At 3:17 a.m., a shrill burst of electronic noise stabbed into Chen Mo's eardrums—
not the gentle chime of a phone alarm, nor any familiar sound from the sleeping city,
but the grinding rasp of a dull saw on rusted wire,
its metallic tremor squeezed through the emergency broadcast speaker in the stairwell,
splitting the dead silence of the night like a jagged blade.
He nearly shot upright in bed, fingers reflexively curling around his military flashlight and combat knife.
Three years out of the service, his muscle memory had never dulled—just like the bullet scar beneath his collarbone, which still ached in rainy weather.
The flashlight's beam carved through the dense darkness,
landing on the yellowed camouflage calendar hanging on the wall.
On it, "July 15, 2075" was circled in red—
the day he had planned to submit his resignation to the Center for Disease Control.
"Emergency notice… I repeat, emergency notice…"
The female voice from the broadcast sounded as if it came through a layer of water,
each word torn into fragments:
"An unidentified leak has occurred at the Eastern Bioresearch Institute.
All residents remain calm, stay indoors, lock your doors and windows…"
Barefoot, Chen Mo stepped onto the icy floor, his toes instinctively curling.
This old apartment building had paper-thin walls—
on normal nights, he could hear the neighbor's cough through them.
But now—
nothing.
A suffocating, unnatural stillness.
He laced up his combat boots and went to the window.
From the seventeenth floor, the city below looked like a water-damaged painting.
The neon lights of the river-spanning bridge, once a glowing serpent,
had dwindled to a few flickering embers,
blinking weakly in the dark.
"Do not approach any… cough… any unusual individuals…"
The final warning dissolved into static.
A heartbeat later—
the sharp crash of shattering glass rose from below,
followed by a woman's scream—short, piercing,
like a steel string being violently snapped.
Chen Mo's chest clenched;
his back hit the bookshelf, sending Atlas of Virology tumbling to the floor.
On its cover, the violet protein shell of a coronavirus bloomed like a poisonous flower.
Three years ago, he'd laughed at the designer's morbid humor.
Now, the image seemed to grin coldly back at him.
His phone vibrated.
Caller ID—Lin Lan.
He almost dove for it, answering in one breath—
only to be met with a sticky chewing sound,
layered with a deep, inhuman snarl.
"Lin Lan?" His voice was dry as sandpaper.
"Chen Mo… virus… quick—"
Her voice came in urgent and muffled—
and then was replaced by a crisp click—
the brittle snap of bone out of joint,
a sound that conjured the image of a limb folding backwards.
Then—only the monotone beep-beep-beep of a dead line,
like an ice pick tapping steadily at his nerves.
He didn't know how much time passed before the moonlight,
slanting through the door crack,
straightened into a cold silver blade,
cutting through the last warmth in the room.
The howls in the corridor faded into the distance,
replaced by a thick, congealed silence,
as if even the air had turned to glue.
He suddenly thought of the succulent plant Lin Lan had given him.
The windowsill was empty now—
only shards of pottery and a few withered roots remained.
On the sill, half-washed by rain,
he could still make out four words scrawled in marker:
Remember to get some sun.
The letters had blurred, like a drifting cloud.
Hhhhhh—
From below came the heavy drag of something scraping along the floor,
accompanied by the grating scrape of a hard object.
Chen Mo clapped a hand over his mouth—
that was Aunt Zhang's cane.
That afternoon she'd knocked on his door to bring dumplings.
Now, it was a tool for dragging corpses.
The phone lit up—
a text from an unknown number, time-stamped 3:15 a.m.—
two minutes before Lin Lan's call:
They're feeding on their own shadows. Don't trust what your eyes see.
Cold sweat drenched his back.
He remembered what he'd seen through the peephole—
Aunt Zhang's head twisted a full 180 degrees,
something anatomically impossible.
Yet the dents on the doorframe were real,
and in the warped metal were a few strands of gray hair.
The dragging stopped outside his door.
Chen Mo yanked a fire axe from the emergency cabinet,
knuckles whitening on the handle.
The cane tapped the floor—three short, two long—
like some kind of coded signal.
Then came the sound of fingernails scratching the door,
each scrape landing exactly where the peephole was.
"Xiao Chen… open the door…"
The voice outside was wet, intimate.
"Auntie made fresh dumplings—chive and egg, your favorite…"
Chen Mo stared at the peephole—
nothing outside but the wavering green of the emergency light,
like ghost fire in the gloom.
Yet the voice drew closer,
until it felt like lips were pressed to the door,
breath seeping through the cracks.
"See… they're getting cold…"
A ribbon of dark red seeped under the door,
glistening wetly in the moonlight.
When it touched his foot,
he felt the sticky resistance—
blood, still warm,
winding its way toward him.
He remembered the rabies outbreak three years ago—
infected wolves that mimicked their owner's voice to lure prey,
their saliva able to infect through skin contact.
Lin Lan had said then:
The scariest thing about a virus isn't the virus itself,
but how it can wear the skin of the person you trust most.
Bang!
The cane slammed against the door,
making the peephole vibrate.
Chen Mo brought the axe down;
outside, the scream that followed was no longer human—
more like fingernails raking across sheet metal.
The dragging receded.
On the axe blade clung a few strands of coarse gray fiber,
carrying the disinfectant tang of a morgue shroud.
The phone lit again—
a second message from the unknown number:
The freezers at the CDC are crying. They want to come out and bask in the sun.
It was now 4:17 a.m.—
exactly one hour since the first alarm.
In that hour, Chen Mo had lost the world he knew,
lost the girl he liked,
and had begun to doubt his own senses.
Outside, the sky was paling.
The city's silhouette emerged in the morning light.
The bridge's wreckage sprawled across the river,
its support pillar still bearing a billboard—
Lin Lan's smile in her white lab coat,
bright and sharp as ever.
Chen Mo pulled the axe free,
morning light flashing coldly along the blade.
He knew he could not wait any longer—
for the truth, or for the words Lin Lan had not finished saying,
he had to step beyond that door.
His gaze lingered one last time
on a stubborn green leaf—
clinging to life among broken porcelain and dust.
July 15, 2075, 5:00 a.m.
Chen Mo opened the door
and stepped into a new world,
where blood and the unknown intertwined.