Shen Du opened his eyes, his mind buzzing.
A blurry red haze hung before his vision, like a veil. He blinked, and the redness slowly sharpened into a swaying pendant lamp. The lampshade was made of dark red glass, light filtering through to cast an irregular circle of shadow on the floor.
He was lying on the floor. Wooden floorboards, hard, with the smell of dust.
Shen Du pushed himself up, his elbow aching slightly. He looked down at himself. He was wearing a dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. On his wrist was a watch with a black face, its hands frozen at 12:07. He didn't remember owning a watch like this.
The room wasn't large, resembling the living room of an old apartment. Sparse furniture: a sofa, a coffee table, an old cabinet. Faded wallpaper with a repeating vine pattern covered the walls, peeling in places. The window was shut, darkness pressing against the glass, reflecting the swaying red lamp in the room.
Shen Du stood up, his legs unsteady. He braced himself against the wall and looked around.
This wasn't his home.
He wasn't even sure if this was a world he knew.
"Is anyone there?" he called out. His voice echoed loudly in the empty room. No answer.
He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Outside was an impenetrable, moonless, starless night, devoid of any light. The window wouldn't open, seemingly welded shut. Shen Du knocked on the glass with his fist—a dull thud, the glass thick.
He turned, his gaze falling on the coffee table.
On it lay a black notebook, its cover blank. Shen Du walked over and picked it up. It felt ordinary, just a standard hardcover notebook. He opened to the first page.
Printed on the paper, in a neat, almost eerily uniform Song typeface, were words:
"Scene One: Midnight Call."
"Setting: Apartment Living Room."
"Time: Midnight."
"Character: Shen Du (Male Lead)."
"Plot: Shen Du is alone in the apartment. The phone rings. He answers. A woman's weeping comes through the receiver. The weeping lasts thirty seconds before the call ends. Shen Du checks the phone—no caller ID. Then, the doorbell rings."
Shen Du stared at the words for a long time. A script? Male lead? He flipped to the second page. Blank. He turned back—the words were still there, glaringly clear.
He looked up, scanning the room. Beside the sofa, there indeed was a telephone—an old rotary-dial model with a beige plastic casing, looking worn. He hadn't noticed it before.
Shen Du set the notebook down and walked to the phone. He crouched, examining it. It looked ordinary, the cord plugged into a wall socket. He picked up the receiver. A standard dial tone.
He hung up, waited a few seconds, picked it up again. Still a dial tone.
Shen Du glanced at his watch. 12:11. Eleven minutes past the "Midnight" stated in the script. Maybe the time was wrong. Maybe the script was nonsense. Maybe this was just a prank.
Just as the thought formed, the phone rang.
The shrill ringtone exploded in the silent room. Shen Du's hand jerked, nearly dropping the receiver. He stared at the phone as it rang incessantly, one ring after another, urgent and demanding.
Just as the script said.
Shen Du took a deep breath, reached out, and lifted the receiver to his ear.
He didn't speak.
A sound came through. A woman's weeping, low and suppressed, as if she was crying with her mouth covered. The sound was intermittent, occasional sobs punctuating it, with something like wind noise in the background. Shen Du listened carefully. The crying sounded real, not like a recording.
He checked his watch. Thirty seconds. The script said the weeping would last thirty seconds.
He counted silently. One, two, three… At twenty-eight, the weeping stopped abruptly. Not fading—cut off, as if severed. Then, the dial tone returned.
Shen Du hung up.
His palm was sweaty. He set the receiver down, wiping his hand on his pants. Then he bent over, checking the phone for caller ID. The old phone had no display, but he examined the dial and the cord anyway. Everything was normal. Unnervingly normal.
He straightened up, looking around the room. The red lamp still swayed, shadows shifting on the floor.
What next? The script said the doorbell would ring.
Shen Du waited.
Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute.
No doorbell.
He walked to the door. It was a deep brown wooden door with a peephole. Shen Du didn't look immediately. He listened first. Silence from outside.
He bent down, eye to the peephole.
Outside was a corridor, dimly lit but visible. It was empty. The door opposite was closed, numbered 304. The walls were pale green, paint peeling in spots.
