The storage room was the kind of place time seemed to have forgotten.
It sat at the very back of the Xiao family's small apartment — a narrow, dust-choked space barely lit by a single naked lightbulb hanging from a frayed cord. The bulb buzzed faintly, flickering in irregular intervals, like it was too tired to do its job.
The air was heavy with the smell of old paper, rust, and something faintly metallic. Cobwebs draped lazily over boxes stacked unevenly against the peeling walls. The floor was littered with screws, nails, and yellowed scraps of newspaper whose dates went back more than ten years.
Xiao Fan stepped inside carefully, mindful of the loose floorboards. His father had asked him to find an old set of pliers for a leaky kitchen pipe, but Xiao Fan doubted he'd find anything here that wasn't already half-broken.
He brushed a hand along the nearest stack of boxes, sending a puff of dust into the air. His cough echoed in the cramped space.
"This place should be condemned," he muttered under his breath.
His eyes swept the room, searching for anything remotely shaped like pliers, when something unusual caught his attention. Wedged between the far wall and the bent leg of a broken folding chair was a small, battered tin can.
It was out of place. Everything else in the storage room had a layer of lazy neglect, but this can was different — it had been deliberately sealed. Black electrical tape circled its rim several times, the adhesive worn but still holding firm. Its surface was pitted with dents, and patches of reddish-brown clung to the metal like old stains that had resisted years of cleaning.
Xiao Fan crouched down and pulled it free. The weight surprised him. It was far heavier than an empty can had any right to be, and whatever was inside shifted in a strangely solid way — not like coins or screws, but as if the object within was a single, dense piece.
He turned it over in his hands, his brows furrowing. There were no markings, no brand, nothing to suggest what it had once contained.
"Well… only one way to find out."
He peeled away the brittle tape, the sticky residue clinging stubbornly to his fingertips. The lid resisted at first, then gave way with a sharp metallic crack.
The edge caught his finger.
"Ah—damn it!" he hissed, pulling his hand back. A thin red line had opened along the side of his index finger, a bead of blood welling up.
Ignoring the sting, he peered into the can.
A sleek, black shape rested inside — a smartphone.
It was unlike any phone he had ever seen. Its casing was a deep, mirror-like black, so polished it reflected his face with unsettling clarity. There were no logos, no camera lenses, no charging ports. Not even volume buttons. It was as if someone had carved it from a single piece of obsidian and smoothed every edge to perfection.
Xiao Fan's brows knit tighter. "That's… weird."
He tapped the screen. Nothing happened. He tried swiping, pressing where a power button should be, holding down the edges. The phone remained stubbornly dead.
"…Must be broken," he muttered, though a strange reluctance to throw it away settled in his chest.
He slid it into the side pocket of his school bag.
The next morning, the school hallways were as noisy and chaotic as ever.
Xiao Fan kept his head low as he made his way to class, ignoring the bursts of laughter and chatter from clusters of students. Even without looking, he could feel the eyes on him — not because he was popular, but because he stood out in a way that was more trouble than it was worth.
Handsome, his mother used to say. Striking, the teachers called him. But in high school, good looks without status or strength just made you a target.
The target was about to be hit.
"Well, well, look who's wandering into our territory," a lazy voice drawled from the side.
Xiao Fan's steps slowed. Leaning against the lockers ahead of him were Zhang Wei and his friends — three taller, broader boys who moved like they owned the corridor. Zhang Wei himself was a head taller than Xiao Fan, with cropped hair, a thick neck, and the kind of smirk that promised trouble.
"Morning, Zhang Wei," Xiao Fan said flatly, trying to sidestep.
A heavy hand slammed against his shoulder, shoving him back into the lockers with a clang that drew the attention of several nearby students. Conversations quieted, but no one moved to intervene.
"Not so fast," Zhang Wei said. "You didn't greet me properly."
"I'm not looking for trouble," Xiao Fan replied, his voice calm but tight.
"That's too bad. Trouble's looking for you."
The fist came fast, smashing into his cheek. Pain flared, and Xiao Fan staggered sideways. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, warm and bitter.
His bag slipped from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. Inside, the black phone shifted — and then it happened.
A single drop of blood fell from his lip, seeping into the gap between the bag's zipper and landing directly onto the phone's cold, dead surface.
Bzzzzzt.
The vibration was sudden and almost alive. It wasn't the soft hum of a normal phone — it was a sharp, deliberate pulse, like a heartbeat under his palm.
Heat spread from where his blood had touched it, and before his eyes, the screen flared to life in a deep, crimson glow. Jagged red lines snaked across the surface, spreading like veins.
Zhang Wei froze, his fist halfway up for another strike. "What the hell is that?"
Xiao Fan reached down and pulled the phone free. The reflection on its black surface was gone — now it was a window into shifting red light, as if something inside was waking up.
Words appeared in stark white letters, crisp and unnervingly precise:
Blood signature accepted. Welcome, Player.
Beneath the text, two icons materialized:
Camera — its icon darkened and locked with a faint padlock symbol.
Game — glowing faintly, the image within rippling as though something was moving just beyond the surface.
Xiao Fan's heartbeat pounded in his ears. His cheek still throbbed from the punch, but in that moment, the pain felt far away.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't just a phone.
And whatever it was, it had just chosen him.