Chapter 2: Echoes in the Dark

Song Nanxing: “…”

“I just had a checkup this morning. All my indicators are normal, but thanks for your concern.” Song Nanxing quickly finished speaking and hung up the call.

The commotion downstairs was still going on. He could feel the tremors in the floor, and after taking a deep breath, he threw on his robe and stepped out.

He lived in 401.

301 was directly below him. Song Nanxing could hardly imagine what kind of ruckus could shake even the ceiling.

It was only a short walk down one flight of stairs to 301, but strangely, the third-floor hallway was completely silent now—no vibrations, no screams from a little girl, nothing at all. It was so quiet that it made Song Nanxing wonder if that chaotic out-of-tune symphony had just been his imagination.

He stood in front of 301 for a few seconds before finally pressing the doorbell.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

Three regular rings later, the front door opened from inside.

The person who answered was a refined-looking man with glasses. He was dressed like an elite office worker—white dress shirt, slacks, leather shoes. His tone was courteous and polite: “Can I help you with something?”

Song Nanxing’s gaze casually swept past him into the apartment. In the dim, unlit living room behind him stood a woman. With the lights off, it was hard to make out her face clearly, but she seemed to be tilting her head as if also looking toward the door.

He retracted his gaze and explained his visit.

“I’m the resident from 401 upstairs. For the past month, there’s been a lot of noise coming from your apartment at night—crying from a child, even…”

He deliberately paused here and observed the man’s expression.

The man kept a perfectly appropriate polite smile.

“You might be mistaken. We don’t have any children.” He stepped slightly to the side, revealing the woman behind him.

“It’s just me and my wife here.”

The woman, who had been standing in the shadows, finally moved. She stepped to her husband’s side, tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, and smiled gently to echo his words.

“Yes, we don’t have any children.”

“Then I must’ve gotten it wrong. I’ll check with the other residents. Sorry to bother you.”

Song Nanxing’s eyes lingered for a brief moment on her arm. Then he gave an apologetic smile and turned to leave, heading toward apartment 302.

Behind him, the door to 301 closed with a soft thud.

Song Nanxing stopped walking and glanced back, brows slightly furrowed.

If he hadn’t been mistaken, when the woman raised her arm earlier… he saw deep, dark purplish-red blotches on her skin.

They looked a lot like livor mortis.

After a moment of thought, he returned to his apartment and dialed the police again.

The voice on the other end was the same one he’d heard before.

“This is Xingfu Garden Police Station. How can I help you?”

The exact same opening line.

Ordinarily, it would’ve been unremarkable—he’d heard it so often this past month that his ears were practically callused from it.

But suddenly, he remembered the words the man had said when he opened the door…

“Can I help you with something?”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

The phrasing was slightly different, but the intonation and emphasis were exactly the same.

Song Nanxing rubbed the back of his phone with his thumb, making a half-hearted joke.

“Are you the only officer at your station or what? Why is it always you answering the phone? You work overtime every day?”

No response.

Only static crackled from the speaker.

After a pause, he heard the voice again: “Yes, I’m the only officer. How can I help you?”

Song Nanxing’s brow twitched. He pulled the phone away, quickly said, “Ah, wrong number, never mind,”
and hung up.

He stood in his bedroom, dazed. Then, irritated, he tossed his phone on the nightstand and flopped into bed, muttering, “What the hell is going on…”

He shoved in a pair of earplugs, yanked the blanket over his head, and decided to go to sleep.

*****

Outside, the sky had gone completely dark. Dense sheets of rain sliced the world into fragmented pieces.

In the aging residential complex of the outer district, few people still lived there. With the onset of the Red Rain Season, residents were too afraid to go out. The corridors lay empty and silent, the only sounds the occasional rustle of rats and insects skittering by.

Rustle… rustle…

Wet streaks were being dragged across the floor and ceiling—but the rain quickly washed them away.

The rain grew heavier, so much so that damp stains began creeping under the door, seeping inside.

Inside Unit 401, deep in sleep, the plush bunny doll that had been casually left on the sofa turned its head. Its red eyes stared straight at the uninvited intruder.

*****

Tiny chunks of red flesh, resembling skinless mice, squirmed in swarms across the floor. Muscle tissue exposed and glistening, they wriggled in from under the door, leaving long, wet streaks as they moved.

But something was even faster.

Blue, tentacle-like limbs, writhing like seaweed, burst from the fish tank. The suckers on their undersides latched onto the squirming flesh and shoved them toward a mouth full of overlapping, jagged teeth beneath a bulbous head.

The intruders became a midnight snack.

The plush bunny turned its head. Its red eyes locked onto the octopus on the coffee table.

What had once been a jelly-like blue octopus no larger than a ping-pong ball had now grown legs over a meter long. Eight limbs unfurled, framing the mushroom-shaped head at the center, giving it an intimidating presence.

The bunny’s ears shot up in alarm. It emitted a high-frequency screech that human ears couldn’t detect:
“Out! Out! OUT!”

But the blue octopus ignored the warning. Its eight arms slithered forward with a slick, sticky sound, and one had already curled around the bedroom doorknob.

A loud crash woke Song Nanxing.

Eyes wide open, he lay stiffly in bed, rage boiling just beneath the surface.

It took him a long time to finally get up, dragging his feet with clear reluctance as he walked out to investigate the source of the noise.

The living room looked like it had just been hit by a tornado. The coffee table and shelves were overturned, decorative items scattered across the floor. The plush bunny lay soaked on the ground, one ear ripped off, cotton spilling from its head.

