The driver's face drained of color, his awkward laugh betraying his nerves. "Well, uh, good luck with your… date," he stammered, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
"Thanks," Chen Ge replied, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Mind turning off that recording now? Just a misunderstanding, right?"
"Of course, of course!" the driver said hastily, fumbling with a button on the dashboard, though Chen Ge noticed the gesture seemed more performative than functional. The taxi rolled forward a few meters, and then a red light blinked on the driver's walkie-talkie. Before the driver could speak, a gruff, gravelly voice crackled through.
"Lao Liu, you near Western Jiujiang's Private Academy too? What's with people tonight? I've got a passenger headed there as well—we're close by. Also, what's this message you sent to the group? 'I am meld postage'?"
The driver's hand shot to his forehead, wiping away a bead of sweat. "It's nothing, just focus on your passenger," he said quickly, cutting off the call with a nervous jab at the button.
Chen Ge raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "That was supposed to be 'I am held hostage,' wasn't it? Uncle, I thought you trusted me."
Fearing the driver might actually alert the authorities, Chen Ge leaned forward. "You can drop me off right here."
"Yes, sir!" The driver's relief was palpable, his legs visibly trembling as he pulled over. Chen Ge scanned the backseat to ensure he hadn't left anything behind, then stepped out and shut the door. Glancing up, he caught sight of the taxi's rooftop sign, its digital display flashing a bold message: I am being held hostage, please call the police!
"Creative," Chen Ge muttered, shaking his head as the taxi peeled away, its taillights vanishing like a startled animal fleeing into the night. The surrounding area fell into an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves. The sky was starless, heavy with rainclouds that seemed to press down, swallowing any trace of light. Chen Ge checked his phone: eight minutes remained until the mission's deadline.
His mind snagged on the walkie-talkie conversation. Another passenger heading to the Private Academy at 1 a.m.? That can't be a coincidence. The thought set his nerves on edge. If he had more time, he might have hidden in the roadside brush to observe who else was converging on the abandoned school, but the ticking clock left no room for hesitation.
Eight minutes. I need to get a feel for the school's layout—any advantage could mean the difference tonight. The area around Western Jiujiang's Private Academy was a desolate wasteland, devoid of streetlights, with a single, narrow road slicing through dense forest and overgrown shrubbery. Chen Ge activated his phone's flashlight, its beam cutting a thin path through the darkness as he followed the road for another hundred meters. The rusted iron gates of the school loomed ahead, bound by chains so corroded they seemed fused to the bars. The gate was immovable, a silent sentinel guarding the abandoned grounds. Peering through the bars, Chen Ge saw only an abyss of shadow.
How do I get in? He paced along the gate, assessing his options. With a decisive nod, he tossed his backpack over the top, then took a running start. His fingers gripped the rough, weathered bricks of the perimeter wall, and with a grunt of effort, he hauled himself over, landing on the other side with a muted thud.
The school compound was compact, its layout discernible at a glance despite the darkness. A few tall, skeletal structures—likely old classroom buildings—stood like silent watchmen in the gloom. The school's sign had long been removed, leaving its true name a mystery; like everyone in Jiujiang, Chen Ge knew it only as the Private Academy. Overgrown weeds and thorny shrubs had reclaimed the paths, clawing at his legs with every step, their touch both ticklish and sharp.
I made it within the time limit. Now I need to find Zhang Ya's red dancing shoes. Chen Ge unzipped his backpack and pulled out the mallet, its cold, metallic weight grounding him. The familiar heft in his hand dulled the edge of his fear, offering a small measure of security in the face of the unknown.
Guided by the phone's flashlight, he ventured deeper into the school grounds. But after only a few steps, an unsettling sensation stopped him cold. He froze, his breath catching. Something's off. Tentatively, he took a step forward, then another, and felt it—a subtle pressure, like an invisible hand urging him deeper into the school. Frowning, he tried stepping backward, only to meet resistance, as if a force was gently but firmly blocking his retreat.
This isn't my imagination. His pulse quickened. Something's here, guiding me—or trapping me. Gripping the mallet tighter, he swept the flashlight's beam across the shadowed path, his senses straining for any sign of the red dancing shoes—or the Red Specter who claimed them.
Chen Ge spun around, his heart pounding as he scanned the darkness behind him. The beam of his phone's flashlight sliced through the night, illuminating nothing but overgrown weeds and twisted trees. No ghosts, no spirits—just an empty, oppressive silence. Is Zhang Ya already here, standing right behind me, invisible? The thought sent a shiver racing down his spine. His grip tightened on the mallet, and for a fleeting moment, he considered swinging it at the empty air, just to be sure. But he hesitated. If it is Zhang Ya and I anger her… As a mere Haunted House owner, he was painfully aware of his vulnerability in this forsaken place. Provoking a Red Specter could spell a fate worse than death.
Focus. I need to get inside. Hoisting his backpack higher, Chen Ge steeled himself and moved toward the school, one hand clutching the mallet, the other holding his phone's flashlight aloft. The night grew darker, a restless breeze stirring the air, carrying a faint mist of rain that prickled his skin. The damp chill only heightened the eerie atmosphere, as if the school itself were exhaling a warning.
Where would I find red dancing shoes? The dance studio's changing room or Zhang Ya's old dormitory bedroom are my best bets. He zeroed in on the nearest building, its silhouette looming like a silent sentinel. The school grounds were a tangle of gnarled trees and waist-high wild grass, punctuated by weathered statues of human figures, their eroded faces staring blankly into the void. The scene was unsettling, each shadow seeming to pulse with latent menace.
Is that the girls' dormitory? The building before him was modest, only four stories tall, but its state of decay gave it a sinister aura. The glass entrance was sealed with a heavy metal chain, the links rusted but unyielding. Chen Ge pressed his face against the glass, peering into the dark corridor beyond. The doors lining the hallway were shut tight, but what caught his eye was a lone chair positioned squarely in the middle of the corridor, facing away from the entrance.
A single chair, just sitting there? He frowned, his mind racing. What's the point of that? The main gate and dormitory entrance were both locked, and the corridor appeared pristine, free of debris. When they closed the school, they must have cleaned it thoroughly. So why leave a chair in the middle of the hallway? A careless oversight? Doubt gnawed at him. If the chair was deliberately placed by the school's staff, what purpose did it serve? And if it wasn't… Who moved it there after the place was sealed?
He aimed his flashlight through the glass, studying the chair more closely. It sat about five meters from the entrance, directly beneath a broken ceiling light, its exposed wires dangling like skeletal fingers. The scene struck him as oddly staged. A chair under broken wiring… it almost looks like a setup for a hanging. The thought sent his pulse racing, his imagination conjuring grim possibilities.
You're overthinking this, Chen Ge. He shook his head, trying to quell the rising panic. The breeze rustled the leaves outside, amplifying the school's haunting ambiance. I can't let this place get to me. Zhang Ya's the real threat here—a Red Specter. But I've got her love letter. Who'd dare cross me? The self-assurance felt hollow, but it was all he had. This is just an affection mission, a "date" of sorts. Nothing to fear.
Bolstered by his pep talk, he raised the mallet, preparing to smash the glass door. But as he shifted his stance, his flashlight's beam swept over the chair again—and his breath caught. The chair, which had been directly under the broken light, was now a meter closer to the door. It had moved. That's not possible. His heart hammered as he stared, half-expecting the chair to lurch forward again.