Chen Ge set Xiaoxiao on the breakroom table, the ragdoll's stitched limbs flopping limply. For once the usually mischievous Baleful Specter stayed perfectly still, her button eyes wide, every thread of her body radiating the unmistakable tremor of fear. Chen Ge frowned; Xiaoxiao had once devoured chunks of mirror monster without flinching, yet now she cowered from a half-dead stray. Was the white cat truly that extraordinary, or had Xiaoxiao simply met a natural predator that even specters instinctively dreaded? He rubbed the doll's frayed head in quiet sympathy before turning his attention to the real star of the night.
Curled on the chair like a small, furious cloud, the white cat stared fixedly at the woven basket holding her four lifeless kittens. Grief radiated from her in waves, yet her posture remained regal, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, as though the rest of the world had ceased to matter. Chen Ge lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged a respectful distance away. He had already decided to keep her; a nameless cat felt wrong. "I need to give you a proper name," he said softly. "We met on a rainy night, so… Night Rain?" The cat's ears flicked once in clear distaste. "Too dramatic? Fine. How about Fortune Cat? For the luck you'll bring." She turned her head fully away, refusing to dignify him with a glance.
"Snow? Milky? Rice Ball?" Each suggestion earned a deeper scowl; when he leaned a fraction closer, she bared needle-sharp fangs, the fresh stitches on her face splitting slightly so that a bead of blood traced the scar. Chen Ge scooted back, palms raised. "Alright, message received—no cute names." He studied the proud tilt of her head, the unyielding fire in her mismatched eyes. "You're no housecat. You're a tiger in fur. White Tiger, then." The moment the words left his mouth the cat leapt to her feet, ears pricked forward, tail bottle-brushed. Before Chen Ge could reconsider the irony of naming a cat after a different species, she launched herself from the chair and attacked the breakroom door with frantic, desperate claws.
The sudden violence stunned him. This wasn't the wary aggression she had shown near Mu Yang High School; this was pure panic. Deep gouges appeared in the wood as she tore at it, yowling in a pitch that made the air itself feel thin. Chen Ge scrambled up and flung the door open. White Tiger shot through like a bullet, racing straight down the corridor toward the first-floor bathroom, tail lashing, every hair on end. Chen Ge's heart slammed against his ribs. He checked his phone—11:59 p.m. Midnight. The mirror.
He sprinted after her. The cat reached the bathroom first and hurled herself at the locked wooden door, claws carving long scars into the paint. Chen Ge skidded inside, yanked the black cloth from the mirror, and froze. There it was: the blood-red door, exactly on schedule. But tonight was different. Thick, viscous crimson oozed from the frame's edges like the mirror itself was bleeding. The door shuddered every few seconds, as though powerful shoulders repeatedly rammed it from the other side. The real-world door behind Chen Ge began to rattle in perfect, terrifying synchrony.
Someone—or something—was trying to force its way through.
Chen Ge snatched the nearest weapon—a worn mop—and planted himself between the mirror and the door, knuckles white. The lock danced wildly; the hinges groaned. He had remembered to lock it last time, thank every star in the sky, but the wood was old, the bolt thin. One more minute, he told himself, sweat rolling down his spine. Just one minute and midnight would pass. He had no desire to meet whatever waited beyond that door; running a Haunted House was enough excitement. The white cat crouched beside him, body low, lips peeled back in a silent snarl, ready to spring at whatever emerged.
Sixty seconds crawled by like hours. The shaking intensified, the lock screaming in its socket, then—at the exact stroke of 00:01—the red door in the mirror dissolved into black glass. The real door fell still. Silence rushed back in, broken only by Chen Ge's ragged breathing and the soft tick of the wall clock. He and the cat exhaled in unison, tension draining from their bodies like water from a punctured balloon.
White Tiger turned her scarred face toward him, heterochromatic eyes narrowed in unmistakable judgement. The look said, clear as speech: I have been in this building less than one hour and you have already terrified me twice. Is this truly a safe place for a cat? Chen Ge could only laugh, a shaky, exhausted sound, and gently lower the mop. The Haunted House had gained its fiercest resident yet, and she was already keeping its darkest secrets at bay.
