Wang Shenglong's father lingered just outside the bedroom door, his gaze flicking nervously between Chen Ge and Doctor Gao as they prepared to enter. He had endured countless visits like this—doctors, therapists, even supposed spiritual healers—all drawn by the promise of reward or curiosity, only to leave with pitying looks or hurried excuses once they saw his son. The judgmental stares, the whispered comments, the way strangers recoiled as if Shenglong's condition might be contagious—it carved fresh wounds into the father's heart every time. But tonight felt different. Doctor Gao entered with calm professionalism, no hesitation or visible shock, and Chen Ge followed with the same steady demeanor, his expression unreadable but devoid of disgust. For the first time in years, the father allowed himself a flicker of cautious hope.
Doctor Gao removed his shoes at the threshold and stepped onto the thin carpet with the ease of someone entering a friend's home rather than a patient's room. He lowered himself to sit cross-legged beside Wang Shenglong, close enough for conversation but respecting the young man's space. Shenglong's initial wariness melted almost immediately; his round face brightened, and he shifted his considerable weight with visible effort, leaning slightly toward the doctor as if craving the simple warmth of company. There was no fear, no retreat—just a quiet, almost childlike eagerness to connect. Doctor Gao's gentle questions flowed naturally, drawing Shenglong into easy responses scribbled on the whiteboard, the exchange feeling more like two old acquaintances catching up than a clinical evaluation.
Chen Ge followed Doctor Gao's lead, slipping off his shoes and stepping forward—only to feel the atmosphere shift like a sudden drop in pressure. Wang Shenglong's welcoming smile vanished. His eyes, previously soft and open, narrowed into a hard, territorial glare fixed solely on Chen Ge. The change was instantaneous and chilling, as if a different presence had seized control behind those eyes, viewing Chen Ge not as a visitor but as an intruder, a rival predator encroaching on its domain. The room's temperature seemed to plummet; the air thickened with unspoken threat. Doctor Gao, seated closest, felt it most acutely and turned to Chen Ge with visible confusion, one brow raised in silent question.
Chen Ge froze mid-step, the intensity of Shenglong's stare pinning him in place. What did he sense? The stray cat's scent still clung faintly to his clothes, but this felt deeper, more primal. Or perhaps the thing inside Shenglong—whatever had played "Who Speaks First" and stolen his voice—recognized the echo of Zhang Ya's presence lingering on Chen Ge, the Red Specter whose very name struck fear into mirror-born horrors. Chen Ge retreated slowly, choosing a spot farther away against the wall, hands visible and non-threatening. The glare softened but didn't fully dissipate; Shenglong's posture remained guarded, his bulk shifting protectively as if ready to shield the room from Chen Ge alone.
Doctor Gao smoothly redirected the conversation, his voice warm and engaging, asking about favorite foods, old cartoons, anything light and neutral. Shenglong relaxed by degrees, scribbling responses with surprising speed and clarity, his handwriting neat despite the difficulty of moving his arms. Chen Ge stayed silent, observing from the periphery, noting every detail: the way Shenglong's eyes lit up at certain memories, the careful way he angled the board so Doctor Gao could read easily, the complete absence of aggression once Chen Ge kept his distance. Forty minutes passed in this careful dance, Doctor Gao drawing out childhood stories, daily routines, and—most crucially—the fragmented nightmare of the tall figure and the deadly game, all without ever mentioning "illness" or "treatment."
When they finally stepped out, closing the bedroom door softly behind them, Doctor Gao pulled Wang Shenglong's father aside in the narrow living room, his expression grave. "The boy's mind is remarkably clear," he said quietly. "No signs of torment, no dissociation during our talk. He wants connection, wants help. But I can't shake the feeling he's hiding something crucial from me—protecting it, even." The father's face fell, the fleeting hope dimming. "We've heard that before," he admitted. "Every doctor says he seems normal… until they can't explain why he won't speak."
Chen Ge listened, the stench still thick in his nostrils, the warning pulse in his temples. The monster wasn't in the well or the mirror—it was here, coiled inside the smiling, mute man who had once been a playful child. And it knew Chen Ge carried something it feared. The night had only just begun.
