The elevator was engulfed in silence.
Shen Huanhuan quickly crouched to support her sister, but was stopped by Fang Miao.
“Don’t move her. This looks like a sudden attack; best not to disturb her.”
After dialing a number on her phone, Fang Miao bent over to check Shen Xiaoxiao’s breathing, then lifted her eyelids to examine her pupils.
“Strange—everything’s normal.”
She pressed her fingers to Shen Xiaoxiao’s wrist for a few seconds, frowning in puzzlement. “Her heart rate is a bit fast, but still within the normal range… For now, I can’t say what the cause is. We’ll wait for the doctor.”
Ding!
The elevator reached the fourth floor. The doors slid open.
Fang Miao stepped forward to hold the doors; Shen Huanhuan’s face had gone chalk-pale, her lips bitten tight. She sent a fleeting glance at Jiang Yan, as if itching to say something but restrained by Fang Miao’s presence.
A moment later, Shen Huanhuan shook her head.
She murmured, “No need for a doctor. My sister’s always had this condition—she’ll be fine in a moment.”
As she spoke, she pressed her joined fingers and the inside of her wrist to Shen Xiaoxiao’s philtrum.
From Fang Miao’s angle, the movement seemed entirely routine, but Jiang Yan could clearly see the yellow talisman pressed to Shen Huanhuan’s palm.
Half a minute later, Shen Xiaoxiao slowly regained consciousness. She first looked upward in confusion—then, realizing she was in the elevator, wisely stayed silent.
She took the tissue Shen Huanhuan handed her, tore it into small pieces, and packed her still-bleeding nose.
Fang Miao glanced at her phone. “The doctor’s on the way. Let’s head to the rooms first.”
Shen Huanhuan intervened on her sister’s behalf. “No need to trouble yourself—this is just an old ailment. My sister just gets overexcited easily. She’s fainted since childhood, but physically she’s fine.”
At the words “overexcited easily,” a shadow flickered across Fang Miao’s face; she immediately fell silent.
[She must be thinking of that March incident.]
[Probably. That was when a psychiatric patient had a manic episode and stabbed two nurses.]
[By the way, what just happened to Shen Xiaoxiao…?]
[It’s the same as Cheng Xuwang’s situation. Cheng’s “intuition” was so strong that it kept her from entering the sanatorium, knocking her out at the gate. Shen Xiaoxiao is very sensitive to spiritual entities. There must be a formidable spirit here—Shen Xiaoxiao simply couldn’t take the pressure.]
[There’s also a physical cause. I heard Shen Xiaoxiao has always been weak—she was bedridden for years before becoming a psychic, because her own soul was incomplete.]
[You can’t judge the spirit’s strength just yet, but there’s no way it could knock Shen Xiaoxiao out so easily unless it’s different from anything she’s faced. Maybe her own adjustment to spirit pressure isn’t balanced.]
[Yeah, it’s like someone living their whole life in a gravity-1 world, and one day it jumps to gravity 3. Takes time to adapt.]
This was exactly the line of thought on Shen Huanhuan’s mind as well. She squeezed her sister’s hand, worried.
Shen Xiaoxiao whispered, “I’m fine. I was just careless. Thought a semi-energy field spirit’s presence would only be twice as strong as normal… Turns out it’s several times that. I’ll remember to recite protection spells ahead of time next time.”
Shen Huanhuan nodded and, seeing her sister recovering, turned to the head nurse.
“It’s getting late. Let’s go on.”
“Alright,” Fang Miao withdrew her foot from the elevator door, and the three followed her toward the rooms.
The fourth floor was not large—in truth, the entire sanatorium was cramped. The newly painted walls looked like blank white paper, but under the fluorescent lights, the effect was chillingly bleak.
There were seventeen rooms on the floor, numbered from 401 to 417; only the first two were singles, the rest all doubles.
Soon, Fang Miao stopped outside room 403.
She addressed the twins about the details:
“There’s a bathroom, air conditioning, and television in your room. Each room’s water and electricity are metered separately and billed monthly.”
“And one important point,” she stressed, “the rounds are done after midnight. Don’t lock your doors from the inside.”
Shen Huanhuan promised their compliance.
Shen Xiaoxiao was still a bit woozy and nodded feebly.
Fang Miao gave her a thoughtful once-over and added, “There’s a call bell at your bedside. If you feel unwell or need anything, just press it. There’s always someone on duty at the nurses’ station who will come quickly.”
“Thank you. If there’s any problem, we’ll use it,” Shen Huanhuan replied, then helped Shen Xiaoxiao into the room.
She didn’t exchange so much as a glance with Jiang Yan.
Before entering the sanatorium, the three of them had agreed to pretend to be casual acquaintances from the bus—friendly, but not intimate.
