[0:00] – Arrival
The train left him on the edge of nothing.
No station signs. No waiting passengers.
Just a cracked asphalt road leading into a dense thicket of trees, beyond which stood the crumbling silhouette of the Zhenhai Sanatorium—its windows dark, its edges eaten by time.
Lin approached it like a returning memory.
Familiar, yet wrong.
Rust had devoured the metal gate. Vines twisted up broken light poles. A sign by the entrance read:
Zhenhai Psychiatric Center – Est. 1981
"Restoring Rational Thought for a Harmonious Tomorrow"
The last word—Tomorrow—was barely legible, paint chipped and flaking like dead skin.
He stepped inside.
The wind didn't follow.
⸻
[0:08] – The Lobby
The front desk was frozen in an eternal check-in.
Rotting visitor logs sat half-open. A wheelchair lay overturned near a filing cabinet.
Above the peeling reception banner, faded red characters still clung to concrete:
"Emotions are the cancer that disturbs reason."
Emotion is the tumor that poisons reason.
His flashlight flickered.
He whispered Tang Yuyan's name aloud, as if that might summon direction.
The air felt like it had weight.
⸻
[0:15] – First Fragment: Room 203
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. Room 203's door hung off one hinge.
Inside: two rusting beds. An old medical screen. The walls were covered with yellowed posters of neural diagrams and emotion-processing maps.
On the floor lay a cassette recorder, smashed—but its tape intact.
He pocketed it and scribbled on the label was one word:
Yuyan
Near the window, someone had etched into the wall:
"Don't take away what makes me me."
The scratches went deep—as if carved in panic.
⸻
[0:22] – Second Fragment: Records Room B
The ceiling tiles drooped like exhausted mouths.
Dozens of patient files littered the floor, mold devouring their edges. A lone ceiling fan spun slowly, without power.
One drawer refused to open—until Lin pried it loose.
Inside: a folder marked EMOTIONAL NULLIFICATION TRIAL – PHASE II.
He flipped through:
Subject #004 – Tang Yuyan
Diagnosis: Persistent Affective Dissidence
Recommended treatment: Recursive Empathy Stripping
Annotations followed in red ink:
•"Subject resists Stage II hallucinations."
•"Emotion recall remains stubborn."
•"Testing prototype 'Oblivion Filter' module."
In the margin: someone had written "NOT A GOOD FIT."
Below that, in a trembling hand:
"She remembers even in dreams."
⸻
[0:35] – Echoes in the Walls
As Lin moved deeper, he heard the sound of laughter.
Children's laughter—echoing from the stairwell.
He followed it.
Found nothing.
But on the stair railing, someone had wrapped a child's scarf—torn, faded, still faintly warm.
It made no sense.
This place had been abandoned for years.
And yet… the sanatorium was aware of his presence.
⸻
[0:44] – Third Fragment: The Observation Theatre
He entered through a double door into what looked like a theater room.
Rows of chairs faced a one-way mirror. Behind the glass: an empty patient room with restraints.
In the projection booth, he found a dusty projector. He threaded in the Yuyan-labeled tape.
The image flickered onto the wall:
Tang Yuyan sits in the room beyond the mirror. Eyes closed. Wires on her temples.
A man's voice speaks: "What emotion do you feel when you recall your mother's voice?"
She replies: "Sharp. Not warm. But real."
"What about your first betrayal?"
"Still in me. Still bleeding."
"Do you consent to erasure?"
She opens her eyes.
"I consent to remember."
Then static.
⸻
[0:59] – The File Room
He descended into the basement.
The lights no longer worked.
He passed a sign: "Phase III Personnel Only"
The air thickened—musty and chemical.
A final room. Metal door half-ajar. Inside: shattered glass and overturned filing shelves.
At the center, a locked cabinet.
He kicked it open.
Inside were folders labeled with Ledger prototype IDs.
One file was marked "Prototype-D | Ledger Mirror Sync Initiative"
He flipped through:
"Emotional deviation creates measurable system stress."
"Recursive variables arise in subjects who resist empathy deletion."
"Subject #004—unexpected mirror sync. Result: self-embedding within task environment."
Someone had circled one line in red:
"Her code now responds to reflection, not command."
He closed the folder slowly.
Tang Yuyan hadn't just survived the experiments.
She had become part of the system.
⸻
[1:14] – Back in the Hallway
Returning to the upper floors, Lin passed a corridor he swore wasn't there before.
It was clean. Lit. New.
And at the end of it—an office door labeled:
CURATOR: YUYAN.T
He stepped inside.
Empty desk. Glass walls. A mirror on the far side.
And on the mirror, in dry marker:
"If you've made it here, they already marked you."
Next to it: a final folder, unopened.
He read only the first line:
SUBJECT 11: L. XUN
Projected deviation threshold exceeded.
"Rewriting protocol activated."
A voice echoed from nowhere.
"Lin, do you know what emotion they feared most?"
He turned.
No one.
Then, behind him—his own reflection spoke:
"Grief."