Nineteen

While Xiao Ai was away for her follow-up appointment with Dr. Zhao, Xian Xiaoya seized the day to tidy up the house. She was preparing to move into her new apartment. Just then, the doorbell rang. Upon opening the door, she found it was the courier who had come to collect her belongings.

“These boxes right here, please,” Xiaoya said, pointing at the neatly packed boxes on the floor.

The courier carried each box outside. These were all to be sent to the new apartment. Only after all the boxes had left did she shut the door and continue packing the rest.

With the move imminent, there was much left to sort. She remembered she still needed to pack her daughter’s things. Yet—strangely—she couldn’t find anything that belonged to her daughter. Disoriented and foggy, she felt as though she was suffering from intermittent amnesia, searching in vain for any trace of her child’s possessions. The photograph in the living room, once displaying mother and daughter together, now showed her daughter fading away, vanishing from the image.

Nor could she find any of her husband’s belongings in her own room. Yet, in a dim corner by the wall, something seemed drawn onto the wall, obscured by the dressing table. She moved it aside, discovering faded, childish scrawls—a record of height measurements, old and blurry, as if from many years ago. But she had no memory of them.

Such concealed graffiti, it seemed ancient and she felt a surge of annoyance—who had scribbled on the wall? Why mar such pristine walls? Though she was about to leave, the sight of the mess was intolerable; she needed to clean it for peace of mind.

But then, something eerie happened. No matter how she scrubbed, the marks stubbornly remained. She wiped again, and the graffiti slowly reappeared, as if resurfacing from beneath. Xiaoya could hardly believe her eyes, rubbing them for clarity; the marks were still there! Cold sweat broke out across her skin.

Her nerves unsettled, she soon heard strange sounds, faintly emanating from the room at the end of the corridor.

It was the room she always ignored, never believing anything was inside—or perhaps just mice. An inexplicable fear gripped her, but she forced herself to investigate.

She recalled what Xiao Ai had told her… Perhaps… Impossible… She shook her head, refusing to believe.

The room’s door had always remained shut, the lock broken and impossible to open. But Xiao Ai had insisted otherwise. Xiaoya approached, half-doubtful, and attempted to open the door. This time—the door yielded.

Her heart raced, panic flickering in her expression. Beyond the door, she saw a deep, dark corridor. Though daylight shone outside, the windows inside were closed tight, curtains drawn, and the overhead light was broken. She could only grope her way through the darkness.

The deeper she ventured, the stranger it felt. She couldn’t recall the room being so long. Cautiously, she moved forward, spotting a faint glimmer ahead. Following the light, she rounded a corner—and was stunned to find herself facing the display window of the third floor of Golden Terrace Gardens, apartment 303.

Through the window, Xiaoya saw people inside. Uneasy, she approached slowly. A woman with disheveled hair was splashing kerosene around the room. The stench was overwhelming—was she planning to set the house ablaze?

Witnessing this, Xiaoya nearly cried out in terror, but held herself back. She tried to draw nearer, afraid the woman might notice her. Would she silence Xiaoya as well? Why was this strange woman in her home? How did her room’s secret passage lead to the window of 303? What manner of bizarre space was this? When had it appeared? Was it all an illusion? She could scarcely believe it—

From afar, the woman looked familiar. Suddenly, flames erupted, dazzling and fierce, smoke billowing thickly. By the fire’s light, Xiaoya finally saw the woman’s face clearly—her pupils shrinking in terror. What Xiao Ai had spoken of—she saw it herself.

Suddenly, a man’s voice cried out, a senior’s voice, appearing at Xiaoya’s side—

“Help me!” Xiaoya turned, recognizing Zhong Shiqiang.

The elderly, confused man she’d seen in the hospital, wheelchair-bound—why was he here? Wasn’t he supposed to live in the building opposite 303?

Xiaoya was stunned, petrified by the scene, staring wordlessly at Zhong Shiqiang.

“Save the house, she’s trying to burn it! Help me!” he pleaded.

Her mind was blank, slow to react. The old man shouted again, “Save the house!” desperate and agitated.

The fire spread quickly; Xiaoya looked about, searching for water to extinguish it. Her first instinct was to evacuate the old man—since he couldn’t walk, she pushed his wheelchair out, determined to keep him safe. The arsonist spotted Xiaoya, pursuing her with a furious glare, as if to see who dared thwart her plans.

The woman glared with malice, rushing toward Xiaoya, as if to douse her with kerosene as well. Facing the woman—who looked exactly like herself—Xiaoya was frozen, unable to move. When the woman drew near, she snapped out of it, pushing the old man away. But fear overcame her, and she abandoned him, fleeing alone. Perhaps… she could reach the hall and retrieve her phone to call for help. She justified her escape.

She raced back through the pitch-black corridor—yes, she needed to call the police! Ahead lay the room’s door; once she stepped through, everything would be fine! But… each time she opened a door, another appeared. She opened one, and yet another emerged. Again and again, doors without end—she grew frantic, opening door after door, until she’d opened over a dozen, none leading back to her hall. The repetition was endless—

Behind her, the voices of the old man and the woman rang out, soon joined by others—Miss Lin, Jason, the young restaurant waiter, Zhong Shiqiang’s son… Darkness closed in, and Xiaoya collapsed, unconscious.

October 25, 2020
SNS Research Laboratory, 10:02 AM—

Beside the comatose patient’s hospital bed, the monitor suddenly showed abnormal heart rhythms—highly unstable. The nurse, noticing this, immediately called for Horen.

“What’s happening to her?” The heart rate soared to 158 beats per minute. Horen ordered the programmer to investigate.

“Her subconscious imagery is collapsing,” the programmer replied, monitoring the system changes.

“How could this happen?”

“There’s a data breach—an external set of invasive code has damaged our system, triggering the substitute’s subconscious awakening. What should we do now?” the programmer explained.

“Who breached our system? Who?” Horen pressed.

“It’ll take a long time to track. We won’t be able to run the consciousness replacement program.”

“Damn it, it must be her!” Horen seemed to know who was responsible.

“The patient’s consciousness is awakening. If we force a rewrite, her heart may not withstand it; her brain could be harmed.”

“We’ll have to stabilize her with medication. Administer a stabilizer.”

“Is that safe, Doctor…” The assistant in white hesitated.

“Her physical shell is paramount; I won’t let her be harmed. Just survive these last ten minutes and she’ll be fully restored!” Horen insisted. The assistant followed orders.

With one injection, the patient gradually calmed, heart rate slowing to around 85 beats per minute.

Horen’s expression remained unchanged, calm as ever. The others breathed a sigh of relief, though he muttered a curse—“Damn it!”—under his breath. Horen had never expected that Evan would have hidden such a card from him.