Men Nan stood rigid in the center of the cramped living room, his refusal to sleep manifesting as a stubborn vigil that seemed to defy gravity itself. His head hung at that impossible angle, neck bent as if an unseen force crushed it downward, forcing his chin nearly to his chest. The posture was agonizing to witness, a living sculpture of torment that made Chen Ge's own muscles ache in sympathy. The young man's eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted ceaselessly, scanning the room as if expecting the strangling figure from his dreams to materialize at any moment. His breathing was shallow, ragged, each exhale a small act of defiance against the exhaustion pulling at him. The room's dim light cast harsh shadows across his deformed silhouette, amplifying the eerie impression that he was less a person and more a broken doll, caught in a cycle of fear that refused to let him rest.
"I keep feeling there's something pressing on top of his head," Chen Ge whispered, his voice barely audible to avoid startling Men Nan, whose fragile state hung by a thread. He leaned closer to Doctor Gao, his eyes never leaving the young man. "Not just a psychological weight—something real, physical, like it's actually there." The observation had been nagging at him since the corridor, Men Nan's unnatural posture too consistent, too deliberate to be mere habit or illness. Doctor Gao, standing protectively beside his student, waved a hand discreetly, signaling Chen Ge to lower his voice further. Without responding, he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen to send a message, his face tight with concentration. The lack of a direct reply left Chen Ge momentarily sidelined, so he took the opportunity to explore the apartment, his instincts urging him to uncover any clue that might explain the black phone's mission or Men Nan's torment.
The apartment was a compact thirty square meters, yet it was efficiently laid out with a bedroom, a small living area, and a standalone bathroom—a typical rental for a student like Men Nan. Chen Ge moved methodically, his flashlight beam cutting through the dimness as he searched for anything out of place. The space was impeccably clean, almost sterile, with no clutter, no forgotten corners where secrets might hide. The waste bin was empty, the surfaces dust-free, and the bed linens crisp, as if Men Nan's obsession with order extended to his living space. It does look like a normal rental apartment, Chen Ge thought, but the persistent sour smell undermined the normalcy, seeping into his senses like a warning. He checked under the bed, behind the desk, even inside the narrow wardrobe—nothing. No hidden compartments, no signs of a concealed body. The apartment was a dead end, yet the smell and Men Nan's condition screamed that the truth was close, perhaps in the room next door.
Exiting the living area, Chen Ge pushed open the wooden bathroom door, and his breath caught at the sight before him. Directly opposite the entrance, a half-body mirror hung on the wall, its surface gleaming under the weak light. The door is right across from the mirror? The layout triggered an immediate sense of unease, his experiences with the black phone's first Nightmare Mission flooding back—mirrors as portals, reflections that lied, worlds bleeding into each other. He approached slowly, his reflection staring back with unblinking intensity. The mirror was spotless, polished to a shine, as if cleaned daily with obsessive care. It's rare for a bathroom to be designed this way, he thought. Doesn't it feel wrong, like you're being watched the moment you step inside? The thought sent a prickle across his skin, the black phone's mission title—A Room of Three—echoing in his mind.
Chen Ge positioned himself at the sink beneath the mirror, mimicking the pose Men Nan had described in his nightmares. He bent forward, nearly 95 degrees, his head hovering just above the faucet. From this angle, the living room was visible through the open door, the upside-down perspective disorienting but clear. The scenario Men Nan recounted was entirely plausible: head under the faucet, eyes catching a glimpse of someone approaching from the living room. If the view had been blocked—by a closed door, a curtain, anything—Chen Ge might have dismissed the dream as pure hallucination. But the open layout confirmed that the dream's events could happen in reality, the figure's slow approach a calculated torment rather than a random nightmare. Why draw it out? Chen Ge wondered, straightening up. Why not strike immediately? There's a history here, a reason this entity is toying with him.
A sudden chill grazed the back of Chen Ge's neck, sharp and fleeting, like a finger of ice. He jerked upright, hand flying to the spot, finding a single droplet of water clinging to his skin. A water drop? He craned his neck, inspecting the ceiling—dry, no leaks, no condensation. The faucet was off, the pipes silent. His gaze darted to the mirror, and a chilling image flashed through his mind: his reflection stepping out, hands reaching to strangle him as he bent over the sink, just as Men Nan's dream figure had done. The black phone's mission name—A Room of Three—took on new weight. Three presences in this space: Men Nan, the strangling figure from his dreams, and a third, perhaps lurking within the mirror's glassy surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge. The thought was speculative but aligned with Chen Ge's experiences, the mirror a potential gateway to the Third Sick Hall's bloody world.
Stepping back, Chen Ge's eyes caught two empty shampoo bottles in the bathroom's small waste bin, their labels faded but unmistakable. Men Nan hadn't lived here long—three weeks at most—yet he'd gone through two full bottles? His gaze shifted to the sink, where a third bottle stood, half-empty. The math didn't add up. Even accounting for frequent washing, this was excessive. Sleep-walking? Chen Ge considered the possibility, picturing Men Nan rising unconsciously to wash his hair, mirroring his nightmares. But Doctor Gao had confirmed the dreams persisted at his own home, ruling out a location-specific trigger. If Men Nan was washing his hair consciously, the volume of shampoo suggested an obsession bordering on mania. Why? Dandruff, a skin condition, or something he was desperate to scrub away?
