Nineteen

While Xiao Ai was out for her follow-up appointment with Dr. Zhao, Xian Xiaoya took the opportunity to pack up her belongings. She was preparing to move into her new apartment. Just then, the doorbell rang. When Xiaoya opened it, she found it was the courier who had come to collect her things.

“These boxes here, thank you for your trouble,” she said, pointing to the neatly packed boxes on the floor.

The courier carried the boxes out one by one. These were all items destined for the new apartment. Only after she watched them being taken away did Xiaoya close the door and return to packing up the rest.

With the move imminent, there were still countless odds and ends to organize. She remembered she still had to pack her daughter’s clothes, toys, and other things. Yet, after searching for a long time, she could not find any of her daughter’s possessions.

A strange sense of intermittent amnesia seemed to overcome her. No matter how she searched, she could not find even a single trace of her daughter’s things. The photo in the frame in the living room, once a picture of mother and daughter, now began to change—the image of her daughter was slowly fading away, though Xiaoya didn’t notice.

Nor could she find any of her husband’s belongings in their bedroom. However, on a wall in the corner, just barely visible behind the vanity, something had been drawn. She moved the vanity aside and saw it was a series of hand-drawn marks—a child’s height chart, old and faded, as if left there long ago. But she had no memory of it at all.

Such a hidden bit of graffiti, the handwriting looked like it was from many years before. Annoyed, she wondered who had scribbled on her wall, ruining it like this. Even though she was moving out, she couldn’t bear to leave the wall so dirty and set about cleaning it.

But then something eerie happened—the graffiti, which she had scrubbed away with much effort, reappeared when she looked back. Irritated, she scrubbed again, only for the marks to slowly emerge once more. Xiaoya could hardly believe her eyes. She rubbed them and looked closely—the graffiti remained! A cold sweat broke out over her body.

Her nerves still unsettled, she then heard a strange sound, faint and distant, as if emanating from the room at the end of the corridor—the same room she had always ignored. Xiaoya had never thought anything of it, assuming at worst it might be mice. Yet now, a vague sense of fear crept over her, and she forced herself to investigate.

She began to recall things Xiao Ai had told her… Could it be possible? Shaking her head, she tried to dismiss the thought.

That room had always been locked, she knew the lock was broken and impossible to open. But Xiao Ai had said it could be done. Half skeptical, Xiaoya approached the door and tried it—and this time, it opened.

Her heart raced uncontrollably, her face betraying her unease. Beyond the door stretched a deep, dark corridor. Though it was daylight outside, the room’s curtains were drawn and the windows closed; the ceiling light was broken and would not turn on. She could only feel her way forward in the darkness.

The farther in she went, the stranger it seemed—how could she not remember the room being so deep? Cautiously, she advanced. There was a faint light ahead, so she followed it. A turn in the corridor appeared, and as she rounded it, she found herself facing a sight she could hardly believe: she was now looking at the display window of apartment 303 in the Jintan Blossom Court’s nine-story building.

Through the glass, Xiaoya saw people inside. Uneasy, she crept closer. A woman with disheveled hair was splashing kerosene around the room. The smell was overwhelming. Xiaoya realized the woman intended to set the place on fire.

The scene nearly made Xiaoya cry out, but she managed to stifle herself. She edged closer, fearful of being discovered. Would this woman silence her if she was seen? Why was this strange woman in her room? And why did her secret passage lead to the window of apartment 303? What kind of bizarre space was this? When had it come into being? Was it all just her imagination? It was too much to believe.

From a distance, the woman seemed oddly familiar. Suddenly, fire blazed up, searingly bright, smoke filling the air… In the glow, Xiaoya finally saw the woman’s face clearly—her pupils contracted in terror. It was just as Xiao Ai had described—she saw it too.

Suddenly, a man’s voice shouted. An elderly man appeared out of nowhere at Xiaoya’s side.

“Help me!” Hearing this, Xiaoya turned and saw it was Zhong Shiqiang.

He was the old man in a wheelchair she had encountered at the hospital, not quite lucid. Why was he here? Wasn’t he supposed to live in the building opposite 303?

Xiaoya was too stunned to react, paralyzed by the scene before her, staring blankly at Zhong Shiqiang.

“Save the apartment! She’s going to burn it down! Help me!” he pleaded.

Her mind was a blank. Before she could respond, the old man shouted again, more desperately, “Save the apartment!” He was agitated, almost frantic.

Flames began to spread. Xiaoya looked around frantically for water, but found none. Her first instinct was to get the old man out. He couldn’t move on his own, so she pushed his wheelchair away from the fire. The arsonist noticed Xiaoya and chased after her, eyes blazing with hatred, as if determined to see who dared stop her.

The woman glared murderously, then lunged, intent on dousing Xiaoya with kerosene as well. Face-to-face with a woman identical to herself, Xiaoya froze in terror. As the woman drew near, she finally managed to push the old man away. But fear overcame her, and in the end, she abandoned him and fled alone—perhaps, she told herself, she could make it to the hall and call the police. That was her excuse for running.

She dashed back into the pitch-black corridor—yes, she must call the police! The door was just ahead. Once through it, everything would be fine. But when she opened the door, another stood before her. She opened that one, and another appeared. Again and again, she opened doors—ten, a dozen, more—never reaching her own hallway. The doors multiplied endlessly, a torment without end.

Behind her, the voices of the old man and the woman echoed, soon joined by others… Miss Lin, Jason, the young restaurant waiter… Zhong Shiqiang’s son… Suddenly, darkness overtook her, and she collapsed into unconsciousness.

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

The patient lying unconscious in the hospital bed suddenly registered abnormal readings on the monitor beside her—her heart rate grew dangerously erratic. A nurse in white noticed at once and called for Hollen.

“What’s happening?” Hollen demanded, seeing the heart rate had shot to 158 beats per minute. He ordered the programmers to find the cause immediately.

“Her subconscious imagery is collapsing,” reported the programmer, monitoring the system. He quickly pinpointed the issue.

“How did this happen?”

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

“Who’s hacked into our system? Who?” Hollen pressed.

“It’ll take a long time to trace. If we do, we’ll lose precious moments needed for the consciousness replacement procedure.”

“Damn it, it must be her again!” Hollen seemed to guess the culprit.

“The patient’s mind is waking up. If we force another rewrite of her subconscious, her heart might not withstand it, and her brain could suffer irreversible damage,” the programmer warned.

“We have no choice but to stabilize her with medication. Administer a sedative,” Hollen ordered.

“Is that safe, Doctor…?” the assistant in the white coat hesitated.

“Her body is paramount. I’d never allow her to be harmed, not in the slightest. Just a few more minutes, and she’ll be completely reborn!” Hollen insisted. The assistant could only comply.

With the injection, the patient gradually calmed; her heart rate slowed to about 85 beats per minute.

Hollen’s expression remained unchanged, cool and composed. The others relaxed as well, though he cursed under his breath, “Damn it.” He had never imagined that Aiwen would have prepared such a contingency behind his back! She had been paralyzed and bedridden for three years, barely alive, surviving only on the remnants of her conscious will while her body wasted away. Yet she had managed, through sheer force of mind, to create her own thought-code program in the virtual network. He had underestimated her—these three years of apparent sleep had been spent developing her own code system!