Chen Ge pushed open the bathroom door with a soft creak, the familiar chill of the tiled room greeting him like an old acquaintance. The mirror on the wall remained shrouded beneath its heavy black cloth, and the last cubicle door was sealed tight with reinforced boards and a sturdy lock he had installed himself. Visitors flooded the Haunted House during daylight hours, screaming and laughing their way through scenarios, but the blood-red door only manifested at midnight, a visitor from another world that kept its own schedule. The two realms—tourists by day, horrors by night—operated on parallel tracks, never meant to intersect. The only risk was someone sneaking in after hours and stumbling onto the cubicle, like Zhang Peng had once done, nearly unleashing whatever waited on the other side.
He stepped closer to the covered mirror, fingers brushing the cloth's edge but not pulling it away. The blood world beyond the glass was still a mystery—a place of endless corridors, dripping walls, and doors that led nowhere good. He didn't know why this particular mirror served as a gateway, or what force caused the red door to appear with such punctual malice. Destroying it seemed impossible; breaking the glass only scattered the fragments, and the door reformed each midnight regardless. Chen Ge's parents had warned him in their final message that "the door of the Third Sick Hall has been opened again," implying it had once been sealed. If the bathroom mirror was a smaller echo of that greater gate, then the abandoned hospital might hold the secret to closing it for good. The upcoming Trial Mission wasn't just another scare—it was a key to answers he'd chased since the black phone first appeared.
Chen Ge lingered until the clock struck midnight, watching the second hand sweep past twelve. Right on cue, muffled thuds and wet dragging sounds leaked from the sealed cubicle, louder and more numerous than before, as if a crowd had gathered on the other side, pressing closer. One minute of escalating noise—scratching, knocking, low whispers in languages he couldn't place—then silence as abruptly as it began. He replaced the black cloth, the fabric heavy in his hands, and left the bathroom with more questions than ever. The Third Sick Hall was calling, and tomorrow's livestream against Qin Guang felt suddenly trivial beside it.
Back in the staff breakroom, sleep refused to come. Chen Ge sat at the small table, the white cat curled on the chair beside him, Xiaoxiao tucked nearby like a forgotten toy. He pulled out the black phone and opened a new note, listing preparations for tomorrow night's stream at Mu Yang High School: a cleaver with years of "blood" residue for atmosphere, a live rooster for folk exorcism rituals he'd read about online, coarse salt for barriers, red string for warding, and a few other odds and ends scavenged from old scenarios. The list grew longer as anxiety gnawed at him—Qin Guang's crew would have professional lighting and multiple cameras, but Chen Ge's edge was authenticity. Real fear couldn't be scripted.
He worked until 1:50 a.m., the park silent outside the window, the cat's breathing the only sound. Yet rest eluded him. Every few minutes his eyes flicked to his watch, an indescribable unease spreading through his chest like cold fingers. The three-star Trial Mission loomed on the horizon, its difficulty promised to dwarf Mu Yang High School's. Going in alone, without Doctor Gao or backup, meant preparation was everything. One mistake, and there might be no coming back.
The phone rang at 2 a.m., startling him. The caller ID read Doctor Gao. Chen Ge answered immediately. "Doctor Gao? Everything alright?"
"I'm sorry to call so late," Doctor Gao said, his voice polite but edged with urgency. "I've been going through Wang Shenglong's medical history—his father finally sent the full files. When I cross-referenced them with our own records and some old case notes…" He paused, the sound of papers rustling in the background. "I found something deeply disturbing."
Chen Ge sat up straighter, the breakroom's dim light casting long shadows. "What is it?"
Doctor Gao's tone grew heavier. "This isn't just a case of childhood trauma or selective mutism. Wang Shenglong is far more dangerous than he appears. When he was very young—barely six—he was involved in a murder."
Chen Ge's breath caught. "A murder?" The image of the overweight, smiling man in the carpeted room felt suddenly incongruous with such violence.
"It's complicated," Doctor Gao continued, his voice low as if afraid the walls might hear. "Listen carefully. Shenglong's first recorded treatment was at age six, at the Jiujiang Third Psychological Convalescence Centre—the private facility near his old village. Money was tight, so it was the only option. But the files paint a chilling picture. In one of his episodes, he bit off another patient's finger—severely enough to require amputation." A soft click as Doctor Gao sent an image; Chen Ge opened it to see a grainy medical photo of a bandaged hand missing a digit. "That was just the start. For safety, they isolated him in the third building—the sealed ward. And things escalated from there."
