Shen Du’s voice was low and steady, his unhurried tone making him come across as a polite, easygoing person.
And indeed, that was exactly the impression he gave at first glance.
He wore a loose-fitting white wool turtleneck with matching casual dress pants, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and exuded a strong aura of refined intellect and understated elegance.
The outer district was old, remote, and riddled with safety issues. These days, anyone with means would find a way to move into the inner districts. Someone like Song Nanxing, who chose to stay in the outer district voluntarily, was becoming increasingly rare.
And someone like Shen Du—whose appearance alone screamed “expensive intellectual”—was utterly out of place in a run-down neighborhood like this.
Song Nanxing studied his new neighbor and the puppet in his hand. After a brief hesitation, he reached out to take it.
“Thanks, it’s mine. I left it at the door, planning to throw it out later. Guess I forgot.”
Even if the puppet hadn’t shown any obvious danger yet, it was better not to let it bring misfortune to someone else.
Especially someone like his new neighbor—who appeared mentally sound and genuinely upbeat. Maybe it was just the recent encounters with too many abnormal creatures, but at that moment, looking at this refined and scholarly man, Song Nanxing felt… cleansed.
Finally, a human being.
Finally, someone who looks mentally stable.
Even the way he looked at the other man became noticeably warmer. Recalling the murder that had just occurred in 301, he kindly warned, “This neighborhood is pretty old. The property management is basically useless, and the security might as well not exist. I don’t know if you saw the news before moving in, but there was a homicide downstairs in 301 recently. Things might be a little chaotic around here, so please be careful coming and going.”
He actually wanted to suggest the man consider moving to a more secure complex, but that would’ve been a bit too intrusive. After all, he didn’t know why Shen Du had chosen to live here—and they were still just newly acquainted neighbors.
So instead, he simply smiled politely and went inside with the puppet in hand.
The moment he stepped in, Song Nanxing’s smile vanished. He frowned as he stared at the puppet in his hand.
The last time he saw it, it was lying downstairs in pieces, too broken to cause any more trouble. Yet only a few days had passed, and now… it was acting up again!
Song Nanxing thought maybe he needed to throw it much farther away this time.
The little octopus perched on his shoulder glared at the puppet with great displeasure, letting out a low, mocking sound.
“You’ve made an enemy,” Song Nanxing muttered.
“I don’t like you.”
“Hee hee.”
The puppet, dangling from Song Nanxing’s hand, subtly scrunched its dark, hollow eyes.
Song Nanxing found a sturdy box and locked the puppet inside. After confirming it wouldn’t be able to escape for the time being, he placed the box by the door.
That puppet’s origins were unknown, and it was far too creepy—there was no way he was keeping it in the house. He planned to take it far away and dump it somewhere once the rain let up in the next few days.
After taking care of that, Song Nanxing happily took a hot shower and curled up with his laptop to search for information about Sweet Dreams Psychological Counseling.
Several posts about Sweet Dreams popped up across different social media platforms.
Song Nanxing skimmed through a few. The descriptions were all roughly the same, so he guessed they were probably just marketing posts from the company.
Those posts didn’t offer much useful information, but one job-seeking post with a high number of replies caught his eye.
The title read: “Hey fam, what’s Sweet Dreams Psychological Counseling like as a company? I’m starting work there tomorrow and feeling a bit nervous.”
Apparently, Sweet Dreams was famous for offering high salaries. Most of the comments praised the generous pay and great benefits, asking the original poster what position they had applied for and whether they could offer internal referrals. Occasionally, there were comments mentioning excessive overtime and inhumane management practices—like having to work even during the rainy season.
As he scrolled further, one reply deep in the thread stood out:
[Don’t go. This company might pay well, but the clients they deal with are terrifying.]
The original poster replied:
[But the pay is so good. Have you worked there before? I’m joining as a programmer—I shouldn’t have to deal with clients, right?]
The commenter didn’t reply again. Instead, two or three days later, the original poster returned to bump the thread:
[Hey fam, I’ve started working here. The benefits are great, the atmosphere’s nice, and my coworkers are super easy to get along with.]
The comments that followed were full of congratulations and more questions about the company. But the original poster never responded.
Later on, it seemed like the original poster began using the thread as a journal to document their new job experience, posting occasional updates.
[Worked overtime till midnight designing a new webpage. When I was leaving, I heard Wu—the top sales guy—yelling at someone in the break room. Not sure who he was on the phone with. Thing is, he’s always super polite and courteous to both coworkers and clients.]
[Heard some gossip from the younger girl on my team. She said Wu’s current client is supposedly really hard to handle, and things could get dangerous. I know she was probably joking, but the way she smiled when she said it… was kind of creepy.]
[Sales seems to have suddenly lost a few veteran employees. HR said they’re short-staffed and asked colleagues from other departments to help out. Even I, a programmer, have to help with client reception now. It’s ridiculous.]
[Had to meet with a client today. Couldn’t sleep afterward.]
