"Drip, drip." The hollow sound of dripping water echoed around Zhang Chen's ears.
The moment he entered the dream this time, he found himself lying in the bathtub of the third-floor bathroom, his naked body submerged in thick blood.
When he looked up, three children no older than eight hung from the ceiling above the bathtub—two boys and one girl. The two boys seemed to already be dead. Deep knife wounds covered their necks, wrists, and thighs, each cut severing an artery perfectly to let the blood flow out.
The girl directly above him had her hands tied with hemp rope. Her bloodshot eyes glared at him hatefully, and her mouth had been sewn shut with thread, leaving her unable to speak.
The two little boys' blood seemed nearly drained away. He reached out with his right hand, picked up a sickle beside the bathtub, and looked indifferently at the little girl's hateful expression.
The next second, he slowly cut the blade into the girl's back. Perhaps her gaze had angered him. With that slash, he pierced straight through her body. A torrent of blood gushed out. Facing the tide of blood rushing toward him, he slowly closed his eyes, parted his lips, and luxuriated in the wonderful moment.
Yet when he opened his eyes again, the girl hanging above had long since died.
Once the little girl's blood flowed down, the bathtub was nearly full. He smiled faintly, closed his eyes, and began quietly enjoying it all.
Suddenly, he seemed to hear something. He hurried out of the bathroom and, after shouting several reprimands toward the doorway, whoever was outside left. Returning to the bathroom and seeing himself covered in blood in the mirror, he suddenly burst into laughter.
At the same time, to avoid trouble, he picked up