Chen Ziqing’s dormitory door was being knocked on. He didn’t open it immediately but instead took the pills prescribed by the hospital.

They were the size of quail eggs and looked like they could choke someone to death.

The person outside didn’t leave and had little patience, continuing to knock incessantly on the wooden door.

Other dormitory residents peeked out to greet the knocker before returning to their rooms.

The knocking continued.

Chen Ziqing placed the neatly folded work uniforms into the corner cabinet, then opened the door to find Zong Huaitang standing there, wearing an expression that suggested he had come to settle a life-and-death vendetta.

“I was chatting with someone in the hallway just now, speaking at a normal volume. You heard my voice and knew it was me, so you deliberately delayed opening the door,” Zong Huaitang accused, narrowing his eyes. “Team Leader Xiang, are you targeting me?”

Chen Ziqing sincerely explained, “Technician Zong, you’ve misunderstood me. I hesitated to open the door because I was afraid you’d make me bark like a dog.”

Zong Huaitang: “…” Just hearing about that incident made his blood boil.

Chen Ziqing adopted a negotiating tone. “If you’ve got something to say, come inside. It’s windy, and I’ll get a headache if I’m exposed.”

Zong Huaitang glanced at Chen Ziqing’s pale face, which looked as if he might drop dead at any moment. With deliberate slowness, he raised his slightly lame leg and stepped into the dormitory. “Regarding your unfounded and distorted evaluation of my ping-pong skills, do you have anything further to say?”

“No,” Chen Ziqing said, closing the door.

Zong Huaitang walked over to the chair by the small table and sat down. “If I hadn’t steadied you in the office at noon, you might have ended up in the morgue. And what did I get for my Buddha-like compassion? Your humiliation.”

Chen Ziqing rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that exaggerating a bit?”

Zong Huaitang leaned back in the chair, meeting his gaze with a solemn expression. “I am merely stating the facts.”

Chen Ziqing: “…” What a performance.

He pulled over another chair and sat across from him. “Fine, I’ve already apologized. I’m not betting with you. Do you have anything else to discuss?”

Suddenly, Zong Huaitang leaned forward, pressing his hands on the table to get closer. “Why does your breath smell like medicine?”

Chen Ziqing didn’t flinch. “I just took my pills.”

“What kind? Painkillers? Anti-inflammatory?” Zong Huaitang asked, his gaze shifting to the bandage on Chen Ziqing’s head. “Tang Xiaoguang ran back from the hospital, saying you’re some kind of monster.”

Chen Ziqing couldn’t refute it. Considering his experiences, being called a monster wasn’t far off the mark.

Tang Xiaoguang and Zong Huaitang had attended the same middle school, sharing an alumni connection.

They also shared a dormitory—Room 107, just downstairs from him.

Chen Ziqing rubbed his shoe against the cement floor. “Comrade Tang is already back? Didn’t he need two days of observation at the hospital?”

Zong Huaitang leaned back in the chair, spinning a pen he’d picked up from the table. “You cracked your head open and didn’t stay in the hospital, so what face does he have to linger there?”

Chen Ziqing turned his head, propping it up with his hand. In the original owner’s assessment, Zong Linyu’s brother, Zong Huaitang, was a playboy technician—someone skilled with equipment but unprincipled and frivolous. His obvious flaws made it hard to take him seriously.

The original owner had similarly low opinions of Zhong Ming’s second brother, Sun Chengzhi, viewing him as a knockoff version of Zong Huaitang.

In contrast, the original owner idolized the factory director, Zong Linyu, seeing him as a paragon of masculinity and leadership—a true man’s man.

From Chen Ziqing’s current analysis, if Zong Linyu was the deep, serious type, Zong Huaitang was the colorful, unpredictable one.

Compared to the elder Zong’s disciplined demeanour, the younger Zong was far harder to deal with and much more enigmatic.

Chen Ziqing calculated his approach. Since he didn’t know when he could complete his mission, he needed to maintain the original owner’s lifestyle. Given how close Zong Huaitang lived and worked, avoiding conflict was prudent.

He offered a friendly smile. “Would you like an apple?”

Zong Huaitang looked like he’d been struck by lightning, goosebumps rising on his skin. Didn’t Xiang Ning know what he looked like? That smile was blinding, especially with his bandaged head and ghostly pale face.

Zong Huaitang scooted his chair farther from the table—and from Chen Ziqing. “The damage you’ve done to me is already irreparable. Apples, peaches, even the Queen Mother’s divine peaches wouldn’t help.”

