Chapter Fifty-Five: The Class Reunion (5)
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In the dark television room, the doctor reclined in the massage chair, wearing AR glasses, gripping the controller in his hands. His body was illuminated by the giant projection screen before him.
On the screen, a lively banquet hall unfolded, the camera focused on the back of Ya-jie Kong.
The camera, angled slightly upward, followed her as she advanced.
Ya-jie Kong strode quickly into a small corridor. She halted in front of a yellow "Caution: Wet Floor" sign, glanced down at the A4 paper stuck to it, turned her head to survey her surroundings, and finally fixed her gaze on the partially open door leading to the stairwell ahead.
She moved toward the double doors.
The camera followed smoothly, tracking her every move.
Creak—
The door was pushed open.
A chill seemed to sweep in, tousling her hair.
The camera began to ascend; what had been at her calf now hovered behind her head.
Sensing something, Ya-jie Kong turned slightly.
A close-up of her half-face filled the projection screen, so clear that every pore was visible, the intricate patterns within her pupils, the bloodshot vessels in her eyes, and unmistakably, the fear etched on her expression.
The doctor’s ten fingernails hissed in anticipation, laughing, crying, wailing—all brimming with expectation—then fell into silence, eyes wide, fixated on the screen.
Ya-jie Kong pushed the door with force, quickly entered the stairwell, and closed it behind her.
The camera acted swiftly as well.
With no apparent resistance, propelled by some unknown force, it darted through the gap between the door and her body, landing in the stairwell.
It hovered at her side, slightly above her, as if watching from above.
Ya-jie Kong pressed against the door, leaning back as if she had narrowly escaped danger, exhaling a gentle sigh.
Thump, thump, thump...
Echoing footsteps rose from below, ascending bit by bit, as if countless unseen people had suddenly emerged in the dark television room, stomping in unison, converging upon the doctor.
Ya-jie Kong’s body stiffened on the screen.
The footsteps unmistakably came from within the stairwell. The acoustics of the television room were extraordinary; not only did they amplify her nearly silent sigh, but they also faithfully reproduced the echoing footsteps.
She spun around abruptly, eyes wide, staring down the stairs.
The harsh glow of the energy-saving lamp pale on her face, and the luminous green “Exit” sign stretched across the floor like a strange, living swamp waiting to devour.
Her eyes darted restlessly in their sockets, as if searching for a true escape.
Suddenly, her gaze froze, but her eyes trembled even more violently.
The camera’s frame: one third Ya-jie Kong’s face, one third the glowing green floor and the large white “3” painted on the wall, the remaining third the staircase descending below.
In her eyes: fear, confusion.
Thump, thump, thump...
The footsteps drew nearer.
Her body sagged.
Leaning against the door, hands behind her desperately tugging at the handle, she seemed powerless to open it.
The door rattled, the sound drowned out by the relentless footsteps.
She gasped sharply, withdrew her hands, pressing them to her chest.
In the camera, her trembling index nail bore a distinct white mark.
A cacophony arose in the television room.
The doctor’s ten fingernails, empathizing, whether laughing or crying, angry or sorrowful, emitted sounds akin to groans of pain.
Thump!
The footsteps reached close.
A black head appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Ya-jie Kong’s pupils contracted, her breath stopping.
Thump!
The figure ascended further.
Tears welled in her eyes, her open mouth unable to utter a single sound.
Thump!
The figure climbed higher...
A face emerged.
A woman looked up, meeting Ya-jie Kong’s gaze.
“Oh!” The woman stopped, one hand clutching her chest, the other gripping the railing, staring in surprise.
The clear, crisp exclamation made Ya-jie Kong’s trembling cease.
“You startled me!” The woman exclaimed, releasing her hand from her chest, revealing a pale yellow corsage, and continued up the stairs, never pausing her chatter. “You’re here to use the restroom too? Don’t go downstairs. That’s the main kitchen, only for staff, not guests. Honestly… they even blame me for wandering. How was I to know the downstairs restroom was off-limits?”
Her complaints ended as she reached Ya-jie Kong.
