A Fang had long since grown used to the strange things that happened to him. After the arm set him down on the floor, he showed no fear at all.
Brushing the dust off himself, the little boy turned to look around. Although there was no one in the bedroom, he still politely bowed to the empty air and said in his babyish voice, "Thank you, Mom! I won't go anywhere dangerous!"
His little face was as adorable as a ripe apple, making anyone want to take a bite. Clutching his drawing brush, A Fang pattered out of the bedroom and drew in an exercise book he had found.
He swung his feet, and the little tail on the back of his dinosaur pajamas swayed along with them.
"Even if you don't show yourself, I know you're always beside me." A Fang hummed a song, looking utterly carefree, as though this were not the East District's most notorious haunted apartment, but the home he had grown up in.
The apartment was deathly silent. There was no response.
After playing for half an hour, A Fang grew a little tired. He put down his brush, curled up on the sofa, and soon fell asleep.
His breathing was steady. A Fang seemed to be dreaming of something delightful, his cheeks puffing out as though he were eating something.
The curtains trembled slightly, and blood flowed downward. But halfway down, it seemed to be scolded by something and obediently retreated.
The bedroom door was gently pushed open. A thin blanket was dragged out and draped over A Fang's stomach.
The smooth surface of a teacup reflected an arm covered in knife scars. Bright red fabric wrapped around her fingers as she slowly reached toward the boy. But seemingly worried that her hand was