Chen Ge's mind pieced together the grim narrative of Wang Haiming's final days, the evidence in Room 303 painting a clear picture of possession. Something malevolent had latched onto him within the Third Sick Hall, a parasitic entity that followed him out, battling for control of his body. Wang Haiming, unlike others who might have yielded, chose death over submission, his midnight head-banging and self-strangulation a desperate fight to expel the intruder. The neighbor's account of his locked-room death—blood splattered on the wall, bruises from his own hands—supported Chen Ge's theory: the man had destroyed himself to deny the monster victory. The black phone's mission hint tied it all to the mental hospital, the entity a denizen of its bloody corridors, one that Wang Haiming had unwittingly carried into Hai Ming Apartments, dooming himself and threatening others.
The entity's presence lingered in Room 303 after Wang Haiming's death, trapped when his body was removed amid police and onlookers. With the room sealed at night, the monster had no opportunity to hunt a new host—until the young man in Room 302 entered the equation. Chen Ge's discovery of the sparrows and blood-soaked clothes suggested a dark pact. The entity, learning from Wang Haiming's resistance, avoided a forceful takeover, instead forming a symbiotic relationship with 302's tenant. The young man's repetitive arguments—"You guys need to stop forcing me"—hinted at coercion, likely to provide living sacrifices. The sparrows were a start, their blood soaking the clothes far beyond what their small bodies could produce, indicating the contract had been active for some time, the monster's hunger growing.
Chen Ge's gaze lingered on the sparrows, their intact corpses a chilling testament to the young man's compliance. The bloodstains on the clothes, especially the gray jacket, pointed to earlier, larger offerings—stray cats, dogs, or worse. The entity's demands would escalate, and the young man's plea of "you guys" revealed a terrifying twist: he faced multiple entities, not just one. Chen Ge's confusion deepened. What had Wang Haiming unleashed from the Third Sick Hall? A single monster was dangerous enough, but a group suggested a hive-like malevolence, perhaps tied to the hospital's darkest experiments. The mission's title—A Room of Three—took on new meaning: Men Nan, the protective spirit of his mother, and this collective force from 303, now extending its influence to 302.
After carefully replacing the clothes and carpet, Chen Ge moved toward the window, his movements deliberate to avoid alerting the spy in 302. The young man, unaware he'd been spotted, caught Chen Ge's shadow approaching and hastily retreated into his room, the faint creak of his window betraying his panic. Chen Ge's lips curled slightly—one more threat to monitor tonight. The tenant in 302 was compromised, a puppet or partner to the entity, his sacrifices fueling its power. As Chen Ge gripped the windowsill, preparing to climb back, his peripheral vision caught a disturbance in Room 303's bathroom. Behind the half-open door, a tall shadow loomed, its form splitting into two distinct faces, grotesque and fleeting. "Who's there?" he shouted, his hands nearly slipping from the sill, heart pounding.
The shadow vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving the bathroom empty, but a flicker danced across the mirror's surface, like a ripple in still water. Chen Ge's breath caught, the black phone's warnings about mirrors flashing in his mind. Hanging three stories up, with only the concrete courtyard below, was no place to linger. He swung his body back toward Room 304, muscles straining as he pulled himself through the window and landed safely inside. The danger in 303 was real, its presence bolder than he'd anticipated, and the dual-faced shadow confirmed the entity's complexity. Midnight was closing in, and the mission's third presence was no longer confined to dreams or a single room—it was active, watching, and possibly multiplying.
"Did you find anything?" Doctor Gao asked, his voice tinged with polite concern as Chen Ge caught his breath. The psychologist stood near Men Nan, who remained frozen in his tormented posture, oblivious to the drama unfolding. Chen Ge pulled the rusted key from his pocket, its cold weight a tangible link to the Third Sick Hall. "Look at this," he said, holding it out. "Doctor Gao, any locks at your hospital—or the mental hospital Wang Haiming was in—that use a key like this?" The key was larger than Hai Ming's apartment keys, its design old and heavy, suggesting a secure door, perhaps to a restricted ward or storage room. Doctor Gao took it, turning it over in his hands, his brow furrowing. "Not for offices or surgery rooms," he said. "I'm not sure—it's unfamiliar."
Chen Ge pocketed the key, undeterred by the lack of answers. It was a clue to the Third Sick Hall, a piece of Wang Haiming's secret that might unlock more than just a door. He would test it when he infiltrated the hospital, a future mission tied to his parents' disappearance. For now, the key was a promise of answers, a counterpoint to the sparrows, the bloodied clothes, and the shadow in the mirror. The entity in 303 was growing bolder, its pact with 302's tenant a sign of escalating danger. Men Nan's nightmares, the young man's sacrifices, the dual-faced shadow—all converged on the black phone's deadline. Chen Ge tightened his grip on the mallet, Xiaoxiao's presence a quiet reassurance. The night was far from over, and Room 303's secrets were only beginning to bleed into the open.
Doctor Gao stared at the rusted key in Chen Ge's palm, his expression a mix of disappointment and bewilderment. "That's all you discovered? A key?" he asked, ending the call on his phone with a soft click. He had braced himself for something dramatic—blood evidence, a hidden message, perhaps even a confrontation—after watching Chen Ge vanish through the window into the cursed Room 303. The return with a single, unremarkable object felt anticlimactic, almost absurd, given the psychologist's mounting tension. The key lay heavy in the air between them, its pitted surface catching the dim light, a silent challenge to Doctor Gao's rational worldview. Chen Ge's adventures had pushed the boundaries of medical diagnosis, and this mundane find only deepened the doctor's confusion about the young man's unorthodox approach.
