Shaking his head to dispel the strange, ridiculous illusion, Song Nanxing called out to Cheng Jianning, “Don’t just stand there—help me find the doctor’s application form. It shouldn’t be filed with the regular employees’.”
Cheng Jianning reluctantly tore his gaze away from the red stone and joined him in rummaging through cabinets and drawers.
But even after turning the entire HR office upside down, they still couldn’t find a single employment application or contract for any of the other employees. It was as if the company had no records of them at all.
That didn’t make sense—Cheng Jianning’s own documents were missing too.
Just as Song Nanxing was frowning in confusion, he suddenly heard Cheng Jianning cry out, “Oh no!”
Clearly shaken, Cheng Jianning’s data cables flailed wildly as his face turned increasingly pale. He started spinning in circles, muttering frantically, “It’s over, it’s over, it’s over…”
Song Nanxing stepped back to avoid getting hit by the thrashing cables. “What do you mean, ‘over’?”
Cheng Jianning was standing beside Wang Xiaorui’s remains, muttering blankly, “Wang Xiaorui’s dead. No one’s left to approve my resignation request.” His expression grew visibly more twisted and deranged, the data cables writhing like intestines on the verge of snapping. “I… I can’t resign now.”
“This isn’t right! I want to quit! I want to go home…”
He kept mumbling incoherently as the cables wrapped around his body grew thicker, violently lashing and slamming around the office in a chaotic frenzy.
Sensing danger, the puppet stepped protectively in front of Song Nanxing, baring its small, sharp teeth.
Song Nanxing patted its head, then calmly said to Cheng Jianning, “Take it easy. Wang Xiaorui was just from HR, right? Don’t you need a signature from the manager or the boss to resign anyway? There’s a whole stack of resignation forms on her desk. Fill one out first, and I’ll go with you to get it signed.”
Cheng Jianning froze, his flailing cables pausing in midair. He turned stiffly to look at Song Nanxing, his expression dazed. “Really?”
How would Song Nanxing know if it was true? In a real company, that would be the normal process—but it was painfully clear that Sweet Dream didn’t operate like a regular business.
Still, seeing how close Cheng Jianning was to a total meltdown, Song Nanxing kept a steady expression and nodded firmly. “Of course it’s true. Where’s the manager’s or the boss’s office? Fill out the form first—we’ll go get their signature.”
Cheng Jianning’s cables slowly retracted and wrapped obediently back around him.
He hesitated for a while, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the manager… or the boss.”
As he spoke, the color drained from his face again.
“How is that possible? Every company has a boss.”
Song Nanxing’s tone was resolute. “Let’s check out Area B. Isn’t that where the doctors work? Regular employees aren’t even allowed to go there normally. The boss’s office could very well be in that section. You’ve barely been there a few times—it makes sense that you’ve never met the boss.”
The moment Cheng Jianning heard they were heading to Area B, he frantically shook his head. “We can’t go in there without permission! There are on-duty doctors in Area B—they’re even scarier than the janitors!”
The HR office had yielded nothing useful. But Song Nanxing was determined to visit the mental health consultation room in Area B.
He patiently coaxed, “Then whose permission do we need to get?”
“Wang Xiaorui’s,” Cheng Jianning replied.
Song Nanxing pointed to the blood pooled on the ground. “Wang Xiaorui’s already dead—so whatever we say, goes.”
Cheng Jianning’s panicked expression began to shift into hesitation.
Song Nanxing drove the point home. “Let’s go. Grab that resignation form—we’re heading to Area B.”
*****
Cheng Jianning finished filling out the resignation form and left with Song Nanxing.
They were both a little uneasy when opening the office door. After all, the commotion from the earlier fight had been pretty loud. If any of the other employees had heard it, they could be in serious trouble.
They even discussed a cover story in case anyone questioned them—but as soon as they opened the door, they were met with… silence.
There was no one outside.
Not just around the office—nowhere in the work area.
The few employees that were usually around had all disappeared without a trace. The entire office floor was eerily empty, the silence pressing in from all sides.
“What the hell happened?” Song Nanxing glanced toward the reception desk—also deserted.
Cheng Jianning checked the time. It was already close to noon. He offered a hopeful guess: “Maybe they left early for lunch?”
Song Nanxing had only arrived yesterday afternoon and didn’t know what their usual lunchtime looked like, but he seriously doubted it was that simple.
Still, they had already come this far—there was no turning back without checking Area B.
Since we’re here, might as well go all the way.
He went back to his workstation to grab his backpack and had the puppet climb inside.
Then he turned to Cheng Jianning. “Forget everyone else. Let’s just check out Area B. Keep an eye on our surroundings.”
The two of them, plus the puppet, walked quietly along the empty corridor and made their way smoothly to the frosted tempered glass door that marked the entrance to Area B.
Song Nanxing took a deep breath and pushed open the slightly ajar glass door.
Area B’s decor resembled that of a hospital. Cold white tones spread out beneath their feet, and the silent corridor was flanked by consultation rooms on both sides. On the outer walls of each room hung portraits of the respective doctors, along with their professional bios.
“That over there is the counseling room,” Cheng Jianning said, pointing toward one of the consultation rooms. He was craning his neck like a raccoon stealing eggs, peeking around nervously as he muttered, “Why aren’t there any doctors on duty?”
Song Nanxing scanned the area. The layout of Area B was simple: to the left upon entry was the reception desk, and across from it was the waiting lounge for patients. The central corridor led deeper into the consultation rooms, and at the very end, there were two larger-looking rooms. The plaques on their doors read “Office.”
