Room 6 opened first.
The psychiatrist was already seated, white coat immaculate, smile perfectly rehearsed—like the model doctor in a hospital commercial. But his eyes gleamed too brightly, the way a researcher might watch a test subject.
The call screen lit up:
[Room 6 — Patient #3, please enter.]
The crowd stirred. A patient shuffled in. Minutes later, he emerged again, clutching a wrinkled test slip. His face was blank, hollow, as though something had been scooped out of him.
Then came Patient #4. Then #5.
Each one went in. Each one came out with a lab slip, walking toward the blood-draw room.
Xiao Jingyan stared at their backs, an ugly thought gnawing at him.
"You eat breakfast this morning?" Gu Qingchen asked suddenly.
Xiao blinked.
"...I don't remember."
And it was true. From the White Square to this waiting room, time had felt cut and spliced apart. He had no memory of hunger, no memory of eating.
Gu smiled faintly. "We'd better. They're drawing blood."
"???"
Xiao's expression darkened in confusion.
Bloodwork required fasting—or so common sense said. But here, common sense was an unstable weapon. Speak the wrong logic, and it might get you killed. So he held his tongue and watched.
Gu walked to the vending machine.
The machine was rusted, glass scarred with deep gouges like claw marks. The coils turned slowly, grinding as though they might snap at any second.
He bought a bottle of mineral water and a bar of chocolate. The packaging was plain, brandless, the kind of cheap design abandoned decades ago. Yet when they dropped into the tray, they carried an unsettling weight of reality.
Xiao reached forward to buy something for himself—but Gu's hand stopped him, gentle but firm.
"I brought breakfast from home. For you."
He opened his system, spent 100 points without hesitation, and chose:
[A Plain Breakfast]
The screen flickered. A moment later, a steaming meal appeared in midair.
Spicy curry chicken and onions fried with noodles, piping hot. A bottle of ginger cola still smoking from the heat. The plastic container was ordinary, even crude, but the scent hit sharp and overwhelming.
The option grayed out instantly: Unavailable for repurchase.
Gu handed the meal to him, smiling lightly. "Everyone needs hot food. Properly cooked."
Xiao accepted it, staring down. A strange chill slid through his chest.
Gu's smile was clean, gentle—but in the bleached light of the waiting room, it looked sinister. As if he knew something Xiao didn't.
Xiao parted his lips, about to ask. But Gu shook his head, raising a finger in silence. Don't speak.
So they sat together on the empty bench, like ordinary patients waiting their turn, quietly beginning their meal amid the alternating silence and noise of the room.
Gu ate with his usual restraint. A small bite of chocolate. A sip of water. The rest discarded.
Xiao, however, was forced to finish the whole thing.
The noodles burned with spice, curry and onion biting through his senses. The cola was hot, its ginger sting harsh, medicinal, scraping down his throat. He swallowed each mouthful like punishment, forcing himself to finish.
And the entire room watched.
The paper-skinned patients, once slumped and lifeless, turned their heads in eerie unison. Their hollow eyes fixed on the food in his hands. Disgust twisted their faces—disgust mixed with hunger, with longing.
Like starved ghosts watching steam rise from a forbidden bowl.
The weight of their gaze made Xiao's skin crawl. Every chew in his mouth echoed like a crime.
Gu, meanwhile, drank calmly, ate calmly, discarded calmly. Not one head turned in his direction. Even when he tossed the scraps into the bin, one of the "patients" shuffled over, bending low to peer inside as if to confirm.
The air grew heavy.
Xiao wiped the sweat from his lip and whispered: "...What's going on?"
Gu only looked at him, silent. His eyes behind the glasses were shuttered, like glass walls hiding whatever lay inside.
A new kind of fear gripped Xiao's chest.
Seventeen years in the military had hardened him against darkness, against bullets. But here—under Gu Qingchen's silence—his throat felt clasped in invisible hands.
He had no idea what the meal meant. What he had swallowed. What it would cost.
The call screen lit again.
[Room 6 — Patient #6, please enter.]
The waiting room murmured, then quieted.
Xiao forced down the last burning sip of cola, his stomach twisting with heat and spice. He looked at Gu.
Gu only dried his hands and adjusted his glasses, gaze cold and precise, as if waiting for some inevitable moment.
"Remember," he said softly, the gentleness edged with steel, "whatever happens—stay with me."
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