Given Shen Xiaoxiao’s current state, it was only natural for her older sister to focus on her, barely acknowledging Jiang Yan, who was, after all, little more than a stranger.
“Come on, let’s get you to your room.”
Because it was so late, Fang Miao walked briskly, and within a few breaths, they reached 405.
“Did you remember everything I just said?”
Jiang Yan nodded.
“Oh, that’s right…”
Just before leaving, Fang Miao added, “The cafeteria is on the second floor—meal times are posted at the door. Breakfast is from 6:30 to 8:00. You’ll need to go yourself; no one has time to bring food to your room.”
Jiang Yan understood. Seeing the new patients were all behaving well, Fang Miao’s attitude softened considerably.
Once Fang Miao left, Jiang Yan pulled her suitcase inside and opened the door to her room.
The smell of disinfectant typical to hospitals washed over her. The curtains were half open, and pale moonlight spilled in, casting an eerie glow on the mildew-mottled walls and the beds that were neither quite new nor old.
At the bed by the window sat a girl, about eight or nine years old.
She wore an oversized blue-and-white hospital gown, her hair tied in low twin ponytails, bare feet dangling over the side. She looked up silently at Jiang Yan.
Moonlight fell across the girl’s figure, giving her a chill, absent air far beyond her years.
For the first time, Jiang Yan felt like an unwelcome intruder.
It was clear she was not wanted here.
Jiang Yan, of course, couldn’t care less. She asked, “I’m turning on the light, alright?”
The girl said nothing.
So Jiang Yan flicked the switch. Harsh white light flooded the room. Jiang Yan squinted, then glanced at the wall clock.
[23:21]
She opened her suitcase and began setting out toiletries, clothes, and shoes.
Perhaps having seen her unpacking an entire half suitcase of clothes, the girl suddenly spoke. “There are hospital gowns in the wardrobe.”
Jiang Yan was just about to put her clothes away. She opened the wardrobe and found a neatly folded, unopened set of clothes.
She took them out and found the sleeves and trouser legs much too long.
Of course—since even the rooms had just been assigned, there was no way the hospital laundry would have picked clothes the right size for her.
She looked at the little girl. “These are men’s clothes.”
The girl didn’t look at Jiang Yan, turning her head toward the window instead, as if gazing at something only she could see.
After a moment, she said, “The previous occupant of that bed just died.”
Now Jiang Yan understood.
She would be sleeping in the bed of a man who’d only just died. His spare gown—unopened—had passed directly to her.
Jiang Yan put the hospital clothes back in the wardrobe.
Ten minutes later, having finished tidying, she was ready for bed.
“Put the gown on,” the girl spoke again, “You’re dirty. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
Jiang Yan frowned. “I’m not even using your bed.”
“But this is my room.”
[???]
[That’s some territorial behavior for a kid.]
[What do you mean your room? It’s a double room!]
[I felt sorry—the poor thing, so sick so young—but this attitude is something else. The head nurse didn’t make Jiang Yan wear the gown and here this kid’s laying down the law? Jiang Yan, go make her angry!]
But—unexpectedly for the viewers—
Jiang Yan studied the girl for a few seconds, then actually took the gown and stepped into the bathroom.
It was huge on her; its real owner must have been over six foot three, weighing at least two hundred pounds—far larger than Jiang Yan.
It took her almost ten minutes to squeeze into it, rolling up the sleeves, cuffing the pants over and over. The waistband had no elasticity, so she knotted it tightly.
Emerging, Jiang Yan instinctively glanced at the clock.
[23:55]
This was the place Jiang Yuqing had warned was “on the verge of becoming an energy field.” Jiang Yan had never actually confronted such a place before, so she was cautious—she didn’t want an incident on her first night.
And it seemed, from the girl’s “desire,” this really was nothing but a pure—if extreme—aversion to being unclean.
She turned out the lights, lay down by moonlight.
There was a brown, crusted bloodstain at the edge of the sheet. Even those without a hygiene obsession might find this revolting; Jiang Yan herself, despite some compulsive tendencies, felt queasy.
She kept her body far from the stain, then rolled onto her side, facing the other bed.
The girl was already lying with her back toward Jiang Yan, her slender body barely creating a bump beneath the covers; her breathing was so light Jiang Yan only made it out by listening intently.
After a while, lulled by the faint sound of breath, drowsiness at last overcame her.
But just a few minutes later, a sharp, urgent bell shattered her sleep.
“Riiing… Riiing…”
Jiang Yan’s eyes snapped open. She sat up and checked the time. Exactly midnight.
Through the speaker above the door, Fang Miao’s voice echoed. But unlike her calm tones half an hour prior, she now sounded flamboyant, every word exaggerated:
“Late night rounds are about to begin.”
