Case File: "Forest Investigation – Unnamed Client"
Date: July 2, 2025... Maybe?
Location: Somewhere Deeper in This Hellhole
Stupid Investigator: Itsumi Matzuri
I'm sitting here, back against the wall, trying to convince myself that I'm still alive. My whole body is throbbing—every muscle, every bone, every inch of skin feels like it's been run through a meat grinder. I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth. I keep expecting to look down and see blood pouring out of me, but somehow, I'm still in one piece. I don't know if that's luck or just this place's way of dragging things out.
Let's talk about that ghost. Jesus Christ. I've seen some ugly things in my life—corpses, cartel hitmen, politicians—but nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to that woman. Her face looked like someone tried to sculpt a nightmare out of rotten meat and then gave up halfway through. And the way she screamed… I swear, my ears are still ringing. If I ever get out of here, I'm going to need therapy, earplugs, and maybe an exorcist.
I can't believe I'm still breathing. After getting tossed around by a bull monster and then manhandled by the world's angriest ghost, I should be dead. Hell, I probably am dead and just haven't figured it out yet. Maybe this is hell. Wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth?
Right now, I'm just sitting here, staring at nothing, thinking maybe I should just stop moving. Just sit here and wait for whatever comes next. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll just fade away. Or maybe something will finally finish the job. Either way, I'm too tired to care.
I keep thinking about my mother. She always told me I should be an engineer, or an office worker. "Itsumi, you're too stubborn for your own good. You'll get yourself killed chasing stories." Should've listened to her. Should've gotten a boring job, sat in a cubicle, stared at spreadsheets all day. But no, I had to be a journalist. Had to chase the truth, dig up secrets, piss off the wrong people. What a fucking idiot.
People laugh at journalists. They think we're all just talking heads on TV, reading scripts and collecting paychecks. Let me tell you, those guys are garbage. The real journalists—the ones who actually go out and find the stories—end up in places like this. Chased by monsters, haunted by ghosts, regretting every decision that led them here. If I ever get out, maybe I'll humiliate myself on national television, sing some stupid song, make a fool of myself for a paycheck. At least that way, the only thing that gets hurt is my pride.
But here I am. Beaten up by a minotaur, thrown around by a ghost who can't take a joke about her looks. What a life. What a fucking life.
If anyone finds this note, do yourself a favor: don't be a hero. Don't take jobs from strangers. And for the love of God, if you ever see a woman in white with a face like a horror movie reject, run the other way. Trust me, you don't want to end up like me.