Chen Ziqing kept his tone polite. “How about I write you a formal apology?”

Zong Huaitang squinted at him. “At least two pages.”

Without waiting to see if Chen Ziqing’s smile faltered, Zong Huaitang stood and tapped his knuckles on the topmost cabinet door. “Bring out the booze.”

Chen Ziqing inhaled sharply. The original owner occasionally drank when he couldn’t write poetry or felt misunderstood, always hiding the alcohol to avoid being caught by Section Chief Li.

How did Zong Huaitang know there was alcohol in the room, and even its hiding place?

Zong Huaitang teased, “Should I get it myself, Team Leader?”

Chen Ziqing opened the cabinet, reaching into the spot recalled from the original owner’s memory, and pulled out a saline bottle.

Zong Huaitang took it, swishing the contents. “I’ve turned a blind eye to this for so long. Drinking this as compensation isn’t unreasonable.”

He wasn’t being kind by keeping it secret—just too lazy to report it. Tonight, he was either bored or craving a drink.

Chen Ziqing stared. “How did you—”

“Walk along the riverbank long enough, and you’ll get your feet wet,” Zong Huaitang said, humming as he left.

Just before the door closed, Chen Ziqing called out, “Have the corridor wires been damaged recently?”

Zong Huaitang turned back. “Why ask me? I’m not even on your floor.”

“You’re a team leader,” Zong Huaitang added mockingly as he opened the door. “If you can’t handle such trivial matters, aren’t you afraid your beloved factory director will question your competence?”

The disdainful jab lingered in the sound of the closing door, fading as Zong Huaitang walked away.

Silence returned. Chen Ziqing slumped onto the table. When he had asked that question, Zong Huaitang’s back had stiffened momentarily—an unusual reaction.

Was Zong Huaitang one of the “A and B” mentioned in the mission?

It didn’t seem likely.

“A and B” were clearly part of the mission’s script, meant to advance the plot. Someone like Zong Huaitang would likely have a more significant role, even if he wasn’t the protagonist.

Using his brain more often since returning to the factory was taking a toll. Chen Ziqing felt increasingly dizzy. He thought of closing the door and lying down on the bed, but the sound of footsteps interrupted him.

The steps came closer, and Zong Huaitang reappeared at the door, grinning. “Forgot to say goodbye.”

Chen Ziqing lacked the energy to respond.

Zong Huaitang seemed oblivious to his fatigue. “Looking forward to your poem tomorrow morning.”

Chen Ziqing’s headache worsened.

Stretching, Zong Huaitang added, “A beautiful day starts with a poem from Master Xiang.”

His words seemed like praise but carried a mocking undertone.

This time, Zong Huaitang truly left.

Chen Ziqing lightly knocked on the table. Poetry, poetry, poetry. I’ve never been this afraid of poetry in my life.

“I’ll deal with tomorrow’s poem tomorrow,” he thought, glancing at the cabinet. The middle shelf, open and containing lunchboxes and bottles, caught his eye. Below it were folded blankets and sheets, and the top shelf held clothes. Earlier, he hadn’t closed the cabinet after retrieving the saline bottle. The work uniforms he’d recently placed there were still in their original positions.

Sitting for a moment to gather his strength, Chen Ziqing decided to pull out all the clothes, shaking each piece before folding them back.

Not that I’m expecting to find anything, but who knows—maybe there’s a mouse in there, he thought whimsically.

After closing the cabinet, he went to the washbasin.

The water, left by Ma Qiangqiang before leaving, had gone cold. Chen Ziqing grabbed the towel hanging from the rack, tossed it into the basin, and bent down to wash his face.

A shout came from outside: “Team Leader, the director is at the dormitory looking for you!”

Quickly hanging up the towel, Chen Ziqing rubbed his damp collar and stepped outside to meet them. Director Liu, accompanied by Zhong Ming, waved him back toward the dormitory. “Let’s talk inside.”

The dormitory lights were on, as was the small lamp on the table. Chen Ziqing rummaged through the second shelf for a tea tin.

Director Liu waved him off. “No need to fuss. You’re injured; don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s nothing. Let me make some tea for you.” Chen Ziqing struggled to open the tea tin, eventually clamping it under his arm to try harder.

Should I ask Zhong Ming to open it?

No, that would be too humiliating. After the clichéd drama earlier, where he had to play the damsel, asking for help now would be too much.

