, fractured light over the room. A dozen or so residents were gathered, all dressed in stunning evening wear. They drifted through the space, holding champagne flutes, their faces fixed with the same standard-issue, vacant smiles as the butler. They didn't speak to one another, merely swayed gently to the strains of a haunting classical melody, a gathering of exquisitely dressed marionettes.

He recognized them. The woman from the garden, Evelyn, was there, as was the old gentleman from the library. Their faces were pristine, flawless, bearing no trace of the horrors he had witnessed. It was as if the eaten flower and the bloodied ear had been nothing more than his own private nightmares.

The moment Rick stepped into the lounge, all eyes swiveled to him in perfect, unsettling unison. The music stopped abruptly.

The entire lounge fell into a dead, expectant silence.

Rick froze, pinned in place by their collective gaze. He felt like a lamb that had just wandered into a den of beautifully groomed wolves. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe.

Then, Evelyn, the woman who ate flowers, glided toward him. She held two glasses of champagne, the golden liquid bubbling under the crystal light. She offered one to him.

"Welcome, Rick," she said. Her voice was as soft and light as a feather, but utterly devoid of emotion. "We were all waiting for you."

His hand trembled as he took the glass. He didn't dare drink it, his mind screaming poison.

"Don't be nervous," Evelyn said, her smile widening just enough to be terrifying. "Tonight is your party. We have prepared a special performance for you."

She clapped her hands once, a sharp, clean sound in the silence. The lights dimmed, save for a single spotlight that illuminated the center of the marble dance floor. A young woman emerged into the light. She wore a vibrant scarlet dance dress, and her dancing shoes were the same shade of red—a red as bright and wet as fresh blood.

The music started again, a wild, passionate tango. The girl began to dance.

She was a phenomenal dancer. Her technique was flawless, every spin, every kick, every dip executed with a breathtaking power and grace. Her movements were filled with a fierce, defiant life force that stood in stark contrast to the lifeless audience. The "neighbors" all wore expressions of rapturous appreciation, and they began to clap in a slow, steady rhythm.

Rick felt a fraction of his tension ease. Perhaps this was just it—a bizarre, avant-garde welcome ceremony. Perhaps he had overreacted. He began to mimic the others, clapping along with the rhythm, forcing his face into a mask of "enchanted" appreciation. His only goal now was to imitate, to blend in, to make no mistakes.

The girl's dance grew faster, more frenetic. Her spins became dizzying blurs of red fabric. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on her brow, and her breathing became audible, short, sharp gasps for air. But the smile on her face only grew wider, brighter, taking on an almost ecstatic, feverish quality.

Slowly, Rick started to notice that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The girl's every step, no matter how complex the move, landed on the exact same spot on the polished marble floor. A faint, circular scuff mark was beginning to form. And her red dancing shoes... the color seemed to be deepening, growing glossier, as if they were wet.

Suddenly, during a particularly difficult series of high-speed spins, there was a faint, almost inaudible snap from the girl's ankle. Her movements faltered for a microsecond, and a flash of pure agony crossed her features.

But the music didn't stop. The neighbors' applause didn't stop. On the contrary, their clapping grew more fervent, their eyes filled with a predatory, cruel encouragement.

The girl bit her lip, a thin line of blood appearing, and continued to dance. Her ankle was now bent at an unnatural angle, but her steps became even more wild, more desperate. Rick could almost hear the grating sound of bone grinding against bone.

He realized with a surge of nauseating horror why her shoes were getting redder. They were completely soaked through with her own blood.

Fresh blood seeped from the seams of the shoes, pooling on the floor beneath her. With every frantic step, she painted a bloody circle on the pristine marble, a blooming flower from hell.

Rick wanted to scream. He wanted to rush forward and stop this grotesque spectacle. But one look at the ecstatic, hungry faces of his neighbors froze the scream in his throat. He understood.

This wasn't a performance. It was a sacrifice.

She was dancing for them. She was pleasing these monsters in human skin with her pain, with her life.

The fourth Forbidden Rule: When a performance begins, you must watch until the very end, and you must show enjoyment.

He forced himself to keep clapping. His palms were red and numb, but he didn't dare stop. The muscles in his face ached from holding the forced, hideous smile. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt, clinging to his back like a second skin.

Finally, the music reached its thundering crescendo. The girl launched herself into one final, desperate, sacrificial leap. She carved a tragic arc through the air, a fleeting image of broken beauty, and then fell to the floor in a heap.

Her legs were twisted, mangled beyond recognition. A splintered shard of white bone pierced the skin of her calf, a shocking contrast against the scarlet of her dress and shoes.

She was dead. The ecstatic, feverish smile was still frozen on her face.

The music stopped. The applause stopped.

The looks of rapture faded from the neighbors' faces, replaced by their usual empty smiles. One by one, they walked forward and poured the contents of their champagne glasses onto the girl's body, a libation in some ancient, unholy ritual.

It was Rick's turn.

Evelyn materialized at his side. "Go on," she whispered in his ear. "It is your honor. From tonight, you are one of us."

Rick's mind was a white void. He moved like a puppet whose strings had been cut, stumbling forward. He looked down at the girl's young, contorted face and tipped his glass. The golden liquid cascaded down, mixing with the crimson blood, shimmering grotesquely under the chandelier's light.

As he did, he noticed the girl's lifeless eyes. They were fixed, staring intently at one spot: the entrance to the lounge.

Rick followed her gaze, and his heart stopped beating.

Standing silently by the entrance was the butler. In his gloved hands, he held a black handbook, identical to the one on Rick's table.

He opened it to Part IV—"Forbidden Rules."

Then, with a silver pen, he began to write something slowly, deliberately, on one of the blank pages.

Rick understood everything in a flash of blinding, soul-crushing insight. The first reversal: The rules were not unspeakable; they were written in real-time by someone under specific conditions. The blank handbook wasn't empty because the rules were a secret, but because new rules had not yet been born from new deaths.

The dancing girl had broken some unknown rule. Her "performance" was both her punishment and the act of writing a new, bloody "Forbidden Rule" for all the residents, including him. The question now burned in his mind, a terrifying, urgent flame... who was next?