No one dares approach the building. Its paint peels in long, curling strips, and rust stains the faded sign above the entrance. Shadows gather thickly in the corners, as if the hospital itself is holding its breath. Even the townspeople, who once whispered about its closure, now avoid its gaze entirely.

The contract is clear: all equipment, beds, and machines must be removed before demolition. As dusk settles, the day crew departs, leaving Zhou Wei and Liu An to begin their night watch. The guards walk the empty corridors, their footsteps echoing faintly. Every so often, Zhou Wei glances over his shoulder, unsettled by the way the darkness seems to press in.

Zhou Wei[/@ch_1] sits on an overturned crate, his newspaper trembling slightly in his hands, while Liu An sips tea from a chipped thermos. The air is cold, the silence thick with unspoken anxiety.] "Strange, how quiet it gets at night," Liu An mutters, blowing on his tea. "It’s just old walls settling," Zhou Wei tries to reassure him, but neither man believes it fully. Suddenly, a metallic clink splits the silence, followed by a dragging clank from the direction of the operating rooms.

Liu An[/@ch_2] stands and straightens his uniform. He takes a flashlight, its weak beam barely cutting through the gloom, and walks toward the source of the noise. The corridor feels colder, the air charged with something unseen.] Zhou Wei remains behind, nerves taut as he listens for any sign of his partner’s return. Minutes stretch endlessly. Finally, unable to endure the anxiety, Zhou Wei rises and follows the path his friend took, every step heavier than the last.

Zhou Wei approaches the observation window, heart racing. Through the glass, he sees Liu An lying shirtless on the operating table, body arched and straining. There is no one restraining him, yet he cannot move. An incision opens slowly across Liu An's chest, blood pouring out in a silent, nightmarish flow.

Zhou Wei tries to scream, but his voice is stolen by terror. Only through the mirror are the surgeons visible—never in the room itself. The scene unfolds too quickly, as if time is unraveling. The red light flickers, and the smell of antiseptic and blood grows thicker.

Zhou Wei[/@ch_1]; he stumbles away from the window, his legs numb and his breath shallow. He flees down the corridor, shoes slipping on the slick floor. He bursts through the main entrance and collapses onto the cold tile, vision swimming with fear and exhaustion.] Outside, the night air feels both a relief and a threat, as if the building’s memory clings to him, refusing to let go. Consciousness fades, and the world narrows to a single, echoing scream—one that never leaves his lips.

Zhou Wei[/@ch_1] unconscious by the entrance. An ambulance is called, though no one dares to move him at first. The hospital’s halls are searched, and the team enters the surgery room.] Liu An lies on the table, his body horrifyingly empty—no organs, no blood, his eyes and tongue missing. Instruments are scattered, but there are no footprints, no fingerprints, no sign of life. The only evidence is the terror etched into Zhou Wei's still face.

The hospital was closed, sealed without explanation, its truths buried beneath silence. But some things refuse to be forgotten. The night’s events are a grim reminder of the horror that once thrived within these walls.

Zhou Wei[/@ch_1] never truly recovers. He grows weaker, haunted by the memory of that red-lit room and the silent, masked figures. He speaks of a voice that whispers his fate, counting down the days until his body gives in.] Soon, it does. The hospital is demolished, but its darkness lingers, woven into the ground itself. Some places remember, and some work—no matter how monstrous—never truly ends.