His fingernails turned white, and his fingertips throbbed. Finally, he gave up.

Life isn’t about proving yourself at every turn.

Resigned, Chen Ziqing handed the tea tin to Zhong Ming. “Master Zhong, I can’t open this. Could you help me with it?”

Zhong Ming ignored him, standing by the door with a practiced calm, his gaze fixed downward.

Under his watchful eyes, Chen Ziqing’s legs wobbled. “Master, Xiang Ning can’t stand,” he said.

Director Liu grew anxious. “Then why aren’t you helping him to bed?”

Zhong Ming didn’t want to help, and Chen Ziqing didn’t ask him to. “Master Xiang can manage on his own,” Zhong Ming said.

“Right,” Chen Ziqing said with a strained smile, brushing his damp bangs back. The red mark at the corner of his eye was from when Zhong Ming had thrown a book of poetry at him.

Zhong Ming pursed his slightly thick lips, grabbed Chen Ziqing’s arm, and half-supported, half-dragged him to the bed.

Chen Ziqing lacked even the energy to remove his shoes. He curled up on the blanket, pulling part of it over his stomach. A persistent dripping sound filled the room—it was his washcloth, left unrung, dripping water onto the floor. The noise grated on his nerves.

“Master Zhong,” Chen Ziqing called out to the broad-shouldered figure who hadn’t yet walked far. “My washcloth wasn’t wrung out. Could you wring it for me?”

Zhong Ming turned around and glared at him, lowering his voice in warning. “I’m not as easy to fool as my sister. Don’t think you can boss me around.”

“That’s unfair. I’ve never tried to boss your sister around,” Chen Ziqing sighed. “We’ve always helped each other as colleagues. I’ve even vouched for that with my integrity. Why don’t you believe me?”

Zhong Ming tightened his jaw and said nothing, eventually going over to wring out the damp cloth. He also dumped out the basin of water as an afterthought.

When he finished, his expression was dark and brooding, visibly irritated.

Chen Ziqing refrained from teasing him and instead observed the water stain left on the cement floor. Factory workers often poured water onto the floor to suppress dust.

Director Liu chose this moment to speak. “Xiao Xiang, you’ve just been discharged, but you can’t lift materials or haul anything heavy. You might as well stay in the hospital.”

“I felt stifled lying around in the hospital,” Chen Ziqing replied. “Besides, I don’t feel at ease leaving the team unsupervised.”

Director Liu didn’t fully agree with his reasoning. “You can’t rely on yourself all the time. People need to develop self-discipline.”

“You’re right, Director,” Chen Ziqing said, frowning slightly. “But it’s hard to build good habits, and it’s easy to slack off. Once someone slacks off, it happens again and again until the whole chain breaks.”

Director Liu nodded in acknowledgment. “That’s true.”

He rubbed his hands together. His second and third apprentices had been sent home to be disciplined and wouldn’t escape without consequences. His eldest apprentice had realized his mistakes and submitted an earnest self-reflection with no trace of insincerity.

Still, the factory needed to formally address the three workers.

To be honest, Xiao Xiang wasn’t someone Director Liu had trained, but he was more composed than all three apprentices. He had never seen Xiao Xiang act impulsively.

Xiao Xiang treated the factory like his home and valued workshop production above all else.

That was both a strength and a weakness—everything in moderation.

Director Liu accepted the tea offered by his eldest apprentice, listening as the young man on the bed asked, “This morning, when the factory closed for tomb-sweeping, did the efficiency this afternoon match what it is when I’m around?”

Neither master nor apprentice spoke. The answer was clear.

Chen Ziqing wasn’t surprised. The factory’s monthly production quotas were determined by the workers themselves, based on a system introduced by Director Zong Linyu. The idea was to give workers control, ensuring they would feel responsible if they failed to meet targets.

However, some workers were shameless, focusing only on immediate comfort without considering the consequences. Every team had people like that. To counter this, you needed a leader who was competitive and willing to do whatever it took to win.

The original Xiang Ning was such a leader. He had once given his own wages to an unmotivated worker to ensure they came to work on time and met daily quotas. Ultimately, this effort won them the monthly production competition.

The Radiance Team had remained in the lead ever since.

“Director, it’s not that I don’t trust everyone. I just want to do my part to honour the factory director’s trust in me,” Chen Ziqing said, coughing. “This month, our team’s quota is higher than last month’s. Even though it’s still early, we can’t afford to be careless.”

