After politely declining the puppet’s offer, Song Nanxing drove home. He had expected the puppet to follow him, but to his surprise, after being refused, it simply dragged the corpse away and left.
So, Song Nanxing drove home alone.
At “Sweet Dreams 9-to-6,” by the time he was on his way back, the sky had already grown mostly dark.
The rain had eased compared to earlier in the day, but the city was shrouded in shadow. In the distance, the outlines of tall buildings loomed like dormant beasts. Thin streams of rain streaked down his windshield, and the only sound inside the cramped car was the soft swish of the wipers.
He stepped hard on the accelerator and returned to his apartment complex twenty minutes later.
Before going upstairs, he stopped by the property management office to register his car for short-term parking. As he entered the building, he happened to run into Jing Rao, who had just closed her umbrella and stepped inside.
Her long black hair was damp with mist and clung to her pale face, highlighting her sharp, bewitching features—like a seductive spirit from an old tale.
Song Nanxing’s gaze landed on the bridge of her nose as he casually greeted, “Still haven’t found Song Yunqiao?”
Jing Rao shook her head, her long, graceful brows carrying a trace of melancholy. “I’ve been searching all day and still haven’t seen it. No idea where it ran off to.”
She gave Song Nanxing a meaningful glance, then said with a hint of irony, “Let’s just hope some kind-hearted soul doesn’t end up unlucky enough to run into it. That thing has a nasty temper—loves to trick people. When I find it, I’m putting a much thicker chain on it and locking it up…”
Her voice echoed faintly in the corridor, stretching out in wispy tones—like a ghost’s whisper.
Song Nanxing paused on the fourth floor and suggested, “You could try putting up a ‘Lost Dog’ flyer at the property office. Maybe another resident spotted it.”
Jing Rao looked at him steadily, then gave a bright smile. “You’re right. I’ll go print one out right now.”
*****
Song Nanxing entered his apartment.
The rain had been relentless, and the air inside was thick with humidity. He turned on the dehumidifier, stripped off his clothes, and went to take a hot shower.
After changing into a loose, dry set of loungewear, he rummaged through the cardboard boxes in the corner of his living room. Eventually, he found a cup of braised beef instant noodles, started boiling some water, and then pulled out a plastic bag and a notebook from his backpack.
The plastic bag contained miscellaneous stationery and a photo frame. Inside the frame was a family portrait of Wu Huai and his wife and child—all three smiling in complete happiness.
Song Nanxing set down the photo frame and opened the notebook—
The early pages were fairly normal. Wu Huai had written down some reflections on work, bits of family life, and occasional gripes, but overall, the tone was upbeat and positive.
That was, until the entries from six months ago.
After that point, Wu Huai’s tone shifted drastically.
[October 9th. I’ve been struggling with insomnia for a month. Even sleeping pills don’t help. Cheng Mu’s attitude toward me is getting worse—she’s starting to seem like someone else entirely. I wonder if it’s the mental contamination… but the doctor clearly said her pollution levels were low, that it wouldn’t affect daily life or need further treatment. Quacks, the lot of them!]
[October 12th. Still can’t sleep. I keep having nightmares. Cheng Mu’s temper is getting worse. Wu Mengyu doesn’t listen and just keeps crying. No one gives a damn about me!]
[October 25th. Saw Dr. Song today. The meds he gave me really work. I can finally get a good night’s sleep tonight.]
At the name “Dr. Song,” Song Nanxing’s pupils contracted slightly—he had thoroughly reviewed the consultants listed on Haomeng’s official website, and there was no one with the surname Song. Their top-ranked consultant was named Liang Jin.
Suppressing his urgency, he read on.
[November 4th. Don’t know what got into Cheng Mu today—she suddenly locked me out of the house. I had to beg her to let me back in. And Wu Mengyu? Disappeared again. I work my ass off to feed that kid, and she doesn’t even care about her father. Ingrate.]
[November 20th. Wang Xiaorui talked to me today—said Zhou Liang filed a complaint claiming I’m mentally unstable. Said I almost strangled him in the bathroom. Zhou Liang’s out of his mind—I only took a nap at my desk. Never even left my workstation.]
[November 23rd. Another complaint. Damn it, these people are all out to get me. They’re targeting me, targeting me, targeting me…]
At this point, Wu Huai’s writing had grown erratic, filled with scribbles. Some sections were even punctured where the pen had jabbed too hard.
Several pages were just illegible swirls and lines. Skimming ahead to December, Song Nanxing finally found a readable entry:
[Got another complaint from Zhou Liang. If he wants to frame me, I’ll give him something real to report!]
[Wang Xiaorui called me in again—said Zhou Liang nearly got his throat slit. Everyone at the office is scared of me now. Suggested I take a break and go home. Fine. Let’s see if that damn company runs without me.]
Zhou Liang’s name kept popping up. Song Nanxing found it oddly familiar. After a moment’s thought, he remembered—wasn’t that the same name as Duck Neck Bro?
No wonder he was so terrified of Wu Huai.
Wu Huai’s entries continued, but his handwriting grew increasingly messy—so messy it took effort to even decipher the words.
[It’s been a while since I had a nightmare, but today I dreamed that Wu Mengyu kept crying. I was so agitated that I strangled her in a fit of rage. But even after she died, she kept crying. Those black eyes kept staring at me. But how could that be? I love her so much. I’ve been working day and night just to earn money for her treatment… Everything I’ve done was for her!
Maybe I didn’t sleep well because of the nightmare. I had a headache when I woke up. I asked Cheng Mu to get me a glass of water, but she ignored me.
