At three in the morning, Biggs Apartments was utterly silent.
The night seeped in through the gap in the window pane, staining the light and surrounding Sean. An overwhelming sense of the absurd washed over him. He stared at the block of milk on the floor, his gaze filled with bewildered suspicion, the heavy thudding of his own heart pounding like a drum in his ears.
He swallowed hard and reached out, attempting to touch the milk.
It was still warm, but it no longer had the thick, smooth texture milk was supposed to have. Instead, it was as hard as steel.
And sharp.
Sean ran a finger along the edge of the milk block and, with a little pressure, felt a sharp sting.
The pad of his finger was cut. Crimson blood dripped into the solidified milk, yet it still managed to spread out in thin tendrils, like a glaringly red flower blooming on pure white coffee.
Sean’s throat went dry. He suddenly felt that he was probably sick, too.
The same sickness as Chris.
’Can milk really get this hard??’
’Is Chris a real Wizard, the kind that can use Magic? Was everything he described in his novel real?’
The laptop screen was still on. When Sean looked up at the draft—black text on a white background—the characters seemed to come alive. They spun and leaped from the screen, their strokes separating and then reassembling. In a daze, they pieced together the gray face of a young girl, her lips slightly parted as if to ask him why he had forgotten her.
Sean shook his head violently, and the vision dissipated. The words were once again arranged quietly on the screen.
The blood-stained milk had returned to its liquid state, flowing across the floor.
In the corner of the sofa, there was a single, fiery-red feather.
It seemed to have been left behind by that crow from earlier.
To be precise, a crow with feathers like brilliant flames was called a "Flame Crow" in his book.
"Am I the one who’s crazy, or is the whole world..."
Sean looked blankly at the window. There was a hole in it that looked as if it had been pierced by a giant bullet, surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks.
For a moment, he felt that it wasn’t just the glass that had shattered, but his entire worldview.
Sean was lost.
As a fantasy author who often had dreams like these, he should have been able to accept all this more easily than a normal person. But—if everything Chris said was true, that all the stories in his dreams were real and were his own personal experiences, then what was his current life?
’Or maybe, this was all from a past life? Was I a Wizard in a previous life?’
Sean couldn’t tell anymore.
He didn’t know if he should believe it—or rather, if he should allow himself to realize that he had once been a Wizard.
The hands on the wall clock ticked away.
The crow that had broken in earlier did not reappear. Sean stared at the Flame Feather in his palm, thinking for a long, long time. He sat on the sofa until dawn before he finally seemed to make a decision. He clenched his fist, shut down the laptop, and got up to go to the bedroom and change.
His oversized slippers CRUNCHED on the glass-strewn floor.
He was going to find Chris.
He had to get to the bottom of this.
...
...
Autumn weather in Holkaydo was never pleasant.
It was a sunless morning. Ominous clouds covered almost the entire sky like giant clumps of waterlogged cotton, constantly dripping.
It was raining.
The cold wind slanted the curtain of rain, forcing it into people’s sleeves and collars. Pedestrians on their way to work hunched their necks and quickened their pace.
Their leather shoes splashed through the puddles on the street as if shattering a mirror. After they hurried away, the puddles would become whole again, reflecting the deserted Florist Hospital on the side of the street.
Sean stood outside the iron gate, holding a black umbrella.
The guard at the gate asked, "Family?"
"A friend," Sean replied.
"Do you have a proof-of-relationship form issued by us?"
"No, but you can ask him... if he’s awake."
"You should know that what the patients here say has very little credibility," the guard reminded him. A psychiatric patient’s response couldn’t be used as valid confirmation. Still, he asked, "What’s his name?"
"Chris Hendry."
"Wait a moment, I’ll ask."
"Okay."
The guard picked up the phone and made a call inside the hospital.
Soon, a man in a white coat came hurrying over with an umbrella.
He glanced at Sean, then at the guard. Seeing the guard nod, he broke into a smile and extended a hand through the gap in the gate to shake Sean’s. "Hello, sir," he introduced himself. "I’m Chris’s attending physician, Dr. Quel."
Sean smiled back. "Hello, Dr. Quel. I’m Sean, Chris’s friend."
Quill wore a pair of small, round glasses. His coffee-colored hair was neatly combed, and his scholarly appearance gave the first impression of someone very easy to get along with. He smiled and said, "The officer who brought Chris back this morning mentioned you. He said you’d be coming to see him in a couple of days. I didn’t expect it to be so soon."
"I just got a notice from my boss this morning that I have something to do in two days—a business trip—so I came early," Sean explained with a smile. "I wanted to see how his injuries were healing."
"Not well, to be honest," Quill said, shaking his head. "His condition isn’t really suitable for visitors right now, but if today is the only time you have available soon, I can make an exception and arrange a meeting."
"Thank you for your trouble, Dr. Quel," said Sean.
"You’re welcome."
