After searching the clinic, Zhang Heng and Song Jia returned to the street and stood watch over the musician who had jumped. Song Jia watched helplessly as he slowly breathed his last, the light gradually fading from his young eyes, yet there was nothing she could do. Throughout it all, there was no sign of an ambulance.
Unable to bear it, Song Jia called the hospital twice more. To her surprise, both calls were met with a busy signal. It was not until her third attempt that she got through, only to be told that the ambulance had already been dispatched and could not make it here.
The hospital said this was already the ninth emergency call they had received in just five minutes. Their only ambulance had long since been overwhelmed, and emergency calls were still coming in—all of them suicides. Normally, they might not receive this many calls in one or two months. Their medical staff and emergency equipment had been stretched beyond capacity.
The police station was in much the same situation. The police were equally baffled by the sudden wave of suicides and were broadcasting requests for clues to the public. So far, however, they had gained nothing, while the officers themselves were already running themselves ragged.
"He's not going to make it," Zhang Heng suddenly said.
Just as he finished speaking, the musician's heart finally stopped completely. His pupils dilated, and the expression on his face froze forever in that final moment.
Song Jia shuddered. But when she looked at Zhang Heng beside her, she found that he was already flipping through the notebook he had found on the musician.
Most of it was sheet music. Yet judging from the man's earlier performance, he had clearly embarked on an incredibly rugged artistic path, one destined