Hearing the scream, Ya Naijian and Chitanda were both startled and stood up, while Duanmu Huai silently sighed, then turned off the hot pot and stretched.
"All right, let's go."
The three of them returned to the west wing from before.
They pushed open the door and entered the hall, where the scene was immediately clear.
A patient lay on the floor, eyes wide open and a huge slit cut across his throat. Blood gushed from it like a fountain. A knife lay beside him, covered in blood. It was clearly the murder weapon.
In short, this was the scene of a murder.
But there was no atmosphere of a murder scene here.
The reason was simple. Everyone else seemed to turn a deaf ear and blind eye to the dead man. They remained seated at the tables, playing chess, reading, or muttering to themselves as they immersed themselves in their own worlds. They seemed to have no reaction at all to what had happened here.
This was a mental hospital, and these people were mentally ill.
So this was perfectly normal.
But the sight before them still made Ya Naijian and Chitanda's hair stand on end.
A moment ago, Duanmu Huai had asked them what "normal" meant.
Conversely, nothing could be more abnormal than the situation before them.
A dead man lay on the floor, apparently just murdered, yet the others were neither terrified nor gathering around to watch the spectacle out of curiosity. They simply sat in their seats and did their own thing, as if nothing had happened at all.
"Ugh..."
Duanmu Huai sighed again.
"You two wait here."
Leaving them with those words, Duanmu Huai walked over to the corpse, crouched down, and carefully examined it. Ya Naijian grabbed Chitanda beside her, who was swaying unsteadily