Chapter 3 Medicine

Tick, tick...

At the stroke of midnight, the quiet room echoed with the sound of water droplets striking the floor. Silver moonlight spilled across the ground, mingling with the red of fresh blood. The contrast of crimson and white moonbeams created a strange, haunting beauty.

Judging from how little the blood had dried, it was still fresh—suggesting that its owner lingered, that a beautiful life had not yet slipped away.

It seemed the bleeding one was still somewhere within this very room, for the clockwork ticking never ceased, its rhythm precise and unwavering.

On the mirrored wall, streaks and symbols drawn in blood sprawled in grotesque, abstract patterns—twisted, enigmatic, defying any simple description. Whatever meaning the creator intended was lost to interpretation; in the end, it could only be called art.

Dark red handprints, scattered, broken words, half-burned white candles, the mournful howling of wind, and in the shadows, someone watching all of this unfold.

A hoarse voice rose from the sofa, “Come out, let’s talk this through. Face the truth. Running away solves nothing. Don’t you think I’m right, ‘Chu Ning’?”

Chu Ning stared unblinking at the trembling mirror before him, his face dark and brooding, as if the devilish, seductive voice just now had come from anyone but himself.

Leaning back against the sofa, he listened with patience to the crisp patter of blood dripping on the floor, his fingers tapping at the immaculate coffee table. What drew the eye was the blood streaming from his fingertips, pooling in a dark red puddle atop the transparent glass.

As if grown weary of this tedious charade—a sudden, sharp crack, the sound of a neck snapping, shattered the silence. With a dull thud, the body collapsed to the floor.

Clattering sounds followed as white medicine bottles tumbled to the ground one after another, their labels stained by the spreading blood. In moments, the red soaked through the paper wrappings, obscuring the names—Risperidone and Alprazolam.

A violent blow struck the mirror, and a pair of pale red eyes appeared in the glass. The glimmer in those eyes faded, as though their owner had given up hope.

Chu Ning collapsed helplessly to the floor, as if every ounce of strength had left him. He paid no heed to the blood that might now be staining his clothes.

He sat there on the ground in that dim room, listlessly watching the last flicker of candlelight until darkness swallowed the final glimmer.

Boundless blackness engulfed Chu Ning. Loneliness, sorrow, and helplessness surged over him. He felt everything slipping away; even time itself seemed to have dissolved inside that room. Some strange, transcendent emotion surfaced in his heart.

Suddenly, a red medicine bottle was seized in a blood-covered hand. The bloody hand retreated into the shadows, like a venomous snake returning to its lair, wary lest its hard-earned prize be snatched away.

A hush fell over the house, as if someone had pressed a pause button and silenced all sound. The stillness stretched on and on, until at last, the sound of a twisting bottle cap broke the silence.

Chu Ning clutched the opened bottle with trembling hands. His fingers shook so violently as he tried to unscrew the cap that he had to focus all his attention on the task, expending great effort just to complete it.

The bloodstained bottle, as though it held some terrible demon sealed within, drew a grave look from Chu Ning. He peered inside, as if making a decision that would seal his fate. On the verge of swallowing the pills, he caught—almost involuntarily—a glimpse of the mirror.

Though darkness pressed close, Chu Ning could still make out the mocking expression of “himself” in the glass. The reflection’s movements matched his own exactly, the facial expression an eerily perfect imitation.

Yet, Chu Ning could see the ridicule in those bloodshot eyes.

You’re a coward. A weakling.

The message his reflection wanted to convey was plain—taunting words, nothing more. Chu Ning realized that the medicine was the key to breaking free.

If he was right, once the drugs took effect, the image in the mirror would disappear—at least for a while.

His hand stilled. A victorious smile crept across his lips. He deliberately tossed the pills in front of the mirror, as though teasing a stray kitten, feeding the reflection—feeding himself.

He maintained this pointless game for a long time, whistling an old tune and relishing each toss, until only a single pill remained in the bottle. His reflection’s face twisted from fear to indignation, then gaped in astonishment.

“Here, you take it. The medicine’s too bitter for me.”

With a careless flick, Chu Ning tossed the last pill toward the mirror. The arc of its flight was easy to follow; if Chu Ning was quick enough, he could still seize this fleeting chance in the darkness—to make the “self” before him vanish, if only for a little while.