A child from a single-parent household, raised by his father alone, yet firmly believing he had a mother—and that she had gone missing. For years, he had persistently searched for his mother’s whereabouts, never once mentioning his sister who had died under suspicious circumstances.
It was as if she had never existed in this world. Clearly, something wasn’t right.
Han Zhi still remembered the day this child was rescued and brought to the bureau. He hadn’t cried or thrown a tantrum.
He had calmly and politely recounted how he escaped, filled out the information form, and told the officers that his mother had disappeared into the Great Fog while trying to save him. He asked them to help find her.
Everyone had thought the child must have been so traumatized that he was experiencing cognitive confusion. Out of kindness, they sent him for psychological counseling.
But during the session, a violent psychic storm suddenly swept through the consultation room. By the time they managed to force the door open, the room had been flattened, completely destroyed.
The psychiatrist had vanished into thin air—only a trace of DNA-laced ash remained as proof of his death.
And in the center of the wreckage, ten-year-old Song Nanxing lay unconscious on the floor.
To this day, no one knew exactly what had happened inside that consultation room. But the mental contamination monitor attached to Song Nanxing at the time had recorded a value that exceeded all known historical records.
The incident was immediately escalated to a high-level investigation and handed over to the Containment Center—it was no longer under the jurisdiction of the Special Action Bureau.
Han Zhi only knew, through a few personal connections, that Song Nanxing had lived at the Containment Center for a while before eventually returning to live alone in his childhood home.
Song Nanxing had no memory of what had happened inside the consultation room. With the staff’s help, he’d taken good care of himself, thanks to his exceptional self-sufficiency.
Other than his monthly visits to the police station to check for updates on missing persons, everything about him appeared utterly normal.
Except for one thing—his name was still on the Containment Center’s high-risk patient watchlist.
More than ten years had passed. Han Zhi had gone from being a hotheaded rookie to a seasoned captain. When he saw Song Nanxing again, he nearly didn’t recognize the child he once rescued.
His communicator buzzed. Glancing at the message, Han Zhi had no time for further reflection. He leaned into the apartment and called out, “My team found a female corpse in Unit 301. Can you come help identify it?”
Song Nanxing, who considered himself a model citizen who always cooperated with public officials, nodded and followed him downstairs.
As he shut the door, he glanced at the water bowl near the wall.
More than half the clear water had been spilled, and what remained had turned a faint red. Tiny red flecks floated within it. The little blue octopus was drifting in the water—its two previously severed limbs had already regrown.
All eight tentacles now stretched and curled energetically, sometimes floating to the surface, sometimes sinking to the bottom. The rhythmic movement of its limbs resembled the blooming and closing of flower petals, strangely beautiful—almost like it was dancing an eerie, otherworldly dance.
Song Nanxing stared, momentarily transfixed, his gaze lingering for several seconds.
Han Zhi noticed his stillness and followed his line of sight. “What are you looking at?”
Song Nanxing’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to face Han Zhi and suddenly realized—he couldn’t see the little blue octopus in the water bowl.
He paused for two seconds and said, “I was just wondering who left this bowl at my door.”
Han Zhi glanced at the bowl by the door and replied casually, “Probably someone trying to feed one of the strays in the hallway.”
“Oh,” Song Nanxing responded.
After a short pause, under Han Zhi’s puzzled gaze, he picked up the water bowl and explained, “I’m not really fond of small animals. Better to put this on another floor.”
The little octopus, having just mastered its new courtship dance, looked confused: ?
It suctioned its way up the edge of the bowl, trying to reach Song Nanxing’s fingers with its other tentacles in a desperate attempt to stay.
But Song Nanxing’s heart was like steel. Without changing expression, he flicked it back into the bowl with his fingers.
The tiny octopus tumbled to the bottom of the bowl, its eight tentacles huddled together helplessly and aimlessly—
Why why why why why?
*****
Once they reached 301, Song Nanxing casually set the bowl on the entrance cabinet and followed Han Zhi inside.
Apartment 301 was definitely not normal, and the little blue octopus clearly wasn’t either. Better to keep them together—let poison fight poison.
Han Zhi didn’t pay attention to his subtle action. His focus was entirely on the female corpse in the middle of the living room.
The room had already been decontaminated, and the corpse was respectfully covered with a white sheet. But the bloodstains, black and red and soaked into the wooden floor, combined with the thick stench of rot, still gave off a grotesque and bloody atmosphere.
Han Zhi put on gloves and lifted the sheet.
The woman beneath was emaciated and sunken. Her bones and internal organs had been completely hollowed out, leaving behind only a thin outer layer of skin. Yet that skin still looked disturbingly lifelike—her eyes wide open, lips curled in a perfect smile. It was the kind of sight that made one’s scalp crawl and sent a chill down the spine.
Even the staff with weaker mental resilience didn’t dare meet her gaze.
Han Zhi studied her for a moment, then turned to ask, “Is it her?”
Song Nanxing confirmed the identity of the corpse. “It’s her. The night before last, when I came downstairs and knocked, she was sitting in the living room.”
Han Zhi carefully examined the dark purplish-red blotches on the corpse’s skin and said, “Judging by the livor mortis, she’s been dead for at least half a month.”
He turned to the others and asked, “Other than the body, was anything else found in the apartment? Focus on finding clues about her husband and daughter.”
Song Nanxing’s gaze flickered. “So they do have a daughter?”
“They do,” Han Zhi replied.
