The middle-aged woman hung up the phone and walked toward the ground, as if there was some kind of emergency.
After the middle-aged woman left, Han Fei carried his bag and looked toward the depths of the basement level.
It seemed that several rooms on this basement level had been purchased by someone, probably a madman, who had filled the walls with cryptic writing indecipherable to ordinary people, rife with themes of destruction and despair.
Han Fei read the words while feeling his way deeper in.
The scent of formalin in the air grew stronger, and the blood stains on the ground became more plentiful, giving this basement that resembled a crime scene an indescribably familiar feeling to Han Fei.
"Why, as an actor or a screenwriter, do I know the smell of formalin? Why am I so familiar with murder scenes?"
In light of the stories Han Fei had written in his plays, his mind grew even more confused: "What kind of person am I, really?"
