Chen Ge leaned back in the breakroom chair, the dim lamp casting long shadows across the walls as Doctor Gao's voice continued through the phone. The list of patients from the Third Sick Hall was already etched into his notebook, each name and diagnosis a chilling fragment of a larger nightmare. He tapped his pen against the page, eyes scanning the hastily scribbled details again. "So the patients collaborated to kill a nurse?" he repeated slowly, letting the words settle. The idea of nine dangerous individuals—some children, some adults—working together in perfect silence to end a life was beyond disturbing. It spoke of coordination, shared purpose, and a darkness that went far deeper than isolated madness.
Doctor Gao's reply came after a brief pause, the sound of rustling papers in the background. "That's all the files confirm. No names of the other patients, no detailed transcripts—just the summary that the murder involved multiple residents acting in concert. The centre's records were incomplete even before the shutdown. Whatever happened in that third building… it was buried deep."
Chen Ge's grip tightened on the pen. "Then can you find more information on the other patients? Names, conditions, anything from those files? I need to know everything about the Third Sick Hall."
Doctor Gao's tone sharpened slightly, surprise and caution mixing. "Why? This isn't connected to Men Nan's case anymore. What are you really after, Chen Ge?"
"Just curiosity," Chen Ge lied smoothly, keeping his voice even. "You can trust me—no leaks, no sharing. Purely for understanding." He sweetened the plea with reassurances, the weight of the rusted key in his pocket urging him on. After a long pause, Doctor Gao relented, though his reluctance was clear.
"Fine. But this stays between us. The Third Sick Hall had ten sick bays, nine documented patients—all classified extremely dangerous, hence the quarantine. Rooms were assigned by threat level, one lowest to ten highest."
"Room one: Wang Shenglong—Happy Puppet Syndrome, Angelman Syndrome. Perpetual smiling, spasms, speech loss, intellectual disability. Youngest resident, deemed least risky despite the biting incident."
"Room two: a woman, name and photo redacted. Dorian Gray Syndrome—heavy depression from pathological self-image obsession. Over-reliance on makeup, multiple plastic surgeries, terror of aging. Not uncommon among celebrities, but severe enough for isolation."
"Room three: officially empty. No records, no occupancy logs. Could be an oversight or a ghost entry."
Chen Ge's pulse quickened, the paper crane's message—"Third Room of the Third Sick Hall"—burning in his memory. "No records doesn't mean no patient. If the ranking was danger-based, room three was low-threat—maybe overlooked intentionally."
"Possible," Doctor Gao conceded. "Room four: post-amputation Phantom Limb Syndrome. Patient felt his severed arm still attached, reporting pain, temperature, even phantom itches. Isolated after aggressive outbursts blaming 'ghost limbs' for attacks on staff."
Doctor Gao sipped water, the pause heavy. "That's the surface. Deeper files hint at experimental treatments, but they cut off after the nurse's murder. The centre shut down soon after—rumors of lawsuits, missing evidence. Whatever happened in those ten rooms… it broke something fundamental."
Chen Ge stared at the cat, her red eye glinting like a warning. The Third Sick Hall wasn't just haunted—it was a factory of fractured souls, birthing monsters that sought shoulders to stand on, voices to silence, and doors to escape through. Room three waited, empty on paper but screaming truth. Tomorrow's livestream at Mu Yang Middle School felt like a prelude; the real hunt began with the hospital's ruins.
Doctor Gao's tone carried a careful warning, the kind delivered only when concern outweighed professional distance. "What I'm saying is simple," he continued, voice low over the phone. "When you fell in the bedroom, I noticed the carpet was perfectly flat—no crease, no skid mark. You didn't trip. You were pushed by an external force, hard enough to knock you back but not enough to injure you seriously. I'm calling at this hour because I'm worried. Whatever is inside Wang Shenglong… it reacted to you specifically. Be extremely cautious tonight. Mental patients can be unpredictable when cornered, and this one feels different."
"I understand," Chen Ge replied, his voice steady despite the chill that ran down his spine. "I'll be more careful." He paused, weighing his next words. "Doctor Gao, if you uncover anything else about the Third Sick Hall—any records, rumors, anything—please let me know. I'm very interested in that hospital." The request was direct, almost too eager, but he didn't care. The black phone's mission, his parents' note, Shenglong's drawing—all roads led back to the abandoned third building.
Doctor Gao gave a short, dry laugh. "Your hobby is certainly unique. Alright, rest well. I'll contact you if there's any development." The call ended with a soft click, leaving Chen Ge alone in the breakroom's quiet darkness. He sat motionless for a long moment, the white cat's steady breathing the only sound. Then he gathered the scattered notes—patient lists, symptoms, the chilling murder summary—and arranged them on the table, staring at the names and numbers as if they might rearrange themselves into answers.
Ten rooms, nine patients. Why the empty third bay? If rooms were ordered by danger level, an empty slot made no sense unless it had been deliberately left vacant—or held someone so dangerous the records were erased. Or perhaps a patient had died inside, and the hospital scrubbed every trace to avoid liability. The possibilities spun in Chen Ge's mind, each one darker than the last. He rubbed his temples, exhaustion pressing in. The Third Sick Hall wasn't just a place of treatment; it was a crucible that forged monsters. And tomorrow night, he would walk into its ruins, alone, with only a cleaver, a rooster, and salt between him and whatever still waited inside.
Chen Ge didn't know when sleep finally claimed him, but when he woke, faint dawn light filtered through the breakroom window. His watch read 6:00 a.m. He washed his face quickly, the cold water chasing away the last fog of restless dreams, then stepped out of the Haunted House. The park was still asleep, pathways empty, only the first morning birds stirring. He unlocked his bicycle and pedaled toward the nearest wet market, the early chill biting at his cheeks.
The market was already alive despite the hour—vendors shouting prices, steam rising from noodle stalls, the metallic clang of cleavers on chopping blocks. Chen Ge moved through the crowd of middle-aged aunties and uncles, conspicuous in his black coat and purposeful stride. He first stopped at a poultry stall, purchasing a live rooster that flapped indignantly in its bamboo cage. Then he approached the pork butcher's stall, eyes fixed on the heavy cleaver hanging above the block, its blade dark with years of use and blood.
The proprietor—a sturdy man around forty with callused hands and a stained apron—noticed Chen Ge's intense stare long before he spoke. When the rush of customers eased, the man wiped his hands and leaned on the counter. "What can I do for you, young man?"
Chen Ge cleared his throat, feeling oddly embarrassed. "I'd like to buy your cleaver."
The butcher's face fell, suspicion hardening his features. "You want my cleaver?" He gestured at the worn but razor-sharp tool. "This one? It's not for sale. This is my workhorse—been with me fifteen years."
"I'm serious," Chen Ge insisted, placing a stack of bills on the counter. "Name your price."
The butcher stared at the money, then at Chen Ge's earnest expression, and slowly began to laugh. "You're not joking. Look, kid, modern slaughterhouses use machines now—electric stunners, hydraulic knives. If you want a cleaver that's tasted real blood for years, you need an old-school butcher. I can point you to a few, but this one?" He patted the blade fondly. "She's not going anywhere."
Chen Ge nodded, disappointed but not surprised. He pocketed the money, thanked the man, and walked deeper into the market, the rooster clucking indignantly in its cage. The day was just beginning, but the weight of tonight's livestream—and tomorrow's inevitable confrontation with the Third Sick Hall—already pressed down on him like a storm on the horizon.