[Stayed late for overtime today, and saw Sales Champion Wu yelling in the break room again. I got curious and glanced over—he wasn’t even on a call. I asked who he was talking to, and he just stared at me without a word, eyes like he wanted to eat me alive. Don’t know when they’ll hire more salespeople. I don’t want to stay in Sales anymore. Anyone want to switch over? I can give you a referral.]
[Got a weird client today. Said he grew a head on his back and insisted on showing me. But the strange part is, there were three heads on his back.]
[Thinking about quitting, but HR said they’re really short on people right now and asked me to stick around until they find a replacement.]
After that update, the original poster didn’t show up again for a long while. The replies that followed were all asking why the OP hadn’t continued posting—people were saying it was such a fun thread and shouldn’t just stop like that.
Song Nanxing scrolled quickly to the bottom and found the final update from three months ago:
[Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral? Anyone want a referral?…]
The same phrase repeated over and over, filling an entire page. It made Song Nanxing’s scalp tingle.
Maybe it was the sheer creepiness of that last message, but there were far fewer replies afterward. Just a few people saying the OP was too good at pretending and should stop because it was freaking them out. Eventually, the post sank to the bottom and was forgotten.
But when Song Nanxing thought about the “Sales Champion Wu” mentioned in the post, it didn’t seem like an act at all.
It might’ve been coincidence, but Wu Huai really was a top performer at Haomeng.
Song Nanxing clicked into the poster’s profile and tried sending a private message:
[Hello, just wanted to ask—have you left the company now?]
It was marked as read instantly, but no reply came.
He tried again:
[The ‘Sales Champion Wu’ you mentioned… was that Wu Huai?]
Still marked as read—but again, no reply.
Song Nanxing frowned in thought, typing slowly:
[Can you still refer someone for the job?]
A “ding-dong” rang from his laptop instantly—[Yes, I can refer you.]
Before Song Nanxing could finish typing his next line, more messages came flooding in:
[When can you come?]
[The company pays well, great benefits, no overtime.]
[HR says we’re short-staffed. You can start immediately if you come.]
Staring at the chat history, Song Nanxing deleted the words he’d just typed and wrote again:
[You say there’s no overtime, but your company still works during the rainy season?]
Another instant reply:
[The company pays well, great benefits, no overtime.]
[When can you come?]
Watching the repeated responses, Song Nanxing exited the chat window without replying.
Clearly, there was something wrong with Haomeng Consulting.
This might be a valuable lead—but venturing into that place alone during the rainy season might not be the best idea.
He wrestled with himself for a while, but in the end, his desire for answers won out. He opened the chat again.
The private message box was now flooded—entire pages filled with “When can you come?”, the messages still coming in non-stop.
Song Nanxing replied:
[I can come for an interview tomorrow afternoon.]
The messages immediately stopped. A new one popped up:
[Great. You must come.]
Song Nanxing closed the chat and shut his laptop, heading to the living room to get a glass of water. Since he’d decided to go to Haomeng tomorrow, he had to rest early and conserve energy.
But when he reached the living room, he noticed the ragdoll bunny had once again fallen onto the floor—
The little octopus was perched on its head.
Frowning, Song Nanxing returned to the kitchen, fetched a new bowl of water, and carefully placed the octopus into it, pinching it between two fingers.
“No fighting,” he warned.
The little octopus rolled about in the bowl, waving its arms as if to display its innocence in every direction.
But remembering the bunny’s torn ear, Song Nanxing picked up the plush, set it gently on the couch, fixed its ruffled pink dress, and looked sternly at the still-thrashing octopus.
“You’re the newcomer. Follow the rules. No bullying.”
He really didn’t want to sew another ear back on.
The octopus suddenly stopped rolling. Its eight limbs floated, dazed, in the water.
Song Nanxing ignored it. Patting the ragdoll bunny, he left one last line—“Get along well”—and returned to the bedroom.
In the now-dark living room, the bunny in the pink dress twitched its ears. Its red eyes shimmered with smug triumph and mockery.
It jumped off the sofa, dragging its long ears behind it with a nimbleness that was anything but doll-like.
The octopus glared at it in protest, splashing the water with its tentacles. But Song Nanxing’s warning lingered—it dared not act rashly.
Sensing the hesitation, the bunny curled its ears around the bowl, preparing to fling the octopus out—bowl and all.
Enraged, the octopus thrashed wildly, wanting to retaliate but holding back. It splashed furiously in frustration.
But just as the bowl was nearing the door, the octopus abruptly stopped. Its eight limbs stretched out in a graceful, unnatural way. Golden eyes locked onto the bunny, filled with swirling, strange patterns.
The bunny sensed danger.
It let go of the bowl and backed away warily, ears standing straight, shielding the doorway to the bedroom.
The octopus’s body began to lengthen, its powerful limbs pulsing in a strange rhythm. A spiral of eerie energy spun within its golden eyes.
The bunny stood its ground—until its upright ears slowly drooped. Eventually, it backed down, returning to the sofa and sitting upright again, no longer attempting to block the door.