Shen Du straightened up. Still no doorbell.
Maybe the script was wrong. Maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe…
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang. A crisp sound, piercing the silence.
Shen Du tensed. He didn't open the door immediately, but looked through the peephole again.
The corridor outside was still empty. No one.
But the doorbell had rung.
Shen Du took a step back, staring at the door. His mind raced. What if he didn't open it? What if he did? The script didn't say what happened after opening the door. Maybe there was nothing outside. Maybe…
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang again.
Shen Du gritted his teeth, gripped the doorknob. The metal was cold. He turned it slowly. A click—the lock opened. He paused for a second, then yanked the door open.
No one outside.
The corridor was empty, dimly lit. Door 304 opposite was shut. The floor was covered in a dark red carpet, worn thin in places. The air smelled of dust and mildew.
Shen Du leaned out, looking left and right. To the left, the corridor ended at a window overlooking the night. To the right, the direction of the stairs. No one. No footsteps. Nothing.
He looked down at the floor in front of the door.
There was an object.
A small black velvet box, square, like a ring box. It sat right in the center of the doorway, as if placed there deliberately.
Shen Du crouched, not touching it immediately. He checked the surroundings again, confirming the corridor was truly empty, then picked up the box. It was light. He opened the lid.
Inside was a ring.
A silver band, plain, without any pattern. Inscribed on the inside were small characters. Shen Du leaned closer to look: "Forever Yours." The engraving was deep but somewhat worn.
He picked up the ring. The metal felt cold. He tried it on his left index finger—a perfect fit.
At that moment, a wave of dizziness hit him.
The scene before him blurred momentarily, like a TV with bad signal. The corridor lights flickered, dimming and brightening. Shen Du grabbed the doorframe, closed his eyes. When he opened them, everything was normal again.
But something was different.
He looked down at the ring in his hand. Where he had touched it, a dark red stain had appeared, like dried blood. He rubbed it with his thumb. It didn't come off.
Shen Du looked up sharply.
Under the corridor lights, he saw footprints on the floor.
Wet footprints, leading from the direction of the stairs, right up to his doorway. They were small, like a woman's feet. They stopped exactly where he had picked up the box.
The footprints were fresh, the carpet darker where they had trodden.
Shen Du followed their path with his eyes. The stairway was pitch black, impossible to see clearly. But he felt something there. Not saw—felt. A sensation of being watched, emanating from the depths of the darkness.
He took a step back, retreated into the room, and slammed the door shut.
Leaning against the door, he could hear his own heartbeat—fast and loud. He still held the ring, its cold metal digging into his palm.
After a few seconds, he walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Outside was still that dense blackness, but now, in the distance, he saw a point of light. Faint, like candlelight, flickering in the dark.
The light was moving.
Coming this way.
Shen Du stared at the light, sweat forming on his palms. He looked back into the room. The red lamp still swayed, casting shifting shadows on the wall. The black notebook lay quietly on the coffee table.
He walked back to the table, picked up the notebook, and flipped through it quickly.
The first page still held the script. The second page was blank. So were the third and fourth. Reaching the last page, he stopped.
There was writing on the final page.
Also printed in Song typeface, but smaller.
"Scene One Cleared."
"Obtained: Death Fragment x1"
"Use: Rewrite a death outcome once."
"Note: Fragment is a single-use consumable. Disappears after use."
"Next scene script will be issued in twenty-four hours."
"Good luck, Actor Shen Du."
Shen Du stared at the words for a long time. Death Fragment? Rewrite a death outcome? Actor?
He looked up, gaze turning to the window. The point of light was closer now, taking on a humanoid shape holding a lantern. The light was dim, illuminating only a small circle around the figure. It—or the thing—walked slowly, step by step, toward this building.
Shen Du checked his watch. 12:34.
He looked back at the words on the final page. "Next scene script will be issued in twenty-four hours." So he had to stay here for over twenty more hours. In this apartment. With the strange phone, the footprints outside, the lantern-bearer in the dark.
He threw the notebook back onto the table, still clutching the ring. He walked to the door and looked through the peephole again.
In the corridor, the wet footprints were still there.
