Chapter 1: Sang Chen Knows Something’s Off (1)

Sang Chen knew something was off the moment he set foot on the train.

Early December in Jiangcheng was damp and bone-chilling. Clutching his travel bag, Sang Chen had sprinted through the freezing rain, barely making it to the high-speed rail station with ten minutes to spare.

The line wasn’t as long as he’d feared, but there were still five or six people ahead of him. He hesitated, debating whether to ask if he could cut in. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He only managed to rush through at the last five-minute mark, bolting toward the ticket gate.

“Attention, passengers: Boarding for train G5080 is now closed. If you have missed your boarding time, please proceed to the ticket counter for rebooking.”

His ragged breaths, hurried footsteps, and the station announcement all blended into a chaotic buzz in his head. His heart was still pounding when he finally got one foot onto the train. His throat burned like fire, and for a brief moment, his vision swam.

Platform 3 was an open-air platform. On the adjacent Platform 4, another train had just pulled in, and a crowd was pushing forward to board. The cold wind howled through the station, carrying the sound of hurried voices, muffled shouts, and the station’s monotonous announcements.

Soaked through, Sang Chen let out a shaky breath. He swallowed to ease the sting in his throat, tasting the faintly metallic tang of rainwater. Just as he was about to lift his other foot onto the train, his gaze landed on a nearby train attendant.

The man wore a navy-blue uniform, but he looked strangely out of place against the bustling, rain-drenched station. He stood still, almost detached, lazily tugging the brim of his hat lower, shielding his face from the rain.

Only the right corner of his lips was visible—tilted upward in a smile that made Sang Chen’s chest tighten.

Something was wrong.

But before he could dwell on it, the sharp blast of a whistle urged him forward. His other foot stepped onto the train.

The doors slid shut behind him, cutting off his view of the world outside—sealing him inside, away from the rain and fog.

The train pulled out of the station.

Sang Chen’s assigned seat was 06E in Car 06—a second-class seat for a 20-minute trip. In his rush, he had boarded the train from the door closest to the station staircase without checking which car he was entering. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he looked up.

To his left was Car 05. To his right, Car 06.

The door to Car 05 was shut tight. Two people ahead of him were slowly making their way into Car 06. Between their heads, he caught a quick glimpse inside—his seat, 06E, was empty. That eased his nerves.

But that feeling of relief didn’t last long.

Because soon, he realized why the two in front of him hadn’t taken their seats yet.

The carriage wasn’t big—only eight rows of seats, with about twenty or so passengers.

It was five or six in the evening, yet the dimly lit carriage was eerily silent. No idle chatter, no rustling snack wrappers, no lingering smell of instant noodles or boxed meals. Only the faint, murky scent of something damp and fishy, like a dying fish struggling in stagnant water.

The entire carriage was still.

And almost every single person was staring at them.

“The hell are you all looking at?! Fuck off!” The bald guy in front of Sang Chen snapped under the pressure. He spat out a curse, glanced down at himself, and then—thunk—slammed his suitcase onto the luggage rack with one hand.

That suitcase was a 30-inch hard-shell case—big, heavy-looking. Hoisting it onto the luggage rack with one hand? Yeah, that had to be a flex. But just as the bald guy was about to let go, he noticed something weird.

The entire luggage rack was empty.

Not a single suitcase. Not even a stray duffel bag.

His hand stiffened for a second before he finally let go, his movements just a little too deliberate.

With his sharp features and the kind of face that said Don’t mess with me, he settled into seat 01C, back ramrod straight, both palms pressing against the seat beside him. A posture ready to spring up at a moment’s notice.

The woman who had been standing in front of them clutched her backpack straps tightly, turned on her heel, and stammered, “I—I think I got the wrong carriage. I booked business class, not this.”

Sang Chen stepped aside to let her pass. She hurried by, head down, her long hair swaying, her pristine white cashmere coat a stark contrast to the unsettling atmosphere inside. The moment she was gone, most of the lingering gazes shifted to him.

Under the weight of their stares, Sang Chen stood still for a few seconds before finally moving toward his seat.

06E.

The seat beside his, 06F, was occupied by a man slumped over the tray table, fast asleep. A black Bluetooth earbud was tucked into one ear, and his back rose and fell with slow, steady breaths.

Across from him, in the three-seater section, a middle-aged man in a tight purple shirt sat with his hair slicked back, deep lines etched around his mouth. He twirled a phone between his fingers, watching Sang Chen with a lazy smile.

The entire carriage had this layout—two seats on one side, three on the other, with a shared table between them. Sang Chen hadn’t seen this kind of high-speed rail second-class setup in a long time.

He didn’t bother putting his bag on the overhead rack. Instead, he placed the damp travel bag quietly at his feet and took his seat without making a sound.

“You ever used one of these before?”

The middle-aged man had been watching him for a while. Now, he finally stopped spinning his phone and held it up.

A phone? Of course, he had.

Sang Chen was about to answer when the device smoothly unfolded in the man’s hand.

A tri-fold smartphone.

“……”

He paused for two seconds, his expression perfectly neutral—no trace of awe, envy, or any reaction at all.

“Nope,” he replied.

“Looks like you have,” the man said at the exact same time, coming to the opposite conclusion.

Sang Chen ignored him, gaze shifting toward the door.

The woman who had left just moments ago was back.

Her face was even paler than her coat.

The gray suede boots she wore—near the soles, just above the rubber—had a faint, dark stain. Not dirt. Not water.

Blood.

Trailing up from the ground, onto her shoes.

Her hands trembled as she clutched her phone, the small amethyst charm dangling from it swaying slightly with the motion.