The water came from the shattered fish tank on the coffee table. Glass shards littered the floor. The blue octopus was sprawled on the rug.

Completely ignoring the mess, the octopus cheerfully waved its tiny arms and crawled onto Song Nanxing’s bare foot.

The cold, slimy touch made him flinch—it triggered some very unpleasant memories.

He looked down at the squishy creature that was now flailing happily at his feet. Despite being out of water, it was still full of life.

He thought about what a normal octopus was supposed to be like.

He had no idea.

He’d never kept one before.

Bending over, Song Nanxing picked up the octopus by one of its limbs with two fingers.

It flailed its remaining arms innocently, like it was confused. The translucent blue, jelly-like body made it look almost cute.

But Song Nanxing had never been fooled by appearances.

Still holding it by the leg, he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and without hesitation—tossed the octopus out.

Thud—he slammed the door shut.

Outside, the octopus hit the ground and let out a sharp, indignant “chirp.”

It stared blankly at the tightly shut door, completely unaware of what it had done wrong.

“Why? Why? Why?”

It had gone through so much to find this place—it didn’t want to leave.

Its eight tentacles waved in frustration. Before it could figure out what to do next, an unpleasant creak creak echoed from the stairwell.

It twisted around, glaring down the hallway in fury.

A grotesque puppet was crawling slowly up the stairs, its limbs moving awkwardly and out of sync. Its old wooden joints lacked oil, making unbearable creaking noises with every movement.

“Go away. I—got—here—first!” The little octopus lashed out fiercely, blocking the corridor with its tentacles to keep the puppet from advancing.

The puppet slowly lifted its head. Its crudely carved head had no proper features, only two black holes where eyes should be.

The black holes stared straight at the octopus. The voice that emerged sounded almost gleeful. “He—doesn’t—like you. Got—thrown—out. Hee hee.”

Furious, the little octopus lashed at the puppet’s body with its tentacles.

The puppet wasn’t about to back down. It opened its mouth, revealing sharp, jagged teeth, and bit down hard on one of the octopus’s tentacles. The little octopus let out a piercing shriek as it wrapped all eight tentacles around the puppet, and the two of them tumbled down the stairs in a tangled heap.

*****

Inside the apartment, Song Nanxing stood in the midst of the wrecked living room, completely dazed.

“Forget it. I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

He really didn’t have the energy to deal with this mess in the middle of the night. After picking up the soaked ragdoll rabbit and tossing it into the washing machine, he flopped onto the bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and went right back to sleep.

*****

Because of the late-night chaos, Song Nanxing didn’t wake up until noon.

As usual, he pushed the curtains aside and glanced out the window. He noticed the rain had lightened considerably. But the sky remained dark and heavy, with thick clouds pressing down like lead. At the edges of those clouds, faint red hues bled through—an ominous sight.

And it was ominous for good reason. Every year during the rainy season between April and May, cases of mental contamination surged.

The faint pink rain carried a metallic scent like rust. Anyone who came into contact with it ran the risk of infection—symptoms included fever, auditory and visual hallucinations, delirium, and even physical mutations.

Experts claimed the cause was an unknown strain of bacteria in the rain that triggered mental illness. As long as one sought treatment promptly at the Center for Infectious Disease Control, it was said to be curable.

But in reality, the number of missing persons had been increasing year after year. The population was plummeting. The ever-updated Extreme Weather Emergency Handbook released by the authorities didn’t seem aimed at dealing with a growing number of mental health patients. Rather, it felt more like instructions to avoid some unspeakable danger.

Song Nanxing let out a deep sigh and forced himself to stop overthinking. He took out his phone and checked the company group chat.

Director Fang had already @-mentioned him three times: [@Song Nanxing, clock in and upload your test results.]

During the red rain season, the entire city shut down—no work, no production, no school. Song Nanxing’s workplace, the Exchange Center, was no exception.

The Exchange Center was a logistics transit hub jointly established by the government and major delivery companies over the past two years. Ever since large-scale outbreaks of mental contamination, cities began setting up such centers to screen incoming goods for possible contamination, preventing dangerous materials from spreading inside urban zones.

Song Nanxing’s job was to perform these inspections on the incoming items.

Since he worked on the frontlines and was at high risk of exposure, Song Nanxing had to perform daily mental contamination checks using a government-issued scanner to verify that he was still mentally sound and uninfected.

He skillfully retrieved the device, ran the scan, uploaded the results, and sent a screenshot to the group chat, tagging Director Fang.

Fang quickly replied: [Received. @Xu Cai, you’re the only one who hasn’t submitted.]

Glancing at the rest of the messages in the chat—all colleague check-ins—Song Nanxing put down his phone and got up to clean the living room.

But when he stepped into the room, he stopped in surprise.

The chaos from last night was gone. The living room looked perfectly clean, just as it had before.

The overturned shelving unit and coffee table were back in place, scattered items had been returned neatly to their original positions, and the water stains on the carpet had completely dried. The surface was now warm and dry underfoot, as if it had been left to bask in direct sunlight.

Song Nanxing paused mid-step and turned toward the washing machine.

The lid had been lifted. The ragdoll rabbit he’d tossed in for cleaning last night was now hanging on the clothesline on the balcony. One of its ears was clipped in place with a clothespin; the other dangled by a thread, flopping limply beside its head. From a tear at the base of the ear, fluffy cotton stuffing had begun to spill out, floating gently through the air.

Song Nanxing stared unblinking at the stuffed rabbit.