This was bad.
Jin's palms were already damp, eyes darting around the boutique like a trapped animal trying to find which wall would cave first. He didn't move. He didn't twitch. He just stood still and let the panic slowly crawl up his back like it had done so many times before.
He knew this store. He'd seen this damn boutique before. The red and gold. The mannequins. The scent of something powdery and fake wafting in the air. The faint music piping in from somewhere—too elegant, too rehearsed. His brain itched. He knew this was from somewhere in Inhuman. The problem? He couldn't place it.
And that was the real horror.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, almost on instinct, his voice barely audible.
He tried to rack his brain, pulling from the massive internet sinkholes he used to drown in when his insomnia got really bad. He remembered a few Mystery-type Domains that had boutique-like settings. There was one with cursed wigs. Another that involved perfume that let you smell lies. But this? No solid hits. His memory was good, not photographic. And there were too many Domains in that cursed game. Too many player theories, too many goddamn patch notes and lore crumbs to follow.
He should know. He'd spent months stalking the forums, watching lore explainers, memorizing monster psychology breakdowns for games he never even had the nerve to play.
But nothing useful was rising from the sludge of his overloaded brain.
He kept whispering to himself, "Don't move. Don't twitch. Don't trigger anything."
His heart was hammering like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. That tightness was already coming. Not the heart attack kind—but the one that told him he was one wrong move away from a very violent end.
He flicked his eyes across the room, trying not to make any big movements.
Wait.
Fifteen?
He counted again. Yep. Fifteen people—including him. Not thirty-five.
So MCO split them up?
Fifteen people per Domain maybe? His theory was a stretch, but given how suspiciously curated everything was, it was probably safe to assume they'd been filtered somehow. Whether by randomization or design? No clue. And it didn't help that no one else looked like they had a clue either.
The whole place was in disarray.
Somebody near him mumbled something about this being a prank. A few others just stood there frozen, too scared to speak.
Then came the loud one.
A buff dude, broad-shouldered with the kind of muscle that looked almost comical in a formal suit. Jin could tell it was fake. The suit. Definitely a knock-off brand trying too hard to be high fashion. Jin knew money. He'd grown up around it. That thing screamed desperate middle-class power fantasy. The guy was practically foaming at the mouth.
"This is bullshit!" he roared. "I didn't sign up to go into some monster nest, man! This isn't what the application said! This is the entry-level interview?!"
A few heads turned. No one spoke. Except one.
"Hey," came a shaky voice. Thin. Nervous. The guy behind it looked even worse—sweaty as hell, thin-framed glasses fogged, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief that looked like it had seen better months. "C-calm down a bit, maybe it's just part of the program?"
The buff guy turned on him instantly, snatching him by the collar. "You think this is comfortable?! When the monster comes, I'm throwing you in first, you understand me?! I'll make damn sure you get eaten alive."
Jin winced but stayed quiet. It wasn't his fight.
"Enough."
The voice was smooth but iron-pressed. A middle-aged man with sleeves rolled up and a sharp, clean fade stepped forward. He looked like someone who'd seen a lot—maybe too much. The same energy as the buff guy, only older. More composed.
"Boss," the buff guy muttered, suddenly deflating.
"Calm down, Hans," the older man said. "We don't need to go that far. Not yet."
Hans? Jin side-eyed the duo. There were groups here? People who already knew each other? Were some of these guys professionals?
No time to think.
That was when it hit.
A soft, classical melody drifted through the boutique. Too whimsical. Too damn circus-like.
Then came the footsteps.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Out stepped a woman. No—floated was more like it. She was too perfect. So pale she looked powdered. Red hair so neatly tamed it felt wrong. Skin so smooth it looked silk-screened. Her eyes were sharp and unnaturally bright. Her mouth curled into a soft, practiced smile. She wore Victorian-style finery—ruffles, corset, stockings—but held an electric cigar in her left hand like some modern twist on a painting.
"Greetings, customers," she said, her French accent pristine and clear as glass.
That was it.
Oh god.
Jin's eyes widened. It clicked all at once. The red. The gold. The mannequins. The music.
He knew where they were now.
Ping.
His head throbbed.
Welcome, Player.
A quiet chime resounded in his mind as his Player Interface booted. Text swam across his vision. His hands shook.
Then came another ping.
The Book of Memories activated.
A screen bloomed across his mind's eye, alive with data.
Domain Record:
Name: Boutique of Forever Skin
Classification: Mystery-Type
Clear Records: ██
Total Clears: 7
Total Failed Attempts: 1,936
Most Common Death Cause: Victims typically die after selecting the wrong cosmetic item during the "offering" phase. This causes irreversible deformities, spontaneous skin collapse, or personality conversion. Read more…
Average Completion Time: 02:14:35
Active Monster: Skin Collector — Dame Monlear
Additional Notes: [REDACTED]
Exit Strategy: [REDACTED]
Special Rules: [REDACTED]
His heart did something evil.
