Chen Ge was kneeling in the sealed classroom, twisting the last mannequin head into place with a soft click, when a scream ripped down the corridor. It wasn't the usual startled yelp or theatrical shriek he'd grown used to; this one carried layers of raw emotion: shock, betrayal, and pure animal terror braided together. The sound punched straight through the walls and lodged in his chest. He shot to his feet, mallet already in hand. First day open to the public and someone was already screaming like they were being murdered. The lingering spirits were supposed to be under control, bound by the hidden mission's rules, but twenty-four restless souls plus real visitors equalled variables he hadn't fully tested.
He bolted out of the classroom, boots hammering the concrete, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. The scream had come from the far branch—the old well and Room 303. Chen Ge's mind raced through worst-case scenarios: a spirit had slipped its leash, the Pen Spirit had taken offence at her stolen nametag, or something from the Third Sick Hall had already bled through the cracks. He rounded the corner at full sprint, the black phone burning a hole in his pocket, ready to pull up whatever emergency controls had finally appeared for the Returners.
…
Inside Room 303, Pei Hu had his back welded to the door, forehead slick with cold sweat, lungs heaving like he'd run a marathon. "Damn it, Wenlong is still in that well!" The realisation hit him like a second punch. He stared at Wang Wenlong's phone clutched in his meaty fist, the screen still glowing with the flashlight he'd never turned off. "I even took his phone… it's pitch-black down there, and those things under the sand…" His voice cracked. The image of buried mannequins opening their eyes flashed behind his eyelids, and he slammed them shut, shaking his head violently as if he could physically dislodge the memory.
The room around him felt wrong. It had retained its original layout from Wang Haiming's tenancy: peeling wallpaper, a single bed, a rickety desk, and in the centre of the floor, a waist-high pile of dirty laundry that reeked faintly of mildew and old blood. No stench like the rest of the building, but the pile itself looked… deliberate. Pei Hu's gaze darted nervously. "Why leave a mountain of clothes right in the middle? This whole place is giving me the creeps." He edged away from the door, deciding the safest spot was as far from every entrance as possible. A soft thud came from the bottom of the door—low, near his feet, like someone knocking with their forehead.
Pei Hu froze. Normal people knocked at chest height or higher. The only thing that short in the corridor was… a head.
His blood turned to ice. "It's the head," he whispered, voice barely air. "The mannequin head is knocking." The door had no real lock—just a decorative latch that wouldn't stop a determined child. Another thud, heavier. The wood vibrated against his spine. Pei Hu's eyes swept the room in panic: window sealed behind cement, bedroom door missing entirely, no wardrobe, no closet. The only hiding place was under the bed. He dropped to all fours, shone the phone underneath—nothing but dust and a forgotten sock—and crawled in, curling his bulk as small as possible. The bedframe creaked above him; springs dug into his back.
"Please just leave me alone," he prayed silently, killing the flashlight and plunging himself into darkness. He fixed his eyes on the bedroom doorway, every nerve straining. The apartment fell eerily still.
Then came the sound: a soft, rhythmic roll, like a ball bouncing slowly across tile. It grew nearer, paused, rolled again. Pei Hu's breath caught in his throat. The rolling stopped at the bedroom threshold.
A pale, delicate face appeared in the doorway, upside-down from his angle under the bed, smiling with gentle curiosity. The severed mannequin head had found him. Its painted eyes locked onto his, unblinking. Time stretched, crystallised, shattered.
Pei Hu screamed.
Wang Hailong strode ahead into the girls' dormitory block, shoulders squared, chin high, every inch the fearless leader even though his eyes were still red from the tears he'd shed in the sealed classroom. In front of Dou Menglu he refused to show weakness; the earlier breakdown had been a momentary lapse, nothing more. Dou Menglu clung to his arm, half-excited, half-nervous giggles bubbling out of her whenever the corridor lights flickered. Xia Meili trailed several steps behind, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval she didn't bother hiding. The dormitory smelled of mildew and old chalk, the air thick enough to taste. Rows of identical doors lined both walls, most hanging open to reveal empty bunk beds and scattered papers that rustled though no wind moved.
They paused at a room that felt different the moment they crossed the threshold. Four plastic chairs formed a perfect square in the centre, a single sheet of yellowed paper resting on one seat. A cheap ballpoint pen, crudely taped together with clear tape, lay beside it. Wang Hailong snatched the paper and read aloud in his best dramatic voice: "The Pen Spirit knows the location of three nametags." Dou Menglu's eyes lit up. "No way—the actual Pen Spirit game? I've only ever seen this in movies!" She dropped into a chair immediately, patting the one beside her. "Come on, Brother Long, sit. I know exactly how this works."
Xia Meili lingered by the door, arms still folded. "You two realise we're inside a Haunted House, right? Inviting actual spirits feels like a terrible idea." Her tone was sharp, but neither paid attention; Dou Menglu was already grabbing the taped pen, Wang Hailong sliding into the chair with a cocky grin, his hand closing over hers without hesitation. Xia Meili's frown deepened. The room smelled cloying, like someone had spilled cheap perfume over rotting flowers. "You two have fun," she muttered, turning on her heel. "I'll wait outside."
"Don't wander too far, Meili," Wang Hailong called after her, but his focus was already on Dou Menglu's instructions. "First rule: never ask about death. Second: don't stop the game halfway…"
Xia Meili stepped back into the corridor and sucked in a lungful of comparatively fresher air. The sour-sweet stench that had clung to the Pen Spirit room instantly felt lighter on her tongue. Let them flirt with ghosts if they want, she thought sourly. I hope the Pen Spirit shows up and scares the makeup off Dou Menglu's face. The corridor stretched ahead, darker than before, lights flickering in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She walked to the very end, boots echoing, until the passage split again. Somewhere deeper, Wang Wenlong's voice suddenly rose in a sharp, angry shout—not fear, but outrage. Xia Meili froze.
"Wenlong?" She pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over his contact. The ringtone that answered was faint, muffled, coming from the branch that led to the three Hai Ming rooms. No one picked up. She ended the call, the eerie echo of the ringtone still hanging in the air like a ghost that refused to leave. They're inside one of those rooms? The doors loomed ahead, numbers faded but legible: 302, 303, 304. The same numbers from the one-star mission Chen Ge had completed, now inexplicably fused into Mu Yang High School's layout. Xia Meili hesitated at the junction, the old well on one side exhaling damp, earthy breath, the rooms on the other radiating a colder, older kind of silence.
She took a cautious step toward the doors, phone raised like a talisman. The ringtone had come from here; she was sure of it. But the corridor felt narrower than it should, the walls closer, the ceiling lower, as though the building itself had inhaled and was holding its breath. Xia Meili's pulse thudded in her ears. Somewhere behind those doors, her friends were in trouble, and the air itself seemed to warn her that opening any one of them might invite something far worse than a simple scare.