“Patients, remember your bed and room numbers. Anyone trying to get you to leave your room is a psychiatric patient—do not believe a word they say.”
“Baishan Sanatorium is dedicated to serving every patient. Trust only the medical staff—they are your only guarantee of survival!”
Fang Miao shouted the final line, her tone absurdly theatrical—almost frenzied, tinged with a strangeness impossible to describe.
Don’t believe a single word of the psychiatric patients?
Jiang Yan, undercover as a patient, held silent for half a beat. Even knowing nothing about the current situation, she was certain there was something very wrong about this broadcast.
Very wrong.
Even ignoring the content, since when did a sanatorium play loudspeaker announcements at midnight during rounds?
Waking all patients from deep sleep? Inhumane. None of the patients here would be healthy, and good rest is a precondition for maintaining what health they had.
Jiang Yan frowned deeply, thinking.
But before she could latch onto a thought, her phone began to vibrate.
She picked it up, set it to silent, and checked her messages.
It was the group chat.
Before their admission, Jiang Yuqing had helped them set up a chat group. Now, Shen Xiaoxiao, using her little otter avatar, was posting an endless stream of memes.
[Shocked.jpg]
[What the hell is this.jpg]
[It’s me, the otter—I really don’t want to sleep in this bed.jpg]
A moment later, Yu Renwan, with her little crow avatar, replied: “The nursing staff are too few. I’ve been drafted to help with the rounds too… The head nurse told us to check each room. No more instructions. Guess we’re just supposed to lie in bed?”
Shen Huanhuan, with the rose avatar: “This broadcast is so wrong. Are we really supposed to stay in bed?”
Jiang Yan glanced over at her unmoving roommate, then tagged Yu Renwan: “Can you try to get rounds duty on the fourth floor?”
Yu Renwan instantly replied: “I’ll try.”
A moment later: “The head nurse assigned me and Wei Xian to check the fourth floor.”
Wei Xian was the round-faced nurse who’d let them in.
Seeing Yu Renwan succeed, Shen Huanhuan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”
Jiang Yan relaxed back into bed.
With Yu Renwan on the fourth floor, she decided to avoid any rash moves. The broadcast was undeniably odd, but running around now would likely be more dangerous. Better to listen for events on other floors for now.
The sweep of the second hand was barely audible.
As time slipped by, a tingling numbness crept up Jiang Yan’s spine, spreading to her wrists—her pulse beating faster and faster.
She rolled over, pressing down her heart, now pounding with a strange excitement.
Fourth round, and this was the first time she’d encountered a setup like this.
Jiang Yan stilled her breath, listening. But there was nothing: no disturbance, only a string of footsteps—sharp heels clicking on tiles—echoed through the quiet.
At last, the elevator’s chime sounded on the fourth floor.
Yu Renwan and Wei Xian had arrived.
Room after room opened and closed in sequence, gentle latches clicking as each door was checked. They finished the twins’ room, 403, and moved into 404.
The silence remained unbroken.
Two minutes later, Jiang Yan heard her door handle turn.
Tap. Tap.
The sound of heels drew nearer, stopping finally by her bed.
Jiang Yan kept her eyes shut, but soon felt another presence crawl under her blanket—a hand, rough from years of heavy work, grasped her own beneath the covers.
Jiang Yan recognized that hand from helping Yu Renwan down a staircase. This was Yu Renwan’s—a working woman’s, callused and strong.
Now, Yu Renwan’s palm was clammy with sweat, shivering uncontrollably.
Jiang Yan didn’t know why she was so frightened.
Under cover of the blanket, Jiang Yan lifted her eyelid just a fraction. The lights were still off; in the moonlight, Yu Renwan’s face looked ashen and grim, and when she saw Jiang Yan peeking, she quickly blinked hard, signaling her to close her eyes.
Jiang Yan did so.
A prickling sensation in her palm.
Yu Renwan began writing in it, her hand shaking from fear.
[I was just crowded with a bunch of people on the stairs. They didn’t speak—just stared ahead.]
That wasn’t particularly scary—late night rounds, staff half-asleep and not chatty with new hires.
So Yu Renwan was afraid of something else.
As Jiang Yan expected, Yu Renwan continued writing:
[But they should have had bad luck. Why didn’t they?]
Yu Renwan’s misfortune was legendary; anyone around her should have suffered some mishap. And yet, as she’d heard the comings and goings upstairs and downstairs, there was only walking and door closing—no complaints, no curses, not even a single impatient mutter.
Everyone seemed…so well-behaved.
Yu Renwan’s teeth were chattering now, the faint clicking amplifying the midnight dread.
[No one has ever been like you.]
She nervously traced out one final line in Jiang Yan’s palm:
[Are these people even human?]