The return of consciousness was not violent. It was more like a drop of ink falling soundlessly into a glass of clear water that had settled for a very long time, spreading outward strand by strand in an exceedingly slow manner.
The first thing to recover was his sense of smell.
A rich, almost pungent odor of disinfectant tyrannically occupied his entire nasal cavity. The smell was filled with a sense of oppression, as if it meant to thoroughly wash away every last trace of the outside world remaining in his soul.
Next came touch.
His skin felt the friction of rough fabric after being laundered and starched.
He could feel that he was lying flat. The bedsheet beneath him had likewise been washed excessively, wrapped tautly around the mattress; every wrinkle felt like a blade digging into his back.
The air was somewhat cold. A faint current of air was blowing in from some unknown crack, brushing across the exposed skin of his neck and bringing a slight shiver.
Then came hearing.
“Tick… tock… tick… tock… tick… tock…”
A monotonous, stubborn, yet highly rhythmic sound came from some corner of the room.
It seemed to be the sound of an old-fashioned wall clock. Each movement of the second hand was like a cold steel needle, piercing precisely into the sea of chaos that was his consciousness, attempting to forcibly establish the order of “time” within that void.
Bai Yu slowly opened his eyes.
What entered his vision was a sheet of white, pure and without the slightest impurity.
The white ceiling was as smooth as a mirror, without any patterns or decoration. He turned his somewhat stiff neck, and everywhere his gaze reached were walls of the same white. The texture of the walls was fine, even reflecting a cold halo beneath the faint daylight filtering in from outside the window.
He sat up and lowered his head to look at himself.
What he wore was no longer the familiar dark-gray combat uniform of the Investigation Bureau, but a loose set of pure white clothes made of coarse material.
On the chest of the clothes, a simple Arabic numeral had been embroidered with black thread.
7.
Where was this?
An Mu… Mo Fei… Lan Ce… Lu Yueqi…
Those familiar faces and names were like bubbles sinking into the deep sea, struggling to float up from the bottom of his memory. But whenever they were about to touch the surface of consciousness, an invisible pressure would press them back down into the abyss.
He remembered being in an activity room filled with bizarre graffiti. He remembered touching a massive mural…
And then… what had happened after that?
A sharp pain came from inside his head, as if someone were stirring a rusty awl through his temples.
The memories that belonged to “Bai Yu” became blurred, like watching an old black-and-white film through a thick layer of frosted glass, full of static and fractured fragments.
In contrast, another unfamiliar set of memories began seeping out like trickling streams from every corner of his consciousness, trying to fill in the blanks created by the stabbing pain.
He “remembered” that he liked the plane tree outside the window very much, especially in autumn, when its leaves turned yellow.
He “remembered” that every afternoon at three o’clock, a nurse would bring him a warm glass of milk on time.
He “remembered” that he… had already lived here for a very, very long time…
“No… That’s not right…” Bai Yu braced his forehead with his hand and muttered under his breath. His voice was hoarse and dry, so unfamiliar that even he felt estranged from it.
I am Bai Yu.
I am an investigator of Team One of the Nightmare Investigation Bureau.
My purpose in coming here is… is…
The stabbing pain grew even more intense.
“Heh… What a hospitable host.” A voice tinged with mockery sounded lazily in the deepest part of his consciousness, like a bolt of lightning splitting the chaotic sky in an instant. “It couldn’t even be bothered to prepare a grand welcome ceremony for you before it started crudely rewriting the script. Bai Yu, I have to admit, this little play called ‘identity substitution’ may be clumsy in execution, but the concept… does have some merit.”
It was Hei Yan.
His voice was like a sea-calming needle, instantly giving Bai Yu’s self-awareness—on the verge of being crushed by the flood of foreign memories—a solid anchor point.
“Hei Yan…” Bai Yu called out in his mind. “Where… is this place?”
“Where else could it be? Inside that painting, of course.” Hei Yan’s tone was filled with a connoisseur’s delight. “A perfect ‘bonsai’ constructed from fragments of memory and clay made of obsession. And now, we are a tiny… insect trapped inside this bonsai. As for the one who fancies himself the gardener, he is trying to cut off our wings and turn us into a specimen like those pitiful collectibles of his.”
Just then, with a soft click, the ward door was opened from the outside.
Bai Yu abruptly raised his head and looked warily toward the doorway.