But in the darkness of the stairway, the point of light was gone.
Shen Du looked carefully. Yes, gone. Only darkness remained. Had the lantern-bearer disappeared? Or had it already entered the building?
He held his breath, listening intently.
Silence. Too silent. Not even wind.
He moved away from the peephole, leaned against the door, and slowly slid down to sit on the floor. The floor was cold, the chill seeping through his pants. He looked down at the ring in his hand. The dark red stain remained. He scraped at it with a fingernail. It didn't budge.
This wasn't a dream. Dreams weren't this real, this detailed. The sound of the watch's second hand, the grain of the wooden floor, the smell of dust in the air—all too vivid.
Besides, he couldn't remember how he got here. His last memory was… what? He tried to recall. Evening at home, watching a movie, then turning off the lights to sleep. And then, waking up here.
What happened in between? No impression.
Shen Du gripped the ring, its edge biting painfully into his palm. The pain was sharp. This wasn't a dream.
He stood up and began a thorough search of the room. Cabinet, drawers, under the sofa cushions—no corner left unchecked. The cabinet was empty. The drawers were empty, not even a scrap of paper. The sofa was old, springs loose, sinking deeply when sat on. He lifted the cushions—only dust beneath.
The room was unnervingly clean, as if deliberately cleared out, leaving only the few necessary items.
The phone. The coffee table. The notebook. The red lamp.
And the ring.
Shen Du went to the window and tried again to open it. The window was locked tight. He pushed hard—the glass didn't budge. He picked up an old ashtray from the floor—he hadn't seen it during his earlier search—and hurled it at the glass.
The ashtray hit with a dull thud and bounced back. Not even a scratch on the glass.
Shen Du tossed the ashtray aside and went to the door. He gripped the doorknob, turned, and pulled.
The door opened.
The corridor was the same: dim lights, dark red carpet, wet footprints. Door 304 opposite was closed. The stairway direction was pitch black.
He could go out.
But then what? The script didn't say he could leave this scene. And outside were those footprints, that lantern-bearer.
Shen Du stood in the doorway, hesitated for a few seconds, then closed the door. He locked it and dragged a small chair over to brace against the door. He knew if something really wanted to get in, a chair wouldn't stop it, but it offered some psychological comfort.
Done, he returned to the sofa and sat down. The red lamp swayed overhead, shadows moving with it. He stared at the lamp until his vision blurred.
He remembered the "Death Fragment" mentioned in the script. Rewrite a death outcome once. Did that mean he would die? In this so-called "set," would he die?
Shen Du felt his pockets. The left one was empty. In the right pocket was something. He pulled it out—a small slip of paper, folded. He opened it.
A line of handwritten words, scrawled hastily:
"Don't trust the tears."
Shen Du stared at the words. Tears? Whose tears? The crying woman from the script?
He flipped the paper over. Blank. The slip was small, smaller than a business card, the paper thin, edges uneven as if torn from something.
When had this been put in his pocket? Was it there when he woke up? Or had someone placed it later?
Shen Du placed the slip and the ring together on the coffee table. A small slip, a ring, a black notebook. These were his only clues so far.
He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He needed to sort his thoughts. First, he was here, in a place resembling a horror movie set. Second, there was a script requiring him to act accordingly. Third, he had obtained a ring and a so-called "Death Fragment." Fourth, there might be danger outside.
What was the goal? Survive? Or complete the script?
The script said "Scene One Cleared." Did that mean answering the phone, checking it, hearing the doorbell, seeing the ring—those actions constituted clearing it? What about the lantern-bearer? The footprints? Those weren't in the script.
Shen Du opened his eyes and looked at the window. Outside was still dark. The point of light hadn't reappeared. Maybe the lantern-bearer had left. Maybe it was still downstairs. Maybe…
He stood up, walked to the window, and pressed his face almost against the glass, peering out.
In the darkness, something moved.
Not light, but a darker shadow, shifting on the empty ground below. The shadow was blurry, its form unclear, but it was definitely moving. Slowly, circling the building.
Shen Du took a step back. The shadow stopped, seeming to look up. Even through the glass and darkness, he felt that gaze land on him.