“I used my clearance to pull the household registry for Apartment 301. The husband is named Wu Huai, the wife is Cheng Mu. They’ve been married for eight years and have a five-year-old daughter named Wu Mengyu. But it seems like Wu Mengyu’s health has always been poor—she’s never attended school. Cheng Mu stayed home to take care of her and hasn’t worked, while Wu Huai was a salesman at a consulting firm that sells mental wellness courses. In the past three months, Cheng Mu has had two records of treatment for mental contamination. Her symptoms weren’t severe though—just required medication and periodic follow-ups.”
While they were speaking, one of the search team members emerged holding a suitcase. “Captain Han, we found this under the bed in the secondary bedroom. There’s some residual human tissue and bloodstains inside. Nothing else so far.”
“Seal it up and take it back to the lab for testing. Leave two people here to keep an eye on the complex,” Han Zhi instructed. Then he turned to Song Nanxing. “Thanks for coming out here. We haven’t found Wu Huai or his daughter yet. Be careful when you’re coming and going in the neighborhood. If you notice anything, contact me right away.”
“Got it.” Song Nanxing nodded, then glanced curiously at the suitcase and muttered, “A five- or six-year-old girl would fit in there just right.”
Han Zhi froze and frowned at him. “Why would you suddenly say something like that?”
Song Nanxing seemed startled by his own words too. He waved it off. “Just nonsense. Probably watched too many horror movies.”
But Han Zhi seemed to take it seriously. “It’s not impossible, though. We’ll know for sure once we run the lab tests.”
As for what the results were, Song Nanxing likely wouldn’t find out—after parting ways with Han Zhi, he headed back home.
The water bowl he had casually left on 301’s entryway cabinet was naturally forgotten.
After all, who would care—besides the apartment’s former resident?
*****
Due to Director Fang and Xu Cai’s consecutive incidents, the next morning the Exchange Center notified all staff of an emergency online meeting.
The good news was that Director Fang showed up. Though he looked a bit haggard and drained, he was physically intact and his mental state appeared relatively stable.
The bad news was that Xu Cai had been taken away by staff from the Mental Health Center. His condition was unknown.
As the leadership droned on, Song Nanxing sat listening with boredom, secretly playing on his phone.
In the main company group chat, any discussion of Director Fang and Xu Cai’s contamination incident had been explicitly banned. But a few gossipy coworkers quickly created a side group just for slacking off.
As one of the central figures in the gossip, Song Nanxing was also dragged into it.
At the moment, the group was abuzz with heated discussion about the 301 murder case.
[The police statement actually claimed Wu Huai killed his wife and fled out of guilt. Do they think we’re idiots?]
[I have a friend who used to work at Wu Huai’s company. It sells psychological massage courses. The commissions were supposedly sky-high, but the performance pressure and mental strain were intense, especially since most of the clients were weird as hell. My friend once had a customer who came wrapped from head to toe. When he bent down to pick up a pen that fell during the signing, he saw the man’s legs under the table—covered in pus-filled blisters. Inside the blisters were things that looked like eyeballs… moving. He had nightmares for days and quit not long after. For Wu Huai to last that long there—he was never normal.]
[I’ve heard of that company too. Supposedly, their therapy is super effective. One of my distant relatives went and said it worked better than any hospital treatment.]
At that moment, someone tagged Song Nanxing:
[You live just upstairs from Wu Huai, right? Got any inside scoop? I heard his wife’s been dead for half a month, her body hollowed out—but she could still talk and move like she was alive. And yet the authorities are pretending it’s just a murder case?]
Staring at the messages in the group chat, Song Nanxing thought of those masses of flesh rats that had squirmed their way in through the crack of the door and peephole. There was no way this was just an ordinary homicide.
But compared to the alternatives, maybe an ordinary murder would be the best-case scenario.
He replied:
[I barely ever ran into the family in 301. If it weren’t for them screaming at their kid every night and keeping me from sleeping, I wouldn’t have knocked on their door in the first place.]
Seeing that Song Nanxing had no juicy updates, the group gossiped a bit more before gradually going quiet.
Song Nanxing scrolled through the chat log, then opened a search engine to look up the consulting company called Dreamwell.
The top result was the official website.
The site had a sleek and minimalist design. The homepage featured a brand intro and course promotions.
As he scrolled down to the section introducing the counselors, he suddenly stopped—his eyes locked onto the first name on the list. His expression turned ice cold.
He pressed his finger hard against the screen, as if he could strangle the man’s neck through it.
—It was a gentle-looking, slightly chubby middle-aged man. From his well-defined features, it wasn’t hard to imagine how handsome he’d been when younger. Wearing a white lab coat, he looked unusually approachable and trustworthy.
Below the photo was a small caption introducing him as “Song Cheng, the most well-reviewed star counselor at Dreamwell Psychological Consulting.”
Song Cheng.
Song Nanxing silently repeated the name to himself, and for the first time, a look of true hatred appeared on his face.
The plush rabbit on the sofa seemed to sense the change in his demeanor and looked over at him with worried red eyes.
It had been a long time since Song Nanxing last thought of that name.
It took him quite a while to calm the surge of emotions before he dialed Han Zhi’s number.
“Song Nanxing? What’s the matter?” Han Zhi sounded a bit surprised—it seemed he hadn’t expected a call from him again so soon.
Song Nanxing heard himself speak in an unnervingly calm tone: “Captain Han, I just saw my father’s photo on the official website of the psychological consulting company Wu Huai worked for.
He’s the company’s star counselor.”
“…He’s not dead. He’s back.”
Was the dog-plush Jing Rao (?) also of Song Nanxing’s family? Guess MC’s family full of hidden “master” www