She was scared. Terrified, even.

And she wasn’t the only one.

The bald guy was tense. Sang Chen, too.

Because whatever she saw outside? It rattled her bad.

This whole carriage felt wrong. It wasn’t just the eerie atmosphere or the heavy, stagnant air.

It was the people inside.

The man across from him—the one casually chatting—had only one normal eye. The other? A lifeless, glassy sphere, dull and unmoving, like a polished stone set into his eye socket.

The woman seated diagonally from him had been applying makeup ever since he boarded. Layer after layer of powder, caking it on—yet the rotting red underneath still peeked through.

Worse, the powder she applied? It just disappeared, vanishing into her skin like it had never been there at all.

And behind him, an elderly man sat with his back to his, lips moving constantly.

Muttering.

Chewing.

Or maybe… praying.

The thick, fishy smell in the carriage probably came from the man in black sitting in 03C. His long black coat hung heavy, the fabric darkened with moisture. Droplets of liquid gathered at the hem before slowly dripping onto his black cloth shoes.

……

Honestly, the only person in this entire carriage who seemed remotely normal was the guy still asleep beside Sang Chen. At first glance, the other passengers didn’t look particularly dangerous. They weren’t oozing hostility or the kind of menace you’d expect from hardened criminals. Some of them even looked friendly—cute, even.

But the deeper you looked, the more things felt off.

And that creeping unease? It wasn’t any less suffocating than being locked in a carriage full of killers.

Sang Chen leaned slightly toward the sleeping man beside him, shifting his gaze to the girl standing near the door.

Under the weight of so many silent, unsettling stares—some curious, some dismissive, some watching as if waiting for a show—the girl grew visibly more nervous. The atmosphere was wrong. She could feel it. But she didn’t dare ask anyone else. Instead, she turned to the bald guy who had boarded with her.

“Big brother, this… this is G5080, right?”

She thought she had gotten on the wrong train.

Sang Chen had thought the same thing at first.

Missing a train, getting on the wrong one—these were common nightmares for him. In his dreams, he was always running late, always sprinting through a blurred-down rain-soaked station, only to end up on a train that wasn’t his, surrounded by people who didn’t belong.

Maybe that’s what had happened here. Maybe, in his rush, he had barreled through the rain and onto the wrong train—a train carrying the wrong kind of passengers.

But she had checked the train number before boarding.

And she was saying G5080.

The bald guy hesitated before answering, “Yeah… I think so.”

They had all bought tickets for G5080.

And they had all boarded G5080.

The bald guy was only wearing a thin knit jacket, despite the early winter chill. He rubbed his palms against his thighs, the tense muscles in his arms standing out sharply. “Weren’t you in business class? Why didn’t you go there?”

In this carriage—this strange, suffocating space—having someone to talk to, someone who had boarded at the same time, felt almost like finding a lifeline.

The girl’s voice trembled as she shared what she had just discovered.

“The door to Carriage 2 won’t open.”

Sang Chen’s eyes flickered.

But the carriage next to them… was Carriage 5.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze lowering to a single strand of the sleeping man’s hair, caught in the glow of the overhead light. His fingers slowly scraped against the phone in his pocket, but he said nothing, simply listening.

“What are you talking about? The next carriage should be 6.” The bald guy frowned. “This is Carriage 7.”

“No.” The girl’s voice was firm. “I checked. This is Carriage 1. The one next to us is Carriage 2.”

“It is Carriage 7,” the bald guy insisted. “I double-checked.”

The girl’s face went blank.

Three people. Three different tickets. One for Carriage 1, one for Carriage 6, and one for Carriage 7. And yet, after checking the carriage numbers, all three had somehow ended up here.

Sang Chen turned to look out the window.

It was early winter, just past six in the evening. The sky should be dark by now—but not this dark. A bottomless, suffocating black stretched outside, swallowing everything. No streetlights, no headlights from passing cars, no distant glow of buildings.

It was as if the train had plunged into a world of endless night. No landmarks. No direction.

The girl’s confusion twisted into panic.

“This isn’t right… this isn’t right…”

“Where’s the conductor? Did you find one?” The bald guy pressed, sweeping his gaze around the carriage. His voice dropped into something grim and urgent. “We need a conductor.”

“There isn’t one.” The girl shook her head, her voice rising. “I called out, I searched—there are no conductors on this train.”

Her panic only deepened as the bald guy’s voice grew louder. She bit down anxiously on her finger. “My phone—there’s no signal either. What the hell is going on?”

“Tsk, enough whining already!”

A thin, wiry man sitting in the second row suddenly twisted around and reached out. With barely any effort, he plucked the phone straight from her grip.

“Give it back! Give me my phone!”

For most people these days, a phone was more than just a device—it was a tether to the world. Losing it meant losing all sense of security.

The girl, who had been too afraid to even talk to the other passengers just moments ago, didn’t hesitate this time. She lunged forward, trying to snatch it back.

The young man dodged easily, sidestepping onto a table in a single, fluid motion. He pressed the power button, and the screen lit up.

“Guess I’ll just check the time myself.”

He glanced at the display, then read it out loud:

“December 7th, Sunday. Year of the Jiachen, Winter Month, Seventh Day.”

Holding up the screen for the rest of the carriage to see, he raised an eyebrow.

“Hey… what year is Jiachen^[1]The Year of Jiachen (甲辰年) is part of the traditional Chinese sexagenary (60-year) cycle, which combines the Heavenly Stems (天干) and Earthly Branches (地支). Jia (甲) is the first … Continue reading supposed to be?”

“Should be December 7th, 2024,” someone answered.