Zhang Xiaowai slumped into the worn-out office pantry couch, staring blankly at the rusted old key in his hand like it held the answers to a universe he never asked to be part of. A few days ago, he was just a sleep-deprived office drone with a talent for dodging deadlines and pretending to understand Excel. Now? He was tangled up in a plotline that felt like someone had thrown a conspiracy thriller, a supernatural horror, and a workplace sitcom into a blender, hit puree, and poured it straight into his life.
The key was heavy in his palm—not just in weight but in implication. The stone tablet, the self-spinning carousel, the mysterious masked figure, Director Li's unexplained disappearance… All of it had coagulated into a thick soup of confusion. A soup, Zhang thought grimly, that was burning at the bottom of the pot before anyone even added seasoning.
"This definitely has a code on it!" Liu Piaopiao, across from him and fully equipped with her oversized novelty magnifying glass and Sherlock Holmes cosplay glasses, was buzzing with excitement. "Morse code? No, wait—could be Babylonian sacrificial symbols… Or maybe the logo of a secret underground society. Like the ones that recruit with crossword puzzles!"
Her eyes sparkled like a kid who'd just received a limited-edition jigsaw puzzle. Zhang, however, just felt a migraine building behind his left eye.
Wang Dazhuang was leaning against the microwave like he was preparing for a motivational speech, waving his retractable baton around as if choreographing a kung-fu routine. "I had a dream last night," he declared, swinging his baton with dramatic flair, "that I whacked that masked freak so hard, he bounced straight back into his mother's womb!"
Then he promptly kicked the edge of the counter, yelping as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his foot.
Zhang groaned and rubbed his temples. "Can you two just... be normal for once? I'm not a chosen one, or a detective, or some tragic protagonist. I just want to finish my quarterly reports in peace without being dragged into an urban absurdist play every other night!"
Liu Piaopiao stood abruptly, slapping the table with her palm. "Denial! Classic psychological profile of someone suppressing guilt. But justice requires courage! We must expose the darkness, lure the snake out of its den!"
She whipped out her notebook and dramatically wrote:"Operation Plan #126: Trap and Counter-Attack."
"You people really never run out of 'operations,' do you?" Zhang muttered, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone—which, as if on cue, buzzed.
A new message popped onto the screen.
No sender. No contact ID.
Just four bone-chilling words:
"Mind your own business, Zhang Xiaowai."
No punctuation. No sender. Just a calm, ice-cold threat that made the hair on his neck stand on end.
"Holy sh—" he yelped, nearly tossing the phone into his coffee. "He knows my name! He knows I'm investigating him! He knows my number!"
Liu Piaopiao snatched the phone with gleaming eyes, reading the message like it was her wedding invitation. "This is classic intimidation technique! He's scared! When criminals panic, they expose themselves!"
"Pretty sure I'm the one exposed right now," Zhang muttered.
Wang Dazhuang clapped his hands like a PE coach ready to run drills. "Then it's decided. Tonight, we stake out the underground parking lot. We wait, we watch, and when that masked scumbag shows up, BAM—I rearrange his face into a jigsaw puzzle!"
Zhang wanted to protest. Badly. But deep down, he knew something painful and true: ever since he met these two lunatics, his ability to "say no" had disintegrated faster than his job security.
10:00 PM — Wulong Building Underground Parking Lot
The garage was cold, hollow, and humming with the eerie resonance of malfunctioning air vents. Fluorescent lights blinked overhead like they were deciding whether to stay conscious or give up. Shadows sprawled across concrete pillars. It was the kind of place where horror films started—or ended.
Zhang stood behind a support beam, hugging a cup of now-icy coffee like it was holy water. "Why does this place feel like the opening scene of a ghost-hunting documentary?" he whispered to himself, nervously eyeing a pile of vaguely human-shaped trash bags.