Chen Ge leaned against the bathroom wall, the sour smell stronger here, mingling with the chemical tang of shampoo. Men Nan's outbursts at school—over mismatched curtain patterns and sesame seed counts—pointed to severe OCD, a need for control in a world spiraling out of his grasp. Was the excessive hair-washing another symptom, a ritual to cleanse something he couldn't name? Or was it tied to the dream figure, a compulsion driven by the entity pressing down on him? The mirror loomed in Chen Ge's peripheral vision, its reflection a silent witness. The third "person" in the Room of Three had to be close, and whether it hid in the glass or the walls of 303, Chen Ge knew the answer lay in unlocking the truth before midnight claimed them all.
Chen Ge's mind latched onto the pattern of Men Nan's behavior, the excessive shampoo use aligning with the young man's earlier outbursts over mismatched curtains and sesame seed counts. For someone with OCD, any perceived imperfection was a splinter under the skin, an itch that demanded scratching until it bled. If Men Nan noticed something "wrong" with his hair—real or imagined—he would wash it compulsively, chasing an unattainable sense of cleanliness or control. The two empty bottles and the half-used third on the sink weren't just evidence of hygiene; they were symptoms of a deeper compulsion, a ritual to fix something only Men Nan could see. Chen Ge's gaze flicked to the young man still standing in the living room, head bowed under that invisible weight, and he realized the truth was locked inside Men Nan's mind, a secret the student had likely concealed even from Doctor Gao.
Only Men Nan can answer this, Chen Ge thought, his eyes narrowing as he considered the young man's guarded demeanor. The nightmares, the posture, the shampoo—pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit the psychological profile Doctor Gao had outlined. Men Nan was hiding something crucial, a key to the strangling figure and the mission's title, A Room of Three. Before Chen Ge could press further, his phone buzzed in his pocket, a sharp vibration that cut through the apartment's oppressive silence. He pulled it out, expecting a mission update from the black phone, but was surprised to see a message from Doctor Gao, sent just moments ago from across the room. The doctor's face remained neutral, his attention fixed on Men Nan, but the text revealed a calculated decision to communicate silently.
The message read: "Men Nan's family situation is more complicated than I thought. When I informed them of his condition, they accepted it with unsettling ease. They promised to send money for his medical fees but made no plans to visit him in Jiujiang. I didn't mention this earlier to avoid Men Nan overhearing." Chen Ge's brow furrowed, the words painting a picture of detachment that clashed with Men Nan's public persona. He glanced at the young man, whose head remained lowered, oblivious to the conversation unfolding via text. Doctor Gao's caution made sense; Men Nan's fragile state could shatter under the weight of his family's indifference. Chen Ge typed a quick reply: "Their son is sick, and they won't even come see him?" The question carried his disbelief, the idea of such coldness foreign to his own fierce loyalty to his missing parents.
Doctor Gao's response came swiftly: "I didn't expect it either. His friends all described him as coming from a happy family, warm and supportive. His social media is filled with posts about loving his parents, his gratitude for their encouragement. He projects the image of a studious, professional young man from a charming, close-knit home." The message paused, then continued: "But it's a facade. The perfect family, the ideal student—it's all curated, a mask he wears for the world." Chen Ge's grip tightened on his phone, the revelation casting Men Nan's behavior in a new light. The obsessive hair-washing, the nightmares, the outbursts—they weren't just symptoms of illness but cracks in a carefully constructed lie. Men Nan was running from something, and his family's absence suggested they were part of what he fled.
Chen Ge shared his discovery about the shampoo bottles via text, detailing the excessive use and its implications. Doctor Gao's reply was immediate, his expertise cutting through the mystery with clinical precision: "OCD has four main types: Checking, Ruminations, Contamination, and Symmetry and Ordering. Men Nan's symptoms don't neatly fit any of these. His hair-washing isn't about symmetry or contamination in the classic sense; it's a compulsion driven by a specific need, not a broad disorder." The message continued, delving deeper: "I believe Men Nan is suffering from PTSD, not OCD. Think of earthquake survivors who remain hyper-vigilant long after the danger has passed. Their minds, trapped in trauma, send false alarms, convincing them the ground will shake again."
Doctor Gao's analogy struck a chord, and Chen Ge glanced at Men Nan, whose darting eyes and rigid posture screamed of constant alertness. "Men Nan's symptoms mirror this," the message went on. "He's in a perpetual state of high alert, his eyes scanning for threats that aren't visibly there—a hallmark of insecurity and fear. The hair-washing is likely a self-protective mechanism, a ritual to cope with or ward off the trauma his mind can't escape. The nightmares, the figure strangling him, the need to 'cleanse' his hair—it's all tied to something he's reliving, something he can't let go." The doctor's words reframed Men Nan's suffering, transforming the young man from a puzzle of quirks into a survivor of an unseen cataclysm, his compulsive washing a desperate shield against a threat that followed him even into sleep.
Chen Ge pocketed his phone, the weight of Doctor Gao's diagnosis settling over him like the apartment's sour smell. Men Nan wasn't just haunted by a dream figure; he was trapped in a cycle of trauma, his mind replaying a horror that the hair-washing ritual tried to erase. The black phone's mission—A Room of Three—loomed larger, the third presence perhaps not in the mirror but in Men Nan's past, a specter born from whatever had broken him. The empty shampoo bottles, the vacant Room 303, the family that wouldn't come—each was a thread leading to the truth. Chen Ge's eyes returned to the bathroom mirror, its clean surface reflecting his own determined gaze. Midnight was approaching, and with it, the chance to confront the entity that had turned Men Nan's life into a nightmare.