"Whether it's real or not is secondary," Doctor Gao said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of experience as he addressed Wang Shenglong's father in the cramped living room. "The crucial point is that, after all these years, Shenglong can still recall every detail with such clarity. That level of vividness means the incident—real or constructed—has scarred him deeply. If we can unpack and resolve that core trauma, there's a strong chance his speech will return." He adjusted his glasses, glancing toward the bedroom door where Shenglong sat silently. "The mind protects itself in complex ways. This story, whatever its origin, is the key his psyche has locked everything behind."
Wang Hailong, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, couldn't hide his skepticism. "But if the whole thing is just something he made up—a child's nightmare turned obsession—how do we 'solve' it? You can't treat a ghost that doesn't exist." His voice held the frustration of years spent chasing cures that led nowhere, the hope and disappointment cycling endlessly.
Doctor Gao nodded, acknowledging the validity of the question. "Even if every detail is fictional, each element carries real symbolic meaning for Shenglong. Dreams, fantasies, delusions—they all reflect fragments of lived experience, fears, or unresolved pain. Think of it like dream analysis: the monsters aren't literal, but what they represent is very real." He tapped his phone, where he had recorded the entire conversation with Shenglong. "We don't take the story at surface value. We dig deeper—into why this particular imagery, why this specific fear. With time and trust, we can reach the root."
Wang Shenglong's father sighed, the lines on his face deepening. "We've tried everything—doctors, therapists, even traditional remedies. If you can help him…"
"I can't promise miracles," Doctor Gao admitted honestly, "especially after so many years of silence. Muscle memory for speech atrophies; the neural pathways weaken. But the bigger concern right now isn't psychological—it's physical." He glanced again toward the bedroom. "His extreme weight poses serious health risks: heart strain, joint damage, diabetes, breathing issues. Without addressing that, any psychological progress could be undermined by his body failing him."
"We've begged him to move, to exercise, anything," the father said, voice cracking with helplessness. "But he refuses to leave his room most days. Even coming to the living room feels like too much. He just… stays there, like he's safest when he doesn't move."
Doctor Gao's expression softened with empathy. "We'll start small. Communication first—help him understand that change is normal, that wanting to move, to live fully, isn't betrayal of whatever he's protecting. Shift the worldview, and behavior often follows." The conversation stretched on, Doctor Gao outlining gentle strategies while the father absorbed every word like a man drowning grasping at driftwood.
Inside the bedroom, Chen Ge sat cross-legged on the carpet, a careful distance from Wang Shenglong. The easy smile the man had shown Doctor Gao was gone; in its place was a guarded, almost predatory stare, small eyes narrowed within folds of flesh. The room's stale air pressed heavier here, the stench Chen Ge alone perceived now thick enough to taste—metallic, bloody, wrong. He kept his voice low, steady. "Wang Shenglong, I want to help you. But we both know you're holding back. Their questions are about why you don't speak. Mine are different."
Shenglong's meaty hands clenched the whiteboard tighter, knuckles paling.
"I'm more interested in the memory you hate most," Chen Ge continued, leaning forward just enough to show he wasn't afraid. "What happened to you inside the Third Sick Hall?"
The reaction was immediate and violent. Shenglong's entire body shuddered, flesh quivering as if something inside had recoiled. His small eyes widened, then narrowed again, filling with a mixture of fear and fury. The temperature in the room seemed to drop; the stench sharpened until Chen Ge's eyes watered. Shenglong's chest heaved, fists pounding the carpet once, twice, as if trying to drive something deeper inside.
"Your fear of doctors started after you left that place," Chen Ge pressed, voice still calm. "So what did they do to you there? You're a normal man trapped by something unnatural. Tell me the truth—I can help you fight it."
Shenglong's response was explosive. With a guttural roar he lunged—or tried to—his massive frame surging forward. The sudden shove caught Chen Ge off-guard; he toppled backward, shoulder hitting the wall. Shenglong didn't pursue, collapsing back with labored breaths, but his glare could have bored holes through steel.
After long minutes of heavy silence, Shenglong grabbed the board with shaking hands and scribbled in large, angry strokes. He turned it toward Chen Ge.
The words were stark:
We have all become monsters.
Stop worrying about me.
Worry about yourself.
Chen Ge stared at the board, the warning sinking in like ice water. The thing inside Shenglong wasn't just hiding—it was aware, intelligent, and it recognized a kindred threat in Chen Ge. The bedroom felt smaller, the walls closer, the stench now a living warning. Whatever had claimed Wang Shenglong years ago was still very much in control—and it knew Chen Ge carried his own darkness.