He turned to Cheng Jianning, a little puzzled. “You said before that you live in the company dorms, right? Where exactly are the dorms?”
They hadn’t seen any signs of dormitories on their way here. Song Nanxing had assumed they might be located within Area B—but now, that didn’t seem to be the case.
“They’re in Area B. If you go past there, you’ll reach the dorms—”
Cheng Jianning froze mid-sentence, pointing vaguely in the direction of the counseling room. But after a second, he realized something was off. That area… wasn’t the dorms.
“No, that’s not right,” he muttered, moving his finger around uncertainly. But no matter how he pointed, he couldn’t seem to locate the entrance to the dorms.
“That’s weird… I was sure it was around here…”
Seeing his confusion, Song Nanxing let out a sigh and cut him off. “Forget the dorms for now. While the doctors are gone, let’s search quickly. Start with the reception desk.”
On the reception counter lay a visitor logbook. Song Nanxing flipped through it quickly. The front half of the log looked fairly normal—mostly standard visitor entries. But as he got further into the pages, only one name remained: Cheng Jianning.
He kept flipping—page after page. Cheng Jianning was the only one listed.
It looked like he came in every three to five days.
Cheng Jianning was crouched beside a filing cabinet on the right, rifling through the drawers. Song Nanxing glanced over and asked, “You come to the counseling room a lot?”
“Huh?” Cheng Jianning looked confused, scratching his head as he tried to recall. “I don’t think so? Unless I really can’t control my weight and get super fat—then I might come in.”
Song Nanxing lowered his gaze to the visitor log, then quietly closed the book and handed it to the puppet to carry.
“We didn’t find anything useful here. Let’s check the counseling room next.”
“Oh… okay.” Cheng Jianning gave a vague nod and followed along obediently.
As expected, all the consultation rooms were empty.
The equipment inside was fully stocked, but everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Song Nanxing found a doctor’s work log that had been left behind—its most recent entry dated back to June of last year.
That was over ten months ago.
Cheng Jianning clearly hadn’t caught on to anything strange yet. He said, “The last one over there is Dr. Zhao’s consultation room.”
He stood outside Dr. Zhao’s door, his expression faintly disgusted and resistant. Noticing this, Song Nanxing went along with it and said, “You wait out here. I’ll go in and take a look.”
Cheng Jianning was more than happy to agree, nodding like a pecking chick.
Song Nanxing pushed open the door and froze for a moment when he saw the interior.
This consultation room was nothing like the others. It was completely empty, devoid of any equipment. The iron-gray walls were made of solid metal, and on the ceiling was a single cold, shadowless lamp, along with a built-in device that resembled a signal jammer.
Song Nanxing turned around and tried closing the door, then pulled out his phone to check—his signal had dropped completely to “E.”
This room didn’t look like a consultation room at all. It looked more like some kind of isolation cell.
When he stepped out, Cheng Jianning asked hopefully, “Did you find anything?”
Song Nanxing shook his head and glanced at the last two offices. “Let’s check the offices.”
He had only said that to placate Cheng Jianning, but to his surprise, one of the offices actually was the boss’s. In a pried-open drawer, Song Nanxing found Haomeng’s official company seal, as well as the boss’s personal signature stamp.
“Well, we didn’t find the boss in person, but having the stamp is pretty much the same.” Song Nanxing tossed the two stamps to Cheng Jianning. “You can stamp it yourself—I’m gonna check the office across the hall.”
Cheng Jianning caught them, let out a delighted “Eh!” and eagerly started searching for an ink pad to get the stamping done.
With a signature and a stamp on the resignation form, his resignation would be complete.
Song Nanxing entered the other office. As soon as he stepped in, his eyes caught the surveillance monitor on the screen—and his pupils contracted sharply. He immediately turned and locked the door behind him.
The surveillance footage was clearly of the consultation room they had just entered—Dr. Zhao’s room.
And right next to the monitor was a thick stack of work logs, casually piled up.
Song Nanxing picked one up and flipped it open. When he saw the emblem on the inner page, his expression grew even more serious. He pulled out his phone and opened the photo album, searching for the picture he had taken of that frog-headed man in Room 301.
The round emblem was encircled by stylized flames, and inside the ring was a twisted, grotesque human figure being burned by the fire.
Song Nanxing stared fixedly at the familiar emblem on the inner page, searching through his memories, his complexion growing a bit pale.
—He finally remembered where he had seen this emblem before.
When he was very young, he had once seen it drawn in one of Song Cheng’s notebooks.
He must have been around four or five years old at the time, locked in a room by Song Cheng and forbidden to go out. After being cooped up for so long, he grew unbearably bored and would often lie against the glass of the door, peering out.
The rotating ceiling fan, the television mounted on the wall, the little bugs flying in through the window, the shifting sunlight and shadows… every single thing fascinated him. He could watch them for an entire day without blinking.
Occasionally, Song Cheng would sit at the desk in the living room, writing.
From his spot at the door, Song Nanxing could see half of his body. Whenever Song Cheng was hunched over the desk writing, his expression would be calm and gentle. Because of his appearance and demeanor, he could even give off a soft and kind illusion.
At that age, little Song Nanxing often fantasized, If only Dad could always be this gentle.
After watching so many times, he would occasionally catch a glimpse of the corner of Song Cheng’s notebook. That emblem must have been etched into his mind during one of those moments—buried deep until, years later, a similar scene stirred the dust from that memory and brought it to the surface.
Song Cheng.
Song Nanxing repeated the name silently, lowering his gaze to gently rub the emblem on the page. Then, he opened the logbook.
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