They came from all over the world, from every corner, with professions as varied as could be, each different from the next. Among them were even top talents and professionals from various fields. There were ordinary sanitation workers who swept the streets every day, as well as celebrities from the entertainment industry whom people usually only saw on the big screen, and even billionaires listed on the Forbes rankings.

But now, all these people were forced to gather in the collective dormitory of a variety show called "Thriller Trainee."

Perhaps just a second ago, they were still on set, on a plane rushing to the next event, preparing arguments in court, handling medical instruments in the operating room, or speaking eloquently on a podium—

Without exception, the next second, they all appeared here. Just like a scene change in a movie, or Apparition in Harry Potter, they arrived in this completely unfamiliar environment.

Without a trace.

No one could reasonably explain such mysterious and unfathomable means. Those who had been transferred couldn't open the dormitory door and could only sit there helplessly.

"I'm going to sue this show for illegal detention!"

A strikingly handsome young man pounded the bed hard.

He was the lead singer of a boy band who had recently risen to fame in the entertainment industry, with many fans, and his name and hashtags often trending on Weibo. Although the others in the dorm weren't fans, they more or less knew of him.

Charles Bennett was now burning with anxiety.

As a popular young star, his schedule was always packed from morning till night with various recordings and events.

If he missed a day without reason, he might still get away with claiming illness. But now he was still stuck here, unable to leave. If this continued, the penalty for breach of contract would be no small sum, and the company might not cover it for him.

But now—

"Mr. Bennett, don't worry. Didn't that voice just say to go downstairs and gather? Maybe someone will come and open the door for us soon." Another person tried to comfort him, "You're a top celebrity. If you suddenly go missing, not to mention all your fans, the company will definitely call the police for you, so don't worry yet."

Charles Bennett was about to speak when he heard a rustling sound from the upper bunk.

A long strand of white hair hung down from the edge of the bed, as if someone had casually looked down from above and quickly withdrew their gaze.

Immediately after, an ankle as pale as frosted moonlight slid down from the upper bunk, landing lightly on the floor via the iron ladder.

The young man’s skin was pale, and because he was so slender and thin, his oversized clothes seemed to hang loosely, catching the air. His long white hair draped down his back, the ends reaching his waist, glowing under the warm indoor lights like floating shards of ice. But perhaps there was no need for such an illusion, because even just standing there casually, he could easily become the center of attention.

After getting out of bed, he said nothing, yawned, and walked by himself to the unused washroom, pulling the curtain closed.

The other seven exchanged glances.

After such an upheaval, none of them had slept well last night. Yet this white-haired guy, while everyone else was panicking, had sat aside unconcerned, flexing his fingers, and then slept soundly through the night, showing not the slightest worry about his situation.

Someone muttered under their breath, "Good-looking, but such a show-off."

That wasn’t wrong—he really was good-looking.

Maybe the word "beautiful" sounds odd when used for a man, but if you saw that face, all sense of incongruity would vanish.

It was a beauty that transcended gender.

In the silence, Charles Bennett was the first to sneer, "A man looking like that, so effeminate—what’s so attractive about it?"

The others more or less followed his lead, and now they chimed in.

"Exactly! Someone like Mr. Bennett, a big star, has real masculine charm. That pretty boy, if you didn’t look closely, you’d think he was a woman!"

They made no effort to lower their voices, and through the thin, cheap plastic curtain, their mockery easily reached Henry Clark's ears.

Henry Clark looked up disinterestedly, his slender fingers moving quickly as he somewhat clumsily tied his troublesome long hair back with a black hair tie.

His hand movements were odd—not only were his joints stiff, but his fingertips trembled involuntarily in the air, looking rather strange.

The person in the mirror was stunning, with long, narrow eyes that, paired with a hint of laziness, made his gaze even more striking.

Compared to the others outside, who were forcing themselves to stay awake, sleep-deprived and tense, he looked much better.

Back when the author used flowery language to describe this character’s androgynous beauty, it was so exaggerated it seemed almost ridiculous—beyond compare, unmatched in the world, captivating all.

When Henry Clark read the story, he thought the descriptions were over the top and greasy, but after becoming the character himself, he realized the author hadn’t exaggerated at all—this kind of beauty really couldn’t be put into words.

It was still the face Henry Clark was most familiar with, but the attractiveness had inexplicably increased by several levels, becoming utterly captivating.

That’s right—he had transmigrated into a novel. And not just any novel, but a horror supernatural infinite survival talent show story.