"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," I mutter, the words escaping my lips in rapid succession. Panic courses through my veins, causing my hands to tremble uncontrollably. I should have never agreed to this position, this role thrust upon me without my consent.

 Nothing but regret exists. I'm quite hesitant to open new pages. I turn the page nonetheless and find another regulation. Oh, wait, it's not a regulation at all; it's a formal declaration.

I'm surprised to see my name highlighted next to it. "Does this suggest I was chosen specifically for this job?" I doubt me. To the loving remembrance of 32 people, I ask, "But what does the aforementioned sentence signify. "Whatever occurred, did they pass away doing this work or did they pass away creating this work?" Never before in my life have I been so anxious.

 A sudden interruption jolts me from my ruminations. Fortunately, it's merely a waiter, oblivious to the turmoil raging within me. My focus is shattered, yet I find solace in this momentary distraction. It provides a temporary respite from the grip of the diary's enigmatic allure.

 "Your order will arrive shortly. Thank you," the waiter replies, his departure granting me a moment of solitude once more.

 I find myself staring at my hands, still clutching the diary tightly. The weight of its contents overwhelms me, compelling me to halt my exploration for the time being. The desire to forget what I have read, to abandon the diary and the foreboding job it represents, consumes me. But I know deep down that escape is not an option. The unknown man had issued a chilling warning—one that reverberates through my thoughts. Failure to fulfill this task would bring about the merciless demise of my loved ones.

 For now, I decide to bury my thoughts and concerns, postponing any further contemplation until my order arrives. Once I have nourished myself and sought solace in the open air, I may find clarity amidst the chaos that now engulfs me.

 As I bide my time, I survey the surroundings of the restaurant, noting its pristine condition. A television stationed nearby captures my attention, its presence a welcome diversion from the troubling thoughts consuming my mind. In an attempt to find respite from the diary's grip, I reach for the remote control, hoping the television's flickering images will offer a temporary reprieve.

 Alone in the cabin of my thoughts, I raise the volume, straining to hear the news reporter's voice over the ambient noise of the restaurant. The words that reach my ears send a shudder down my spine, a disconcerting revelation that leaves me unsettled. "After being missing for two days, a 25-year-old man was tragically discovered by the police in a garbage can. His remains reduced to a gruesome, liquid form." Disgust and unease grip me as I absorb the horrifying news. Instead of finding solace in the television's distractions, I feel a renewed sense of anxiety infiltrating my being.

 "Excuse me, sir, here is your order," the waiter interrupts, bringing the much-awaited respite in the form of my food.

I devour it hastily, desperate to escape the confines of the restaurant and breathe in the freshness of the outside world. As I rise from my seat, I make my way toward the counter to settle the bill. Unexpectedly, the owner himself stands behind the cash register, replacing the usual employee. He greets me with a warm smile, his friendly demeanor masking a deeper mystery.

 "How was your day, sir? Did you enjoy our service?" he asks, his words tinged with a subtle curiosity.

"It was... pretty good," I manage to respond, though the lie hangs heavy in the air. I present my credit card for payment, only to be met with a surprising revelation.

"It's already been taken care of, sir. You don't have to worry about it," the owner assures me, a glimmer of fortune shining through his words. I can't help but feel the man who offered me the job has somehow orchestrated this act of kindness. "I must indeed be fortunate," I murmur, a hint of disbelief lingering in my voice.

 "Alright, sir. We won't be expecting you here anytime soon," the owner cryptically declares as I turn to leave, perplexity gnawing at my thoughts. Why would he deliver such a message to a customer? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Confusion intermingles with fear, intensifying the enigma that now envelopes me.

 I reach the door, pushing it instinctively, only to find it stubbornly immobile. A realization dawns upon me—I must pull it open. With a slight tug, I finally step out, leaving the confines of the restaurant behind.