The patients around him posed little threat to Gao Ming now, but to the man he had been six months ago, the Seventh Floor corridor was nothing short of hell.
A Psychological Counselor who insisted on saving people was torn apart by countless psychologically twisted patients. In a sense, it was a deeply ironic end.
The Gao Ming reflected in the floor tiles began sprinting, and Gao Ming chased his own shadow closely.
The missing-person announcement over the speakers grew increasingly shrill. Gradually, the figures of all the patients began to appear in the tiles.
The smooth, spotless tiles were like the surface of water. Past and present reflected each other, seeping into one another.
A scream rang out. A nurse with disheveled hair rushed out of a ward, her clothes in disarray and an enormous syringe in her hand.
Knocking aside the other patients blocking her path, the nurse bent both arms and stabbed the needle toward Gao Ming's eyes.
The past Gao Ming and the present Gao Ming dodged at the same time. Both avoided the syringe, but the past Gao Ming fell to the floor, and the medicine splashed into his eyes.
Gao Ming had evaded the syringe perfectly, yet when the medicine entered his past self's eyes, his own eyes felt the same searing pain.
Moving became somewhat difficult. The ward doors on either side of the corridor slowly slid backward like train windows. For the first time, Gao Ming felt the passage of time so clearly in a dream.
If my past self is killed, will I die too?
Gao Ming could no longer tell whether this was a dream or whether he had truly returned to the past. Every boundary was blurring. Only his heart still beat with undeniable reality.
The figure in the