The person who walked in was a young woman dressed in a spotless white nurse’s uniform. She wore an equally white nurse’s cap, all her hair tucked inside it.
A smile hung on her face, so standard it was like something out of a textbook, and her gaze was gentle.
“Number Seven, you’re awake?” Her voice was very soft, but her intonation had no fluctuation, like a voice player with a preset program. “How do you feel? Did you sleep well last night?”
Number Seven?
Bai Yu did not answer. He only looked at her quietly, trying to find even the slightest flaw in her.
The nurse seemed long accustomed to his silence. She walked to the bedside and placed a tray holding a cup of water and two white pills onto the nightstand.
“It’s time to take your medicine.” She spoke in that gentle yet unquestionable tone. “Director Wen said that taking your medication on time will help you stabilize your emotions better and make those bad fantasies disappear sooner.”
Fantasies?
Bai Yu understood. In this world, all his memories concerning the Investigation Bureau, his teammates, and the mission had been defined as “fantasies” requiring treatment.
And this nurse, this ward, and these medicines were the tools this world used to “correct” him.
“My name isn’t Number Seven,” Bai Yu slowly said, his voice somewhat hoarse. “My name is Bai Yu.”
The smile on the nurse’s face froze for an instant, and a trace of confusion flashed through her empty eyes. But after only a few tenths of a second, that standard smile returned to her face.
“Number Seven, you’re talking nonsense again.” Her tone gained a trace of helplessness, as if she were comforting an ignorant child. “‘Bai Yu’ is the name of that latest ‘hero’ you imagined, isn’t it? We all know. But fantasies are fantasies in the end. Immersing yourself in them for too long is not good for your condition. Come, take your medicine first. After you take it, you’ll feel better.”
She picked up the cup and the pills and handed them to Bai Yu.
Bai Yu looked at the two unmarked white pills. This thing was absolutely not merely an ordinary sedative. It emitted a faintly corrosive mental energy. If he swallowed them, his “self-awareness,” already swaying in the storm, would very likely be completely dismantled.
He did not take them.
The atmosphere in the room instantly became subtly tense. The “tick-tock” of the old-fashioned wall clock sounded especially grating at that moment.
The smile on the nurse’s face gradually faded, and a trace of cold emotion began to surface in those empty eyes.
“Number Seven,” she repeated, her voice still soft, but now carrying a hint of command. “Take the medicine.”
Bai Yu knew he absolutely could not clash head-on with this world’s “rules” here. He knew nothing about this place right now; any impulsive action could lead to eternal damnation.
He slowly reached out and took the cup and pills from the nurse’s hand.
Under the nurse’s emotionless gaze, he put the two pills into his mouth, then tilted his head back and took a mouthful of water.
He made a swallowing motion, but in reality, he cleverly used his tongue to press the two pills firmly beneath the root of his tongue.
After seeing him “take” the medicine, the icy expression on the nurse’s face was once again replaced by a smile.
“What a good boy.” She sounded as if she were praising an obedient pet. “All right, it’s free activity time now. You may rest in the ward, or you may go to the activity room outside. But remember, before one o’clock in the afternoon, you must return to your room and prepare for your nap. Don’t break the rules, or… Director Wen will be unhappy.”
After saying that, she turned and left the ward, casually closing the door behind her.
“Click.”
With a soft sound, the door was locked from the outside.
Bai Yu immediately walked to the crude sink in the corner of the room, spat out the pills hidden beneath his tongue, then rinsed his mouth repeatedly with clean water.
“What a splendid performance. The Oscars owe you a little golden statue.” Hei Yan’s timely praise rang out. “However, do you plan on relying on this sort of petty cleverness to muddle through forever? The patience of this place’s master is probably much thinner than you imagine.”
Bai Yu ignored his teasing and went straight to the only window in the ward.
Iron bars had been installed over the window. Outside was a lawn maintained to an excessive neatness. In the distance, several other hospital buildings of the same style could be seen. The entire psychiatric hospital was like an isolated island cut off from the world, terrifyingly quiet.
He knew he could not sit around and wait for death. He had to get out. He had to explore the psychiatric hospital, find the core of this memory prison, find the missing Ruan Bo, and find a way to leave this place.
He went to the door, grasped the handle, and tried turning it.
The door did not budge.
“What a considerate ‘cage,’” Hei Yan chuckled.
Bai Yu did not give up. He carefully examined the old-fashioned door lock.
