He lifted his leg and set it down again—a simple enough motion, yet for Chen Ge in his current state it felt surprisingly laborious. His head was spinning, as though something heavy sat pressing down on his body, and some unseen force in the murky darkness tugged at him, trying to drag him back.
Chen Ge had no idea what lurked in the dark, nor could he tell whether any ghosts or spirits stood beside him at this very moment. In truth, not seeing was sometimes better—at least it spared him from unnecessary panic.
It took him several full minutes just to go from the seventeenth floor to the eighteenth.
When he finally arrived on the eighteenth floor, he nearly collapsed.
"My body feels cold. My head is spinning."
He was exhausted—that bone-deep fatigue born not from the body but from the mind, the kind that came after tensing your nerves for over a dozen straight hours.
"I should be on the top floor now." Chen Ge steadied himself against the wall. He still had not opened his eyes.
To be safe, he bent down and ran both hands slowly across the floor and the walls, sweeping along every surface, leaving no corner unchecked.
After cheating death nine times over he had finally reached the rooftop—he absolutely could not afford a mistake at the final stretch.
While Chen Ge was groping his way forward, a door suddenly opened somewhere below. In the dead-silent stairwell the sound cut through like a blade.
The iron door swung open with a slow creak, and two sets of footsteps echoed through the corridor.
"Someone's coming up?" Chen Ge's heart lurched. "That door opening sounded like it came from around the fourteenth or fifteenth floor. Are those neighbors chasing after me?"
The footsteps were rapid, closing in on the rooftop at pace, as if they were forcing Chen Ge to open his eyes and finish the task whether he wanted to or not.
"They're already on the sixteenth floor."
Sweat beaded on Chen Ge's forehead. His back pressed flat against the wall, a thread of anxiety coiled inside him.
"Should I open my eyes? In theory I've reached the top floor now, and I haven't felt any more stairs leading upward."
While he hesitated, the footsteps had already reached the seventeenth floor. Chen Ge stood pressed into the corner, facing the corridor, both eyes still firmly shut.
Down below, the footsteps grew faster still. They appeared at the landing between the seventeenth and eighteenth floors—which meant they could already see Chen Ge.
"They've spotted me, but the footsteps haven't stopped. I'm not their target."
A child's familiar laughter rang out beside his ear. In a moment the two sets of footsteps—one in front, one behind—passed right by Chen Ge, and then one of the doors on the eighteenth floor was flung open!
Wind blew across Chen Ge's face. The fatigue draining from his body faded little by little, as though whatever had been lying on top of him had finally climbed off.
"Is it over?"
He wanted to open his eyes, but he could still hear footsteps and a child's laughter.
That laughter gave him an indescribable, eerie feeling. There was no joy in it—only hollowness, as though the other party was laughing for no reason at all.
Chen Ge's hand found the open door. He stood at the threshold, and from the other side came a child's voice.
"Uncle, I had another dream. In the dream a blood-red city was floating on a black sea. People walked back and forth through the city holding knives—they cut away pieces of their own bodies and buried all their memories."
"Uncle, memories exist because of people, but then people forget them. Do you think memories get angry?"
"Uncle, are you listening to me?"
The child's voice was right in front of Chen Ge. He even had the strange sensation that the child was speaking directly to him. Just as he was about to open his mouth, a strange man's voice cut in.
"I'm listening." The man's voice carried no emotion whatsoever—cold, chilling, as emotionless as a machine. "Memories don't get angry. The moment they come into being, they are destined to be forgotten. That is the fate of memory."
"Destined to be forgotten?"