The orderlies harbored a deep-rooted fear of the two patients in Room 666.
Memories of past incidents were still vivid in their minds.
"Are they asleep?" the director asked.
"They are."
The director drew a deep breath. What followed would not be a simple exchange—it would involve delicacy, caution, and a depth of professional knowledge.
Such as:
How to communicate with the mentally ill.
Technical psychiatric terminology.
Comprehensive psychological profiles of patients with severe disorders.
Just then, Lin Fan and Old Zhang sat upright and exchanged a brief glance.
"We're very tired. We want to sleep," Lin Fan said, his voice weary. "If there's something you need to say, make it quick. We're truly exhausted."
They claimed to be tired.
Yet both of them looked wide awake—alert, even.
The grease on their lips shimmered under the flashlight's glow.
"What were you just doing?" the director asked.
"Sleeping," Lin Fan replied.
"Sleeping," echoed Old Zhang.
"They weren't sleeping!" Li Ang interrupted, his voice tinged with panic. "I swear—they were doing something horrifying! He was holding a head in his hands! He had a leg! They were eating a person—I saw it, I really saw it!"
The director frowned. Arguing with psychiatric patients was rarely productive, and doing so publicly could be dangerous.
"Xiao Li," he said softly, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder, "you were hallucinating. It was all an illusion."
But as the director took in the room—the dismantled lightbulb, the scorched marks on the ceiling—he knew: Li Ang wasn't lying.
Something had happened here.
He just didn't plan to admit it.
He stepped forward cautiously. Creak. Something crunched underfoot. He glanced down and saw it—a shard of bone. No… not a bone. It resembled a tooth. A canine tooth. But not from any ordinary dog. It was too thick. Too sharp.
The director, who moments ago had planned to engage in a "deeper interaction" with the patients, immediately reconsidered and retracted his foot.
How should one interpret all this?
One thing was clear: it was far from simple.
He exited the room and took out his phone.
Beep—beep—
After a few rings, the call connected.
"Dean Hao, are you still awake?"
"Whether you are or not, I must insist—you need to come to Room 666."
"Yes, I cannot resolve this on my own. We're all waiting for you."
He ended the call and remained at the doorway.
"The dean will be here shortly."
Dean Hao lived on the hospital premises.
He had just finished his nighttime routine, soft melancholic music playing as he prepared for bed. But the call had roused him once more.
It wasn't long before he appeared.
His expression was grave, and his snow-white hair bore silent witness to years of unseen strain. Though technically still in his fifties—still considered middle-aged—his entire demeanor was that of an old man prematurely aged by unrelenting responsibility.
Room 666 was both the hospital's greatest anomaly and its most dangerous ward.
Ordinary people couldn't communicate with its occupants at all.
Only Dean Hao could suppress the chaos, and even then, he had to tread carefully—it wasn't without risk.
"Dean."
"Dean."
He nodded and turned to the director. "Report."
The director leaned in and whispered, summarizing what had transpired. Then he discreetly pointed at the canine tooth lying on the ground.
Dean Hao stepped inside. He bent to retrieve the tooth, rubbed it gently between his fingers.
Yes. It was canine—but not from an ordinary dog. It was too large, too serrated.
He slipped it into his pocket and moved to stand between the two beds—close, but not too close.
"What were you doing just now?" he asked, his tone measured, calm, and slow. His voice carried no judgment, only patience, creating the illusion of a safe space.
"Sleeping," Lin Fan and Old Zhang responded in unison.
Eating meat?
Nonsense. That simply never happened.
Dean Hao had expected that reply.
But the scent of cooked meat lingered in the air—faint, but distinct. It reminded him of dog meat. His fingers brushed against the tooth in his pocket. He had a theory already.
"Oh… sleeping, is it?" he smiled faintly.
His eyes drifted to the disassembled lightbulb, the charred ceiling, and the glistening residue on their lips.
The details told their own story.
Dean Hao's highly trained mind reconstructed the entire scene with chilling precision.
He could hardly believe it.
They roasted meat using electricity.
A method surprisingly close to his own unpublished research.
He had long observed that some psychiatric patients possessed intelligence far exceeding the norm.
So why were such brilliant individuals labeled "insane"?
Because intelligence is not strength in numbers. The brilliant are few; the dull are many. And what the many cannot understand, they fear—and ostracize.
That was why he had never published this theory.
Because he, too, was afraid.
Dean Hao's gaze dropped to Lin Fan's lower body.
Something in his pants was glowing.
He inhaled slowly and extended a hand.
"Hand it over."
"I didn't take anything," Lin Fan said calmly.
Dean Hao said nothing. He simply pointed.
Lin Fan looked down.
"It's glowing," he admitted.
"Yes. Give it to me."
Lin Fan reached into his pants and pulled out the flashlight, handing it to the dean.
Dean Hao remained stoic, unmoved.
Last time, it had been a hammer.
This time, a flashlight.
In the hands of a patient, anything—even a flashlight—could become a weapon.
Even a nail clipper could be lethal.
From outside, the wail of an ambulance grew louder.
Wee-oo! Wee-oo!
Dean Hao instructed the staff to reinstall the lightbulb. As he observed the fixture, he made a mental note: that would need to be sealed as well.
"Be good. Go to sleep."
"Okay!" Lin Fan and Old Zhang replied cheerfully, lying down and pulling the covers over themselves.
They were snoring in moments.
The staff exited the room and gently closed the door behind them.
The rumble of stretcher wheels echoed down the hallway. A team of doctors in white coats approached in haste.
"Where's the patient?"
The question was routine—expected.
"You called the ambulance, you deal with it," Dean Hao said, clapping the director on the shoulder and walking away.
The director watched him go, mouth half open, unsure what to say.
"Where's the patient? You can't make false emergency calls. That's a legal issue," one of the doctors snapped, growing impatient.
The director looked around, then pointed at Li Ang.
"He's the one. He needs to be evaluated."
"What?! I'm not sick!" Li Ang looked devastated.
The doctors moved quickly. "That's not for you to decide. A trip through the machines will tell us everything."
"I'm not sick! I'm not going!"
Li Ang thrashed and yelled, increasingly disoriented. "What could possibly be wrong with me?! Stop it, all of you!"
A doctor turned to the director. "Is he really ill?"
The director paused, then nodded. "Yes."
"You're the expert. If you say so, that's good enough for us."
Moments later—
Li Ang was strapped to a stretcher and wheeled away.
"I'm not sick!"
"Let me go!"
"I'm really not sick!"
Gradually, the sound of the ambulance faded into the night.
Wee-oo... Wee-oo...
From the distance, one could still hear his voice—
"I'm not sick…"
Or perhaps that too… was just a hallucination.