"You dare glare at me after I saved your life?" Chen Ge grumbled, half-amused, half-annoyed, as he reached for the white cat. She shot him a final withering look (red eye flashing like a warning light), then twisted out of his arms with contemptuous grace and bolted back toward the staff breakroom. Her paws barely made a sound on the linoleum, yet the speed and disdain in her retreat were unmistakable. Chen Ge was left standing alone in the dim bathroom, mop still in hand, feeling oddly rejected. Not even a thank-you scratch, he thought, shaking his head. Some cats purred and rubbed against your legs; this one acted like he was an unpaid servant who had failed to bow deeply enough.
He turned his attention to the real problem. Fishing the small key from his pocket, he unlocked the last cubicle and pushed the door inward. The wooden panel on the far side (the one that existed only after midnight) bore fresh scars: splintered grooves, paint scraped away in frantic streaks, the lock hanging crooked and loose. Whatever had been throwing itself against the door had been strong. Chen Ge ran his fingers over the damage, jaw tight. A normal door wouldn't hold much longer. He briefly entertained the idea of simply smashing the entire frame to splinters, but a chill stopped him. The first night the red door had appeared, everything had been silent. The second night, dragging sounds and wet thumps. Tonight, someone had tried to break through. If he destroyed the door and the blood-red version still manifested in the mirror every midnight, he would have removed his only physical barrier for nothing.
A memory surfaced unbidden: his parents' last phone call, the hushed urgency in their voices. "The door at the Third Sick Hall has been opened again." Chen Ge stared at the black cloth now draped over the mirror, the fabric rippling slightly as if breathing. Was this bathroom door a smaller echo of the same gateway? Had the hospital become a nest, a hive, and these midnight intrusions the first scouts testing the exit? Questions with no answers. He dragged his hand across his face, exhaustion settling into his bones, and went to the props room. Minutes later he returned with thick planks, nails, and a hammer. By the time the door was reinforced into something resembling a bunker hatch, the clock read 1:07 a.m.
Tomorrow is going to be brutal. He needed to be up by seven to collect the mannequin bodies before the park opened. Chen Ge fetched a spare quilt, laid it on the floor beside the chair where White Tiger had already reclaimed her throne, and collapsed into bed still wearing his damp clothes. Sleep took him instantly.
The alarm shrieked at seven sharp. Chen Ge jolted awake to find the white cat already sitting ramrod straight, ears swiveling, every muscle coiled. The slightest rustle of his blanket made her tail lash once, as if the Haunted House itself might attack while she slept. "Morning, Your Highness," he muttered, stretching. She ignored him entirely. He called Uncle Xu, arranged the park's small lorry, and by eight o'clock they were loading headless mannequins into the back like a convoy of silent, limbless corpses. White Tiger refused to leave the breakroom; she stationed herself atop the chair, guarding the basket of dead kittens with flattened ears and a stare that dared the world to come closer.
Two sweaty trips later, the corridor outside Mu Yang High School was lined with twenty-four headless bodies standing in perfect rows. Uncle Xu took one look, muttered something about needing to check the roller-coaster brakes, and fled. Chen Ge just shrugged and got to work. He pried open the wooden boards, matched each head to its designated torso by the tiny numbers he had painted inside the necks the night before, and screwed them together with practiced efficiency. One by one the mannequins took on faces—pale, terrified, curious, resigned—until the sealed classroom looked like a frozen moment of collective dread.
When the last uniform sleeve slid over the final mannequin's arm, the black phone in Chen Ge's pocket vibrated violently.
"Completed Two-Star Scenario Mu Yang High School's Hidden Missions—finished building the bodies for the twenty-four spirits in the sealed classroom!
Congratulations for obtaining the mission rewards—The Returners' Goodwill. You can now give them simple instructions through the phone!
Warning! Once the lingering spirit leaves the scenario, they will go berserk! Please be careful!"
Chen Ge read the message twice, a slow grin spreading across his face. Every hidden task in Mu Yang High School was now cleared. The two-star horror scenario was officially ready for visitors. He leaned against the doorframe, surveying the silent classroom of lifelike students, their glass-bead eyes reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. The grand opening was tomorrow.
Should I invite He San for a free trial run? The boy always insisted horror wasn't his thing, yet every single visit he left shaking, pale, and secretly thrilled. Chen Ge's grin widened. Some friendships were built on screams.