Doomsday Wonderland C.1410: Citizen Ivy, the Righteous Reformer

'Someone like Barbeque Brow who's constantly in pain and depressed shouldn't force themselves to keep living,' Ivy thought with deep sympathy. Unexpectedly, the plan she initially made to extricate herself also managed to relieve another person.

Things in the world don't always happen as they should.

For his own good, Barbeque Brow shouldn't continue living, yet he did. Similarly, someone like her—smart, beautiful, and charming—might find herself in a love triangle or trapped by jealousy, yet she was in debt.

How did she end up hiding in a cheap apartment due to massive debts, cutting off ties from her past, relying on odd jobs from a nearby man, and being tracked down by creditors? Shouldn't beauty and money go hand in hand?

According to the character manual, that's exactly how things happened. Ivy's life was utterly illogical.

In her early twenties, everyone said, "This girl will marry a rich man." She believed it too. Now, in her early thirties, her beauty intact, her dreams shifted from accumulating wealth to merely being debt-free. Those who've never been chased for debts couldn't understand the feeling of being deep-fried—as a beautiful woman, she faced more friction, malice, and threats than most.

To escape her debts, Ivy did everything she should and shouldn't have. Yet, the debt remained a sum she could never pay off with regular work. Screw it. If she couldn't pay it off in her lifetime, she wouldn't. Let's see who would chase her for debts after she was gone.

Of course, she would never commit suicide. Removing such beauty from the world would be a crime.

Just as Ivy was lost in thought, her phone vibrated, drawing her attention. It was a message from Barbeque Brow. A cold adrenaline rush made her shiver, and her hands tremble.

Despite her avoiding his calls and sending minimal replies, Barbeque Brow thought he was still in touch with A-Ting. Every day or two, he sent her numerous messages—complaints, reproaches, and sometimes angry voice messages full of swearing. No woman could rekindle old feelings after hearing them. Ivy was certain, every time she received such a message, Barbeque Brow ended up drunk at home.

The game was halfway through, and she needed to hasten her actions. Last weekend, while he was away, Ivy stealthily snuck into Barbeque Brow's house and left a bottle of vodka mixed with sleeping pills—the brand he frequently drank. Combining alcohol and sleeping pills was risky, but considering his size, he shouldn't be that vulnerable. He just needed to survive long enough to carry out her plan.

Ever since she placed that bottle, she had been anxiously awaiting a text from Barbeque Brow. The weekends were busier times for his barbecue restaurant, so he was less likely to get drunk then. But Monday would be her opportunity. And sure enough, only half of Monday had passed when she received an indication that he was on the brink of intoxication.

Ivy opened the message, savoring it by reading it multiple times.

The message's content was not surprising. What was unusual was that the last sentence wasn't even finished. After a few unintelligible typos, the message just stopped. That Barbeque Brow could remember to send a message just as he was about to pass out was nothing short of a miracle.

Just to be safe, Ivy waited an additional half hour after receiving the message. From her window, she kept a vigilant watch on Apartment No. 1, ensuring there was no sign of movement outside. Only when certain no one was observing did she swiftly approach, retrieve the hidden key, unlock the door, and slip inside.

Following the scent of alcohol, she soon found Barbeque Brow intoxicated in bed, the bottle of vodka she had planted now empty. Upon reflection, she mused that the posthuman assigned this task had it easiest—merely drinking and sleeping. What exactly was her game objective?

Ivy retrieved earplugs from her bag and inserted them into Barbeque Brow's ears, then quietly closed the bedroom door to prevent the sounds of their recorded arguments waking him.

She pulled a player from her bag, connecting it to her phone. She had sorted all the voice messages Barbeque Brow had sent and scripted their argument for the day. After setting everything up, Ivy hurled a ceramic bowl against the wall, shattering it with a crisp sound.

"What are you doing?!" she exclaimed as she moved to the end of the living room. The first ten minutes of the staged argument took place near Apartment No. 2; the next ten, near Apartment No. 4. The more residents who heard their quarrel, the more believable it would seem.

Barbeque Brow's voice then began playing from the device—muffled but audible enough through the walls, the drunken slur clear.

"I didn't... I really didn't talk to that man!" Ivy shouted. "Please, stop drinking—ah!"

Following her scream, Ivy scanned the kitchen, suddenly aware of her hunger and wondering if Barbeque Brow had anything to eat.

Silence fell over the house after her outburst. Ivy pressed herself against the wall, listening to the whispers from Apartment No. 2. The college girls' voices floated over: "Did you hear that?" and "What happened?", prompting a satisfied smile from Ivy.

Feigning tears, Ivy whimpered against the wall, "Don't kick my stomach, please..."

"I wish I could kill you. I'd rather die with you!" echoed one of Barbeque Brow's messages, loud enough for not just Apartment No. 2, but likely the entire building to hear.

The argument unfolded smoothly, precisely as Ivy had planned. She checked on Barbeque Brow once more to find him still deeply asleep, oblivious to the drama. She sighed in relief. Her plan, meticulously refined through careful scrutiny and thought, was unfolding flawlessly—like a spider ensnaring its prey in a finely woven web.

A society that treated her this way could not be called just. Thus, she could only right the wrongs herself.