Chen Ge's grip tightened on the phone. "How escalated?"
"In the second month of isolation," Doctor Gao said, voice grim, "a nurse on night duty was murdered. Brutally. The police investigation concluded it wasn't one perpetrator—it was multiple patients acting in coordination. The third building's residents, including a six-year-old Shenglong, were all implicated. The case was hushed, the centre's reputation protected, but the files don't lie. Whatever happened in that ward… it changed him forever." The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of a child's hands stained by something no child should touch.
Chen Ge stared at the breakroom wall, the white cat's eyes glinting in the darkness as if she, too, understood the gravity. The Third Sick Hall wasn't just a source of escaped monsters—it had forged them, even in the youngest souls. And tomorrow, he would walk into its ruins alone.
"The patients collaborated to kill a nurse?" Chen Ge's voice sharpened with urgency, the revelation hitting like a thunderclap. Doctor Gao's access to the Third Sick Hall's sealed files was a goldmine—internal records, unredacted case notes, details the public would never see. Every word was a breadcrumb leading deeper into the black phone's three-star mission, and Chen Ge leaned forward in the taxi's dim interior, the city lights streaking past like blood trails. "Doctor Gao, can you give me more on that case? Anything—the timeline, the method, the aftermath?"
Doctor Gao's sigh carried the weight of professional boundaries. "That's all I have access to, Chen Ge. I'm a psychologist, not a detective or police archivist. The files cut off there—hush order, likely. The centre buried it to protect their reputation." The line rustled with papers, Doctor Gao's reluctance warring with his curiosity. Chen Ge pressed gently but relentlessly, the hospital's shadow looming larger with every passing second.
"Then cross-reference the other patients from the Third Sick Hall," Chen Ge urged, his mind racing ahead to patterns, connections, the parents' cryptic note about the third room. "Names, conditions, anything linking them to the murder—or Shenglong." Doctor Gao hesitated, the silence stretching. "Why the obsession? This isn't just curiosity."
"Just that," Chen Ge lied smoothly. "Don't worry—I won't leak a word. Promise." More assurances followed, Chen Ge's tone earnest, until Doctor Gao relented with a resigned chuckle. "Fine. But this stays between us." A pause, then the sound of scrolling files. "Ten sick bays in the Third Sick Hall, nine documented patients. All classified extremely dangerous—quarantined for specialized isolation treatment. Arranged by threat level, low to high."
Chen Ge's grip tightened on the phone, pulse quickening. "Room one: Wang Shenglong. Angelman Syndrome—Happy Puppet Syndrome in some circles. Constant smiling, spasms, speech loss, intellectual disability. Youngest patient, deemed least dangerous despite the biting incident." Doctor Gao's voice remained clinical, but a thread of unease wove through. "Room two: female, name redacted, no photo—just an old patient roster. Severe depression from Dorian Gray Syndrome. Pathological obsession with self-image, makeup dependency, multiple cosmetic surgeries. Refused aging. Common in celebrities, rare enough to warrant isolation."
"The third room?" Chen Ge interjected, the parents' bloodied note burning in his memory.
Doctor Gao paused. "Empty on paper. No records, no occupant listed. Could be clerical error—danger level too low for quarantine, or administrative oversight. Rooms were strictly tiered by risk."
Chen Ge's mind flashed to the paper crane's scrawl: Third Room of the Third Sick Hall. "No records doesn't mean no patient," he said firmly. "Especially if it's the lowest threat."
"Possible," Doctor Gao conceded, sipping water audibly. "Room four: male, post-amputation Phantom Limb Syndrome. Lost an arm in an industrial accident. Post-surgery, he insisted the limb remained, feeling pain, temperature, even phantom itches. Isolation to prevent self-harm escalation."
Chen Ge's breath steadied, cataloging each detail like ammunition for the livestream tomorrow. Nine patients, one empty room, a murdered nurse—the Third Sick Hall wasn't a ward; it was a cage for things that broke human shapes. The black phone's mission pulsed hotter; Qin Guang's crew would walk into its echo blind. Chen Ge ended the call with thanks, the taxi pulling up to the park gates, the Haunted House waiting like a predator in the dark. The hospital's ghosts weren't metaphors—they were waiting.