"Don't underestimate this key; it might be the key to everything happening here," Chen Ge countered, his voice steady with conviction. He slipped the key back into his pocket, its cold weight a tangible link to the Third Sick Hall and Wang Haiming's secrets. Glancing toward the bedroom where Men Nan stood rigid, he lowered his tone. "Has Men Nan fallen asleep yet?" The young man's fear of sleep was palpable, his unnatural posture a constant reminder of the strangling figure in his nightmares. Doctor Gao shook his head, his concern evident. "I don't recommend he sleep in Room 304. This environment terrifies him; it could amplify his trauma, making nightmares more likely." His professional instinct was to shield Men Nan from triggers, focusing on the childhood blood-drip incident as the root cause.
"Things aren't as simple as you think," Chen Ge explained patiently, careful not to overwhelm Doctor Gao with references to the supernatural. The psychologist, unexposed to the black phone's other world, clung to clinical logic, his thinking confined to trauma and therapy. "If Men Nan's illness stems purely from childhood trauma, why did it only surface after moving into Hai Ming Apartments?" The question hung in the air, challenging Doctor Gao's framework. The nightmares, the hair-washing compulsion, the entity's slow approach—all escalated here, in this building, tied to Room 303's malevolence. Doctor Gao fell silent, unable to counter the timing. Chen Ge pressed on gently. "The trauma is a symptom, not the source. Something in this apartment triggered it, awakening the real threat."
Doctor Gao nodded slowly, his reservations clear in his furrowed brow, but he couldn't deny Chen Ge's results. The man had cured Wang Xin, a feat that defied conventional psychology, blending intuition and action in ways Doctor Gao struggled to categorize. As a scientist, he yearned to dissect Chen Ge's methods, to understand the logic behind climbing windows and wielding mallets. As a doctor, his priority was Men Nan's recovery, and Chen Ge's track record demanded trust, however reluctant. The apartment's sour smell seemed to underscore the urgency, a reminder that Hai Ming was no neutral space. Chen Ge sensed the doctor's internal conflict, the clash between curiosity and caution, but time was short—the black phone's midnight deadline loomed, and the entity in 303 was stirring.
Even if we move Men Nan, the nightmares will persist—you've tried that at your home," Chen Ge said, his voice firm but empathetic. "Why not let him sleep here, under our watch? We'll guard him, wake him at the first sign of distress." The plan was risky, but controlled exposure might draw out the entity, forcing it to reveal itself in Men Nan's dream. Psychological therapy was gradual, often painful, and Doctor Gao hesitated, weighing the potential harm against the chance for a breakthrough. After a tense pause, he agreed, his nod reluctant but resolute. They discussed safeguards—constant vigilance, immediate intervention—before entering the bedroom. To their surprise, Men Nan had already collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion overriding his fear, his chin resting on the pillow as he slept leaning against the frame.
Chen Ge moved to check Men Nan's forehead and neck for signs of the dream entity's influence, but Doctor Gao stopped him with a gentle hand. "Let him sleep," the doctor whispered, his voice protective. Men Nan's face, slack in slumber, still carried the strain of his waking torment, his head tilted at that unnatural angle even in rest. Chen Ge relented, pulling two chairs to the bedside. "We'll take shifts," he said. "One watches until midnight, then switches. Any sign of pain, we wake him instantly." Doctor Gao volunteered for the first watch, his dedication to his patient unwavering. "You rest," he insisted. "You've been at it all day." Chen Ge, drained from crafting mannequins and navigating Hai Ming's dangers, didn't argue. He settled on the living room sofa, Xiaoxiao beside him, phone set to vibrate with a midnight alarm, and slipped into sleep.
In the dreamlike haze of exhaustion, a vibration jolted Chen Ge awake, his palm buzzing against the phone. He sat up abruptly, the apartment's dimness pressing in, and checked the screen—midnight exact. The black phone's deadline had arrived, the air thick with anticipation. He entered the bedroom silently, finding Doctor Gao at the bedside, his face etched with a deep frown. Before Chen Ge could speak, the doctor raised a finger to his lips, urging silence. They stood watch, the room heavy with tension, Men Nan's breathing shallow but steady. Five minutes passed in hushed vigilance, then Men Nan's body twitched. His arms straightened beneath him, pushing as if to sit up, his movements rigid and unnatural, like a puppet jerked by invisible strings.
The attempt failed, his arms collapsing weakly to his sides, flapping limply as if the effort had been a fleeting delusion. "Sleepwalking?" Chen Ge whispered, his voice barely audible, the mallet ready in his grip. Doctor Gao shook his head, his expression grim, and pointed to Men Nan's face. Chen Ge followed the gesture, his breath catching. Men Nan's eyes were open, but only a sliver of his pupils was visible, the rest consumed by stark white, glowing faintly in the low light. The sight was unnatural, a sign that the dream entity had crossed into reality, its presence manifesting in Men Nan's sleeping form. The mission's third presence was here, in the room, and midnight had unleashed it.