"After the Dean died, his office was kept exactly as it was?"
The people outside the door were full of questions. Aside from Chen Ge, no one dared enter the room—not even the two doctors.
Chen Ge was in very bad shape. Memories connected to the stench began surfacing uncontrollably, fragments exploding in his mind into vivid scenes.
"Hey! Don't stay in there alone!" Worried about Chen Ge's safety, Patient Number Two slowly approached the Dean's Office. But when he reached the doorway, his body refused to go in. Every cell in him resisted, as though stepping inside would mean certain death.
In a daze, Chen Ge heard Patient Number Two's voice, but intense pain had already overwhelmed his nerves.
Gradually, he lost control of his body. Tormented by both the stench and the pain, he pitched forward toward the Dean's desk.
He braced himself against the desktop, his face twisted with pain, and nearly touched the Glass Jar on the table.
"Whose heart is this?"
Breathing heavily, his chest heaving, Chen Ge's pain grew worse—and the heart, wrapped in countless Black Threads, began beating inside the Glass Jar.
It was as though it were Chen Ge's own heart. Every beat tugged at his nerves.
"Could the heart in this jar be mine?"
Chen Ge felt that his heart and the one in the jar were beating at the same rate.
He stared at the jar, his soul seeming to get pulled inside. Inexpressible pain and despair surged through his body.
The world before his eyes began to blur. Countless characters for "death" in the room grew larger before him, as if they had all come to life.
Chen Ge wanted to swing his arms and fight back, but his body and mind were already on the verge of collapse.