Quill signaled for the guard to open the gate and led Sean into the hospital.
In front of the main building was a large garden with plenty of exercise equipment and a shallow swimming pool. It was where the patients usually had their recreational time. But because of the rain and the early hour, no one was out, leaving only the raindrops to fall on the water’s surface, creating circles of ripples.
"The police said he came to find you after running out of the hospital yesterday? What did he do, say a lot of strange things to you?" Quill chatted idly with Sean as they walked.
Sean didn’t answer. Quill continued on his own, "I can guess even if you don’t say. I often chat with him myself. He’s always going on about colorful crows, coffee-flavored Magic Potions... one moment it’s Alchemy, the next it’s Black Magic. He even treats that pair of old silk stockings like a treasure, saying they increase his Casting speed..."
Quill shook his head as he spoke, smiling. "I’ve seen many patients with delusions, but your friend is the most severe one."
"Is there any chance of recovery?" Sean asked.
"It’s difficult," Quill replied. "His condition is quite complex. Besides delusional disorder, he also suffers from mania and has strong aggressive tendencies. Conventional treatments no longer work on him. When he woke up this morning, it took a lot of effort for us to calm him down."
"As long as he’s calm, that’s good," Sean said, playing the part of an ordinary friend with conventional knowledge.
"Being calm doesn’t mean he can communicate normally," Quill sighed, then added, "But don’t worry. Chris is my patient; I know his condition best. If there’s anything you want to know, you can ask me."
Sean nodded. "Okay."
Florist Hospital had several buildings, but none were marked. He looked around and spotted several teams of uniformed security guards patrolling in the rain. He thought to himself that psychiatric hospitals really were as heavily guarded as they were in the movies.
"The facilities here seem nice," he said, as if surveying the environment.
"Of course. Of all the hospitals in Holkaydo, ours was the most expensive to build," Quill said talkatively, smiling. "This used to be a park. From a medical perspective, beautiful scenery helps with patient recovery. Our hospital director paid a hefty price to buy this land back then. To say he spent a fortune would be an understatement; it nearly bankrupted him."
"These buildings and the interior decorations and equipment were all built to the highest standards. That includes the patients’ meals, which are shipped directly from farms and planned by a dedicated nutritionist. Sometimes, they eat better than we doctors do."
Sean was surprised. "So generous?"
"A doctor’s compassion, you know," Quill laughed. "As long as it helps the patients, it’s all worth it."
He led Sean around the main building toward the one in the farthest corner, casually explaining, "Your friend is over there. Patients like Chris, who are more difficult to treat, are managed together. It’s more convenient this way."
Sean followed behind Quill. The moment he stepped into the building, a blast of cold air hit him, as if the air conditioning was set too low. It was mixed with the overwhelming smell of disinfectant. The inside of the building was much quieter than Sean had imagined—it was practically deserted. Other than two staff members who looked like orderlies standing guard at the entrance, he saw no one else.
"Aren’t there any nurses here?" Sean asked.
"They haven’t arrived yet. They don’t officially start until nine in the morning," Quill said, closing his umbrella. "But even when they’re on duty, they usually don’t come over here. You know, girls are a bit more timid. They’re scared."
Sean was confused. ’Then who takes care of the patients?’
Quill seemed not to have heard. He took Sean’s umbrella and handed both to the staff at the front desk for safekeeping, giving an order: "This gentleman is Chris’s friend. I brought him in. Call the patient center for me in a bit and get his paperwork sorted out. Go through the proper procedures."
"Okay," the orderly replied.
Quill led Sean toward the stairs. "Come on, your friend is on the third floor."
The building wasn’t tall, so there was no need to take the elevator. Probably to accommodate patients with mobility issues, each step was only about twelve centimeters high, and the treads were wide, over thirty centimeters, making the climb very easy.
But the higher they went, the colder Sean felt.
It wasn’t just a physical cold, but a visual and psychological one.
When they reached the third floor, the corridors on both sides were pitch black, like two bottomless tunnels. As their footsteps drew near, the lights overhead flickered on one by one, from near to far, casting a cold, white glow that illuminated floors and walls that were clean to the point of being unsettling.
The smell of disinfectant became even more pungent.
"Don’t you think it’s too cold in here?" Sean asked with a frown.
’Something’s not right.’
It was already autumn, and it was raining today. There was absolutely no need to have the air conditioning turned down so low.
"It is a bit cold," Quill agreed with a nod, then explained, "But some things must be preserved at low temperatures."
"And some smells require more disinfectant to cover up."
"We’re here, Mr. Sean."
Quill’s steps came to a halt in front of the room numbered 307.
The white light shone on his face, turning the lenses of his glasses completely white. He lowered his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curling into a strange arc as he gently pushed open the door and called out:
"Mr. Chris, your friend is here to see you."
Inside the room was a steel dissection table that glinted coldly, upon which a corpse covered by a white sheet lay silently.
This was the morgue.
...