Its structure was not complicated.
From an inconspicuous corner of the bedframe, he forcefully snapped off a very thin piece of wire. Then he returned to the door and inserted the wire into the keyhole.
At the Investigation Bureau, lockpicking was a basic skill for every investigator.
He held his breath, pressed his ear tightly to the door, and sensed the subtle changes in the lock cylinder’s internal structure.
“Click… clack.”
A few minutes later, along with an almost imperceptible soft sound, the lock opened.
Bai Yu gently pulled the door open a crack and peered outside warily.
Outside was a corridor exactly like the one they had walked through before, stretching so far there seemed to be no end. Only, this place was no longer dilapidated and gloomy. The walls had been painted snow-white, the floor had been polished until it shone, and the chandeliers on the ceiling emitted a soft glow.
The corridor was very quiet, but it was not empty.
There were other “patients.”
They all wore the same pure white patient uniforms as Bai Yu, with different numbers embroidered on their chests in black thread. Some paced aimlessly back and forth in the corridor like sleepwalkers; some sat blankly on the benches lining the hallway, staring at the ceiling with lifeless eyes; and there was a woman crouching in a corner, using her fingernails to carve the same shapeless symbol into the wall again and again.
All of them turned a blind eye to Bai Yu’s appearance, as if he were merely nonexistent air. They were all immersed in their own worlds—or rather, they no longer had any “world” at all. They were merely empty shells whose souls had been extracted, leaving only basic physiological functions behind.
This was not a psychiatric hospital.
This was a living tomb.
Bai Yu took a deep breath, restrained his aura, and stepped silently into the corridor like a drop of water merging into the sea, blending among those walking-dead-like “patients.”
He began his exploration.
He did not dare walk too quickly and could only imitate the pace of the other patients, moving slowly through the corridor. As he walked, he carefully observed everything around him.
The ward doors on both sides of the corridor were tightly shut, and even the observation windows on the doors had been completely covered by iron plates.
At intervals, picture frames hung on the walls. Inside them were not landscape paintings or famous quotations, but individual photographs of Director Wen Maoran.
In the photographs, he wore a spotless white doctor’s coat and gold-rimmed glasses, a gentle smile hanging on his face.
He was like the omnipresent “god” of this world, monitoring all the lost souls here with that false smile of his.
Bai Yu passed by a middle-aged man sitting on a bench. The man kept muttering to himself in an extremely low voice.
“…Where is my face? Where did they put my face? That isn’t my face… The person in the mirror… isn’t me…”
His words overlapped astonishingly with the voice in the drone recording Lan Ce had played earlier.
Everything here was built upon the final obsessions and memories of those dead people. Every patient was someone who had truly once existed.
He continued forward.
The corridor seemed endless. The scenery on both sides kept repeating, giving one the illusion of being trapped in an infinite loop.
Just as he was about to lose all sense of distance and direction, a fork appeared ahead. Above the passage to the left hung a sign reading “Area A,” while the one on the right read “Area B.”
And standing in the very center of the fork was a man dressed in a white doctor’s coat.
The man had his back to Bai Yu. He was tall and had his head lowered, seemingly reading a medical file clipped in his hand.
Bai Yu’s footsteps instantly halted, and every muscle in his body tensed in that instant.
A “doctor.”
In this world, they were the enforcers of the “rules.”
Bai Yu immediately lowered his head, withdrew all his gaze, and disguised himself as a vacant shell like the other patients, slowly walking past that doctor.
The instant he brushed past the doctor—
“Stop.”
A voice devoid of the slightest emotion rang out from behind him.
Bai Yu’s body went rigid, and his blood seemed to freeze at that moment.
He slowly turned around.
The doctor had also turned. He wore a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses, and the gaze behind the lenses was sharp and filled with scrutiny.
He looked at Bai Yu and slowly spoke, his voice carrying a familiar calm founded on data and logic.
“Patient Number Seven. According to the records, this should be your free activity time. But your heart rate fluctuation is 12.7% higher than the normal threshold. Your mental tension index has also shown an abnormal peak.”
The doctor looked at the number on Bai Yu’s chest, pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose, and the lenses reflected a cold glint.
“Tell me what you’re nervous about.”
Bai Yu’s pupils contracted sharply.
The face of the “doctor” before him was incomparably familiar.
That face was actually Lan Ce’s!