Director Liu looked concerned. “Why are you coughing? Xiao Zhong, get him a glass of water.”

“I-I’m fine,” Chen Ziqing stammered between coughs, his pale face flushing faintly.

“Alright, alright. If you want to go to the workshop, then go. Do whatever you like, and we’ll discuss other matters another time.” Director Liu rose abruptly, leaving his tea untouched. “I spoke to Accountant Zhang. You’re allowed to be late tomorrow. Once you’re at the workshop, stay in the office. I’ll have Xiao Zhong inform Technician Zong.”

The dormitory was filled with muffled coughs as Zhong Ming opened the door for Director Liu.

“Stay and look after Xiao Xiang tonight,” Director Liu instructed.

“I’ve already moved out,” Zhong Ming protested.

“Moved out or not, you’re all part of the same workshop family,” Director Liu began to lecture, but Chen Ziqing weakly interjected, “Director, I can manage on my own.”

Left with no choice, Director Liu advised him to take care of himself.

Outside the dormitory, Director Liu pulled Zhong Ming aside. “Xiao Xiang didn’t want to inconvenience you. Don’t sleep too deeply tonight—keep an ear out in case he needs help.”

Zhong Ming smoothed the creases in his white undershirt. “He doesn’t want me staying.”

“…” Director Liu sighed and shook his head. “Stubborn, all of you.”

As they walked down the hallway, Director Liu glanced at the staircase. “I know you’re biased against Xiao Xiang. Don’t go too far. Romantic feelings are a matter of personal choice. If your sister truly likes him, you won’t be able to stop her.”

“He’s not suitable,” Zhong Ming said firmly.

“That’s not your decision to make,” Director Liu replied as they reached the first floor. “I get the impression Xiao Xiang values intellect and talent. If a female college graduate joins the factory one day, he’ll probably pursue her.”

“My sister’s high school diploma isn’t inferior,” Zhong Ming muttered.

“No one’s saying it is,” Director Liu replied, exasperated. “Your sister’s qualifications are impressive, and she’s beautiful. When did I say otherwise? You’ve got a thick head. Instead of scrutinizing every man near your sister, why don’t you find a partner for yourself?”

“I’ll find one,” Zhong Ming replied, scratching his head.

By 8 PM, the factory’s residential area fell silent, the clatter and chatter giving way to stillness.

This was the time when Chen Ziqing would typically start his second shift of work, so he wasn’t used to sleeping this early and didn’t feel tired at all.

He glanced at the original owner’s watch occasionally. As midnight approached, he turned over in bed, facing the washstand. He noticed a mirror hanging above it, facing the door.

Curious, he got up and flipped the mirror to face him. Wiping it clean, he stared at his reflection—and his reflection stared back.

So this is what the original owner looked like.

Not much different from him—average enough to blend into a crowd.

Leaning closer, he stuck out his tongue, noticing a small cut on its tip. The blood in the original owner’s mouth had come from biting his tongue.

The system hadn’t shown him the original owner’s final moments. Could it be that the original’s death wasn’t tied directly to the mission but instead to the mission target, someone the original knew well?

The thought of someone scaring the original owner so badly that he bit his tongue, stumbled, and fell onto a rock made Chen Ziqing uneasy.

What kind of fright could cause that?

Without answers, Chen Ziqing speculated idly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a flat piece of white paper—what appeared to be a paper flower, likely folded during the factory’s Qingming Festival activities.

Fiddling with the petals, he glanced toward the door. Outside, there was no movement. Unsure if the mission target would act tonight, he set the paper flower down and went to the restroom.

The corridor lights flickered between bright and dim, and the only sound accompanying his footsteps was the rustling of tree leaves. Wearing only a shirt, he felt a chill, goosebumps rising on his skin.

Chen Ziqing hurried back, encountering nothing unusual.

The dormitory corridors were lit, the bulbs glowing faintly. Yawning, he pushed open his door, finally feeling sleepy.

Rubbing his eyes, he closed the door and reached to turn off the light. His gaze drifted to the corner of the room—and froze.

The electrical wire hanging by the cabinet was moving.

Chen Ziqing’s spine stiffened. The wire swung back and forth like a pendulum, gradually slowing to a stop.

His heart pounded in his chest.

Someone had stood there before he entered the room. They had touched the wire.

And now?

Chen Ziqing slowly straightened, his body tense. His eyes flicked to the bedframe, the sheet hanging down to conceal the space beneath. It looked big enough to hide a person.

Was someone still here?