He immediately crouched, hiding below the windowsill. His heart pounded.
After a few seconds, he cautiously peeked out from the edge of the window.
The shadow was gone.
The ground was empty, only darkness.
Shen Du slowly stood up, hand on the wall for support. His legs felt weak. He took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Fear was useless. Panic was useless. He had to think, to find a way.
He returned to the sofa, picked up the black notebook again, and opened to the last page. "Death Fragment x1." How was this used? What did "rewrite a death outcome" mean? Did it mean that when he was about to die, he could use this fragment to avoid death?
If so, this thing was a lifeline. Only one use.
He had to save it.
Shen Du set the notebook down and picked up the ring. The silver band gleamed dark red under the lamp light. The engraving "Forever Yours" on the inside had sharp edges, as if newly carved. Yet the ring itself showed wear, as if worn for a long time.
A contradiction.
And that slip of paper. "Don't trust the tears." Who wrote it? Why give him this hint? What did "tears" refer to? The crying from the phone?
Shen Du gathered the items. He put the ring on his left index finger, returned the slip to his pocket, and placed the notebook conspicuously on the coffee table. Then he stood up and searched the room again.
This time, more meticulously. Walls, floor, ceiling—no corner spared. He knocked on the walls, listening. Solid, no hidden compartments. The floor was solid wood, no loose boards. The ceiling was ordinary drywall with an old ceiling fan, its blades thick with dust.
Checking behind the cabinet, he found something.
There was a gap between the cabinet and the wall, and something was wedged in it. Shen Du pushed the cabinet aside with effort—it was heavy—and reached in.
He pulled out a photograph.
A black-and-white photo, palm-sized, its corners worn and curled. It showed a woman standing under a tree, wearing an old-fashioned dress, her hair in a ponytail. She was smiling, but the smile was blurry due to poor photo quality.
The woman's face was indistinct, features blurred as if from camera shake. But Shen Du could sense she was smiling, gently.
He turned the photo over. On the back was a line of words in blue ink, handwriting elegant:
"To my dear, remember this day forever."
No date. No signature.
Shen Du stared at the photo. A woman, a tree, an old-fashioned dress. The photo looked ancient, at least decades old. Why was it here? Left by a previous occupant? Or part of the "set" decoration?
He placed the photo on the coffee table with the other items. The ring, the slip, the photo, the notebook. Four objects, seemingly unrelated.
Shen Du sat back on the sofa, looking at the four items on the table. The red lamp swayed overhead, shadows swaying with it. The room was quiet. He could hear his own breathing and the ticking of his watch's second hand.
Tick. Tock.
Time passed. A long way to go until the "twenty-four hours later" mentioned in the script. He had to wait here. For the next script. For the next "scene."
But just wait like this? For the lantern-bearer to return? For the owner of the footprints outside to appear?
Shen Du looked at the door. The chair was still braced against it, the door locked. Temporarily safe.
He lay down on the sofa. It was hard, springs digging into him. He stared at the ceiling. The fan blades were motionless. Dust floated slowly in the red lamp's light.
He needed rest, needed to conserve energy. Who knew what would happen next.
But he couldn't sleep. Eyes closed, his mind remained alert. Every sound amplified: his own heartbeat, breathing, the faint, distant sound of wind, and…
Another sound.
Very soft, very faint, like someone humming.
Shen Du's eyes snapped open. He sat up. The sound stopped.
Auditory hallucination?
He held his breath, listening carefully.
No sound.
He lay back down but kept his eyes open, fixed on the ceiling. A few seconds later, the sound returned. Still humming, light and slow, intermittent, unrecognizable as any tune.
Where was it coming from?
Shen Du slowly sat up, bare feet on the cold floor. He followed the sound, faint and sporadic. He reached the wall and pressed his ear against it.
The sound became slightly clearer. It came from next door. Room 305? Or 303? This was 304, so next door should be 303 or 305.
Humming. A woman's voice. Soft, gentle. An unfamiliar tune Shen Du had never heard.
He listened for a while. The sound stopped again.
Shen Du moved away from the wall and returned to the sofa. He checked his watch. 1:20 a.m. Over an hour had passed since he woke up.