Her gaze swept over Ya-jie Kong’s chest. “Are you Boss Zheng’s classmate? University?”
Ya-jie Kong straightened, hands clasped at her chest, still trembling, but her expression had returned to normal.
“Yes... I’m his university classmate,” she replied mechanically, exhaling softly.
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“Are you in artificial intelligence too, or some other field?” the woman asked, heading upstairs, glancing back as if waiting for Ya-jie Kong to follow.
Ya-jie Kong promptly caught up.
Brushing past the camera, hand against the wall, she mounted the stairs.
“I’m in another industry now,” she answered.
“Oh.” The woman smiled. “My husband was Boss Zheng’s graduate school classmate. He entered from another university, so he doesn’t know much about your undergraduate group... Did Boss Zheng ever have conflicts with your classmates during undergrad?”
Ya-jie Kong paused. “...I don’t think so.”
“Really? My husband said that when he was in graduate school, the undergrad classmates who moved up seemed to have something odd with Boss Zheng,” the woman gossiped.
“Oh... They were probably just surprised.” Ya-jie Kong forced a polite smile. “Zheng Yi-chao was unremarkable in his first two years, then suddenly shone in his third. Afterwards, his grades were excellent. He was recommended for graduate studies, the professors specifically wanted him.”
“I see. I thought my husband meant there was a problem with the recommendation. Oh, back then, people always said strange things about those recommended for grad school...” The woman waved off the topic.
Chatting as they climbed, the two passed another floor.
The camera stayed behind Ya-jie Kong, capturing the hairs standing on the back of her neck.
The doctor tapped the controller, his nails yawning, roaring, laughing, as if bored.
Just then, Ya-jie Kong looked up.
A large “4” was printed on the wall before her.
She halted again.
The woman did not stop, reaching the door, pulling it open with an abrupt, loud squeak, revealing a deep, dark corridor ahead.
Ya-jie Kong’s body trembled again.
“How come they haven’t turned on any lights here?” the woman complained, pulling out her phone and activating the flashlight.
That beam, brighter than the harsh energy-saving lamps, glittered in the darkness, casting a long, deep shadow across the woman’s face.
“Hurry up,” the woman urged, holding the door, phone in hand, calling out loudly down the dim hallway, her voice echoing in both the corridor and stairwell, and reverberating again and again in the dark television room.
Ya-jie Kong wanted to retreat, nearly pressing against the camera, but stopped suddenly.
She lifted her foot, failed to step onto the next stair, swayed, gripped the railing tightly, straightened her back, tensed her whole body, and finally steadied herself.
“Hurry up. The door’s heavy,” the woman prodded impatiently.
Reminded, Ya-jie Kong rushed up to the fourth floor platform and into the dark corridor.
The camera pressed against her back, entering the corridor with her.
The door slammed shut.
Ya-jie Kong’s back jerked.
Thump, thump, thump...
The woman, heels clicking, used her phone’s flashlight to push open the restroom door nearby.
Bang—the restroom door slammed into the wall.
Ya-jie Kong, hands tight against her sides, followed.
“Thankfully the bathroom lights are on,” the woman sighed, turning off her phone. “Using the restroom here is exhausting. The hotel looks fancy, the food’s good, but the details are lacking.”
This floor’s restroom was the most ordinary layout: stalls on one side, sinks on the other, and above the sinks, a huge long mirror.
The door, pushed by the automatic closer, slowly shut.
The woman click-clacked into a stall.
Ya-jie Kong’s body stiff as a board, entered the stall next door.
She moved awkwardly but quickly, as if pursued by some horror, almost fleeing into the stall, shutting the door behind her without a glance.
The camera glided to her stall, blocked outside.
Water sounded in the adjacent stall.
Inside, only Ya-jie Kong’s labored, uncontrollable breathing could be heard.
She seemed pressed against the stall door, then drew back, retreating to the far end.
Her uneven breaths filled the dark television room.
After a while, the rustling inside indicated movement, then the sound of flushing water.
The rush of water abruptly cut through the noise.
Only a faint shadow drifted across the camera’s edge.
