Takeout Girl in Horror Game

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.