At dinner, Cheng Mu made braised meat, but I didn’t see Wu Mengyu.
I asked Cheng Mu, and she just looked at me worriedly and asked if I had been contaminated.
She said we never had a daughter.]
[But I remember very clearly that we do have a daughter. She’s five years and seven months old. Her name is Wu Mengyu.]
Do I really have a daughter?
All the remaining pages were filled with the same question, repeated over and over again.
Wu Huai’s frenzied and scrawled handwriting filled every line.
Looking at those deranged words, Song Nanxing thought of the suitcase in the second bedroom… and the dismembered body of Wu Mengyu that had been pieced back together.
He sighed and closed the notebook.
In the plastic bag, the family portrait still showed the three of them smiling brightly, not a trace of darkness on their faces.
Song Nanxing placed the notebook back with the family photo. Then he picked up the cup of instant noodles on the coffee table and took a bite. The flavor of braised beef exploded in his mouth, but he frowned and had to force himself to swallow it down.
He had been eating the same flavor of instant noodles for days now, and his stomach was starting to revolt.
Song Nanxing got up and walked over to the fridge, pulling out his phone and scrolling through a recipe app, trying to figure out which dishes were both simple and delicious.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
Song Nanxing shut the fridge and walked over in confusion to open the door.
To his surprise, Shen Du was standing there, holding two steaming, fragrant dishes in his hands.
The aroma hit him immediately—sweet and tangy pork ribs and shredded chicken—both dishes that would stimulate anyone’s appetite.
Since the rainy season began, food deliveries had stopped, and he hadn’t had a hot meal like this in ages.
“Is something the matter?” Song Nanxing forced himself to look away from the two plates of food.
“I cooked a bit too much today,” Shen Du said with a warm smile, his deep, unhurried voice incredibly soothing. “I couldn’t finish it on my own and didn’t want it to go to waste. I remembered you seemed to live alone too, so I brought you a portion. They say distant relatives aren’t as helpful as nearby neighbors. I just moved in and I’m still new to the area, so I hope you’ll take care of me.”
He was very tall. Standing in front of him, Song Nanxing was nearly half a head shorter. He estimated Shen Du’s height to be at least 188 cm—possibly even 190.
Normally, that kind of height would create an overwhelming presence—but Shen Du didn’t. He had a gentle aura. Everything about his manner, from his posture to his voice, made one feel calm and at ease—like basking in spring sunlight.
Especially now, standing there in his soft blue loungewear, sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms, looking down with a faint smile… he gave off the comforting, homey vibe of someone warm and kind.
And Song Nanxing couldn’t help but be drawn to that feeling.
He pursed his lips slightly and hesitated, embarrassed. “Isn’t this too much trouble for you…?”
“It’s really no trouble at all,” Shen Du replied. “I enjoy cooking, but I can’t eat much by myself.
And since I just moved here and don’t know anyone, it’s been a bit lonely stuck at home all the time.
The only fun I have these days is experimenting with new recipes.”
Hearing that, Song Nanxing couldn’t bring himself to refuse anymore. He accepted the dishes.
Since Shen Du was still standing there, it felt awkward to just shut the door in his face. So Song Nanxing asked, “Have you eaten yet? If not, want to eat here? I’ve got a few beers in the fridge—can you drink?”
Shen Du looked pleasantly surprised, and also a bit shy. After hesitating a moment, he asked, “Am I bothering you?”
Song Nanxing shook his head. “Not at all. I just got off work, and I was struggling to figure out what to eat.”
Since he’d said so, Shen Du didn’t refuse again.
“Give me a sec, I also made soup. I’ll go grab it.”
Song Nanxing carried the food inside, and soon Shen Du returned with a pot of steaming hot soup.
The rich, milky-white fish broth smelled divine. Song Nanxing inhaled deeply and unconsciously swallowed. “You’re really good at this. I can’t cook to save my life.”
Shen Du kicked off his slippers and sat cross-legged on the carpet. “I just follow the recipes. I’m not actually that skilled.”
“Then the difference between people is too unfair,” Song Nanxing muttered. “I follow recipes too, but nothing ever turns out right.”
He passed a can of beer to Shen Du, and the two of them ate and chatted casually.
“You’re a professor at Tongcheng University? Why’d you move all the way out to the outer district?”
Shen Du ate with elegant restraint. Holding the beer can between two fingers, his cheeks slightly flushed, his voice slowed like he was tipsy. “I’ve been researching a new project related to the outer district.
I figured being on-site might help, so I moved here to do some fieldwork.”
Song Nanxing looked at him with newfound respect and was about to ask more—when Shen Du suddenly slumped over, leaning an arm on the coffee table and… passed out drunk.
Song Nanxing: “Huh? Your alcohol tolerance is that bad?”
He nudged the other man. Shen Du sleepily lifted his face to look at him, then slumped back down again.
Song Nanxing sighed helplessly and started clearing the empty dishes, taking them to the kitchen to wash. When he came back and saw Shen Du still passed out, he checked the time. It was still early. Since the beer wasn’t that strong, he figured he’d let him sleep off the buzz a bit longer before waking him.
So he curled up on the sofa with his laptop, organizing the clues he’d gathered so far.
But perhaps it was Shen Du’s influence—after staring at the screen for a while, Song Nanxing also started to feel drowsy.
He yawned and, before he knew it, dozed off on the couch.
The lights in the room dimmed.
Shen Du, who had been slumped over the coffee table, slowly sat upright, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he looked at Song Nanxing.
From behind him, black tendrils emerged, stretching silently across the table. They coiled around Song Nanxing’s bare ankle and slowly began to climb upward…
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