Accompanied by the squeak of hinges, heels hitting tile, the sound of a faucet—outside the camera’s view, the woman called, “I’m done, I’ll go ahead.”
This startled Ya-jie Kong.
A flurry of rustling came from her stall.
After a moment, the flush echoed, and Ya-jie Kong seemed to lunge for the door, fumbling to unlock it.
Thump, thump, thump...
The woman, heels clicking, walked out.
Click-click-click, click-click... click!
Ya-jie Kong managed to unlock the door.
Creak—
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The restroom door was closing.
Ya-jie Kong stepped out, her face nearly touching the camera.
The camera glided smoothly, as if mounted on her head, moving to her side as she turned.
She stared at the restroom door.
Bang!
The door closed.
She paused, swallowed, frozen in place.
Outside, faint voices of a woman and a man drifted in:
“Oh!”
“Ah, sorry... Excuse me.”
Normal conversation.
Ya-jie Kong gradually calmed her breathing, murmuring to herself: “It’s... it’s fine... just my imagination... wedding syndrome. Yan said it’s wedding syndrome... Third floor... fourth floor... the first floor’s height is more than two stories. Office buildings don’t have a fourth floor... My old company, my current one, their offices never mark the fourth floor. Totally normal... totally normal... It was just me scaring myself. Just another guest... Yan checked, no one’s following...”
She comforted herself for a while before stepping forward, the camera panning with her.
Her steps were shaky, but after a few strides, she reached the sink, bracing herself on the marble countertop.
A mirror appeared in the frame.
In it reflected Ya-jie Kong’s pale face. Beside her, floating, was an eyeball sprouting rabbit ears.
The eyeball was covered in compound eyes, the rabbit ears grown moth wings, all wings vibrating, seemingly keeping the eyeball afloat.
This monster clung to her side, precisely at the camera’s position.
Ya-jie Kong was oblivious.
She turned on the faucet, began washing her hands.
Her movements were slow, and grew slower still.
Sweat dripped from her brow, falling into the basin.
Both the Ya-jie Kong before the camera and in the mirror looked on the verge of collapse, nerves stretched to breaking.
Her eyes were red and bloodshot.
Finally, as if mustering all her courage, she gradually turned her head.
She looked toward the restroom door, toward the camera, and pressed herself against the eyeball monster.
The restroom door, reflected in her pupils, showed no sign of the eyeball monster.
Her breath became rapid.
“Who... who’s out there?” she whispered, her voice faltering, the last syllable barely audible.
Hands braced on the sink, her body slowly hunched.
No answer from outside.
The restroom was dead silent, and no sound came from beyond.
Only the eyeball monster hovered before her, sliding downward as she sank to the floor.
The projection screen’s mirror faded from view, the monster’s image disappeared.
Ya-jie Kong, unaware, continued to stare at the restroom door in terror.
Until voices came from outside:
“Huh? Bin Tong?”
“You’re here too? The men’s restroom downstairs isn’t broken, only the women’s is.”
Those two vigorous, familiar voices anchored Ya-jie Kong.
She slumped to the floor, staring blankly at the door, tears suddenly streaming down her face.
Covering her face with wet hands, she wept silently.
In the dark television room, the doctor remained in his original posture, his ten fingernails emitting sighs that gradually coalesced into music, mournful and ethereal, tinged with eerie beauty.
Suddenly, the projection screen flickered in chaos, as if countless cameras had appeared, spinning and flashing without pattern. The audio grew strange, as if all sounds near and far were amplified and merged.
Like a severed signal, the screen plunged into darkness, the speakers fell silent.
The doctor sat quietly for a moment before removing the AR glasses.
The controller in his hand became a remote.
He pressed a button toward the projection screen, which lit up again.
The image was dim, endless darkness ahead, insufficient light behind.
In this backdrop, three men stood: Bin Tong, Yan Gao, and Yi-chao Zheng.
The doctor frowned, pressed the remote again.
The scene switched to the stairwell.
The wall bore the number “5”, and in a corner crouched Yao Sheng.
The doctor’s brow relaxed, his blue eyes curving, his ten fingernails chattering in excitement.