Shit shit shit—
He'd watched entire analysis videos on this Domain. Most of it redacted now. Too much… but the number of deaths—real deaths… Jin's lips parted. His mouth went dry.
And for the first time since arriving here, his body fully understood:
He was going to die.
She stepped forward like she wasn't made of flesh but of something else entirely. Skin too smooth. Hair too still. Her footsteps didn't creak. They didn't echo. They didn't sound. They just were. That alone was enough to make Jin sweat harder.
"I am Dame Monlear," she said, in that same crisp, French-laced voice that sounded like it should be coming from behind lace curtains in a vampire movie.
Jin swallowed.
No—he choked, actually. He bent slightly, not quite bowing, but not straight either, just some jittery, halfway tremble that looked like someone trying not to piss themselves. "I-It's an honor," he squeaked out, his voice crackling like old speakers. "My name is Jin. Your store is… it's…" He blinked, brain stuttering. "A pleasure to behold."
Yeah. Real smooth.
Beside him, the tiny girl with wide-rimmed glasses and blunt bangs hesitated—then quickly dipped her head too. "N-Name's Mona. Ma'am." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
The Dame smiled.
And for the love of everything, it was the worst smile Jin had ever seen. Perfect. Cold. A doll's grin, if dolls were made of sin and silk.
"It appears," she said lightly, "that etiquette has stood the test of time."
The mannequins around the boutique were so still, but he could feel them watching. He didn't dare glance too long at any one of them. Not after what his memory had coughed up.
"There are six stations," Dame Monlear continued, her hand gesturing in a sweeping arch with fingers too elegant, too still. "And six alone. As my honored guests, you are free to explore all six. But please," her head tilted, just slightly, her eyes drifting lazily toward Hans and the scrawny guy he'd threatened, "do follow the store rules."
Then, with that same strange not-quite-footstep, she turned and glided deeper into the boutique. Her body disappeared behind a thick curtain of crimson and gold.
Jin didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until his knees wobbled slightly. Shit. That was the active boss monster. Right there. Standing among them like it was tea time.
He sucked in a quiet inhale and clutched his own arms, mentally scanning back to the Player Interface's readout. It had looked just like the actual game—like Inhuman VR was running in front of his eyes. The record, the failure rate. Cheat code? Isekai buff?
What happened to transmigrators getting death blades and demon swords?
He shook his head. No, you got info, Jin. You got memory. That's better. Better than nothing. He flexed his knee slightly and realized—his limp wasn't nearly as bad. In fact, he didn't need a cane. He still felt some tension when he shifted weight but…
Oh great, he thought bitterly. Can't have my normal life back, but I get orthopedic DLC when I die. Thanks, universe.
As he debated between laughing or crying (neither of which he had the strength for), a sudden BANG startled him.
One of the others—a younger boy, maybe 17, looked like he'd stepped right out of a discount mall store—ran straight at the closed red doors at the back of the boutique.
The kid was sweating bullets, eyes wild with panic. He beat his fists into the door. "You MCO bastards! How can you do this to us?! You're monsters!"
The loud resounding of knuckles on heavy wood rang across the boutique. The tension spiked. Jin instinctively shrunk back.
Hans, predictably, puffed up with fury and started to stomp forward.
But before he could get far, the middle-aged man from earlier placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Hans froze.
"Sir White?" Hans muttered, expression shifting to reluctant restraint.
Sir White gave a simple nod. No theatrics. Just quiet control.
"Calm down," he said.
Meanwhile, a heavy-chested woman in a too-tight dress scoffed from a distance. "That kid's cracked."
Another man, older, wearing one of those old-timey Peaky Blinders hats, gritted his teeth. "If he's going to go insane, can't he do it quietly? We don't need that kind of attention."
But the boy at the door wasn't listening to any of them.
He clawed at the surface. Then… something shifted.
The screaming got worse—louder, shrill and rattling, like nails on teeth. Then came the scratch. Deep. Long. And sickening.
"STOP HIM!" someone shouted.
Too late.
The kid was tearing at his own face. Jin couldn't move. No one could.
The boy dug fingers into his eye sockets—actually into—ripping, blood pouring, as he screamed, "I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!" over and over again. Until the slumped body hit the floor. Still twitching. Still crying.
Then quiet.
Then the worst part.
His face… vanished.
No skin. No nose. No lips. Just raw, veined muscle tissue, red and leaking, like some medical dummy dissected for fun.
Mona gasped beside Jin, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, her glasses fogging instantly. Her trembling eyes darted to the far wall.
So did Jin's.
And that's when he saw it.
One of the mannequins—poised in a flawless pose by the skincare aisle—was wearing the boy's face.
Perfectly stretched, tucked, fitted like it had always belonged there.
Jin's breath hitched.
This wasn't just a boutique.
This was a fucking horror show in haute couture.