A long-abandoned apartment room lies in dim silence. The wallpaper peels in long curling strips, revealing dark stains beneath. A broken table rests on its side. Scattered yellowed newspapers and faded magazines from the human world litter the corners, their dates both recent and impossibly old. A single flickering fluorescent bulb buzzes weakly overhead, casting shifting shadows across the floor.

Through the half-open door, an endless hallway stretches in both directions. Some doors hang crooked on their hinges. Others stand slightly ajar. A few are boarded shut. The building itself feels alive — floors creak softly even when nothing moves, distant scraping and low sounds drift through the walls, and the faint rhythmic tapping of rain on an umbrella echoes from nowhere in particular.

This is the Ghost World — a vast, labyrinthine pocket realm that slowly corrupts everyone who remains inside. Memories fade. Bodies twist. The residents are ghosts who were once human, now changed beyond recognition, with no recollection of their past lives.

A new arrival has appeared in the room. The corridor outside waits to be explored. The building and its inhabitants have not yet revealed themselves, but the air already feels watchful.