"Battle positions ready!" Liu Piaopiao hissed, popping her head out from behind a greasy oil drum. She wore a baseball cap, fingerless gloves, and held a flashlight like a police officer from a low-budget crime series. "I'll lure the suspect in. Xiaowai, you're on surveillance. Dazhuang, prepare to engage!"
"Why am I always 'surveillance'?" Zhang whined, crouched behind a dilapidated minivan. "I don't have gear. I don't even know the plan! I'm basically bait without hazard pay!"
Wang Dazhuang beamed and handed him something. "Here, take this—it's been in my family for generations!"
Zhang looked down at the object in disbelief. It was a broom. Specifically, a very abused broom, reinforced with duct tape, a loop of old copper wire, and a bright red "Fu" fortune sticker.
"This is your family heirloom?" Zhang asked. "What are we fighting—dust demons?"
Before anyone could respond, a faint set of footsteps echoed through the shadows.
"Target acquired," Liu Piaopiao whispered. "Positions!"
Zhang peeked out—and sure enough, the familiar figure was there: black hoodie, plastic mask, sneakers that squeaked slightly with each step. He was creeping along the garage like a horror movie NPC.
Zhang's brain instantly conjured a dozen scenarios—every one of them ending in his painful, mysterious death. He clutched the broom like it could ward off demons. Or burglars. Or both.
Without warning, Liu Piaopiao sprang into action.
"Freeze! You're surrounded!" she shouted, flashlight beam slicing through the dark and lighting up the mask.
The figure flinched—then bolted.
"AFTER HIM!" she cried.
Zhang instinctively followed—bad decision. His foot caught an oil slick, and he skidded like a poorly scripted stunt double, crashing into a stack of cardboard boxes with a loud CRASH.
Ironically, the crash tripped the masked figure, who tumbled to the ground.
"Behold!" Wang Dazhuang bellowed, descending like a budget superhero. "The Chosen One arrives to smite evil!"
He swung his baton with the confidence of a man who had seen too many martial arts movies.
Seconds later, the masked figure was restrained, wriggling on the ground as all three of them panted from the chaos.
Liu Piaopiao tore off the mask.
The trio froze.
"Wait… Xiao Liu?!"
It was. Their company's night-shift janitor, Xiao Liu, eyes wide with fear, hands raised in surrender. "Please don't hit me! I was just throwing out the trash! What the hell kind of real-life CS game are you people playing?!"
Zhang dropped the broom with a hollow clunk and sat on the ground. "Not again…"
Liu Piaopiao awkwardly cleared her throat. "Uh. False alarm. But! This proves our bait plan works!"
"Totally," Wang Dazhuang added, still posing with his baton. "We scared the wrong suspect so badly, imagine what it'll do to the real one!"
Zhang wanted to bury himself in the concrete.
Then he saw it.
Near where Xiao Liu had fallen—on the ground—was another paper note. Red ink. Sloppy handwriting. Chillingly familiar.
"One more chance, Zhang Xiaowai. Walk away."
Zhang felt the cold sweep through him like a wave. His fingers trembled as he picked up the note.
"He's watching us," he whispered. "He knew we'd be here."
Liu Piaopiao's eyes narrowed. "There's a mole. There must be a mole!"
She slowly turned her gaze to Zhang, her expression suspicious.
"Don't look at me like that!" he yelled, backing up. "I'm more scared than you are! If I were the culprit, would I be the one tripping over cardboard and waving a broom like Harry Potter's dropout cousin?!"
Wang Dazhuang clapped him on the back. "Relax, Xiaowai. Here, I'll tell you a joke."
Zhang groaned. "Please don't."
"Why are ghosts in parking lots the most cowardly kind?"
Zhang sighed. "Why."
"Because they can't even drive away! Hahaha!"
Zhang covered his face with both hands. "That was worse than the threat note."
The parking garage lights flickered ominously overhead, casting long shadows that seemed to twitch in the corners of Zhang's vision.
He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.