Chapter 3: Cracks in the Antique Shop

The fading light of dusk streamed through the small window of the back courtyard, illuminating the workbench in the antique shop. The blood porcelain vase lay there silently, its repaired glaze a deep crimson, no longer flowing—like a slumbering corpse. Jiang Hao slumped in a worn wooden chair, his leather jacket flung open, rubbing his temples and muttering curses under his breath: "Damn tinnitus nearly made me smash that cursed vase." Sweat still clung to his forehead, and though the buzzing in his ears had lessened, it lingered like a shadow he couldn't shake.

Lin Yao leaned against the workbench, her finger wrapped in a torn strip of sleeve, blood seeping through and staining the fabric red. She flipped open her notebook, frowning as she scribbled details about the ritual inscriptions, the pen scratching against the paper. She shot Jiang Hao a glance, her tone dripping with mockery: "Brute, that tinnitus is your own fault—who told you to mess with things? Next time you pull that, I'm not saving you."

Jiang Hao smirked, slouching back in the chair and tapping his fingers on the table. "Bookworm, spare me your sarcasm. Didn't you cut your finger too? Stop pretending you're some expert." He paused, squinting at her. "But those runes you figured out—pretty creepy. Where'd you learn that?"

Lin Yao didn't look up, her pen halting briefly, her voice stiff: "Ancient texts from the museum. I worked it out. What would an outsider like you understand?" She turned a page, muttering under her breath, "Shang dynasty ritual text, blood sacrifice to seal a soul… this vase isn't simple." Yet a flicker of unease stirred in her chest. The inspiration for those runes didn't entirely come from books—it had surfaced in a dream last night.

The door creaked as Old Zhong shuffled in from the shopfront, carrying two enamel mugs, steam rising from the tea. His hunched figure looked even more frail in the dim light, his hand trembling slightly, spilling a few drops onto the floor. He set the mugs on the table with a rasp: "Drink up, take a break. That job just now wasn't easy."

Jiang Hao took a mug, sipped, and grimaced. "Old Zhong, this tea tastes like medicine." He set it down and fixed his gaze on the old man. "Spill it—what's up with that damn door? And that voice, 'file it or destroy it'—how much do you know?"

Old Zhong's eyes darkened. He fell silent for a moment, then picked up a rag to wipe the table, his voice low: "Don't ask too much. Knowing won't help." He paused, his fingers tightening unconsciously on the rag. "Thirty years ago, I did this job too. That door… it's an archive—it collects their 'files.' If you don't finish the job, it destroys everything—people, souls, all of it."

Lin Yao looked up, her voice sharp and cold: "An archive? Collecting files? Do you take us for fools? That's no museum—it's a haunted hellhole." She snapped her notebook shut, staring at Old Zhong. "You've been trapped for thirty years. It's tied to this, isn't it?"

Old Zhong gave a bitter smile, his gaze drifting to the wooden door. "So what if it is? You've already gone in—there's no escaping now." He dropped the rag, his voice a faint sigh. "That voice is a god, not a person. It made me work for thirty years. Now it's your turn."

"A god?" Jiang Hao scoffed, his fingers tapping the table faster. "Sounds more like a lunatic to me. I'm a private detective, tracking a missing artifact dealer—how the hell did I get dragged into this mess by your rundown shop?" He rubbed his temples as memories flooded back. Three days ago, he'd followed the dealer to this alley, where the trail went cold. Then Old Zhong approached him, saying "there's work at the shop." He'd hoped to dig up some leads, not step into this quagmire.

Lin Yao snorted. "Serves you right for being brainless. I was sent by the museum to appraise antiques and investigate this place." She paused, her tone biting. "Then I ran into you, brute, and you've been nothing but trouble." Their feud had started a month ago at the museum. She'd been examining a bronze mirror when Jiang Hao insisted it was a fake, sparking a heated argument. Since then, every encounter was like Mars crashing into Earth.

"Trouble?" Jiang Hao glared at her. "Bookworm, if I hadn't pulled you back, that shadow would've strangled you by now." He pointed at her hand. "And you're still acting superior?"

Lin Yao opened her mouth to retort, but the wooden door quivered faintly. Black mist seeped from the cracks, creeping toward the table like tendrils. The blood porcelain vase jolted slightly, and the divine voice returned—gentle yet chilling: "The filing is complete. The next case awaits." Its tone was coaxing, like soothing a child, yet carried a verdict: "The useless need not remain. Filing is a mercy." The voice faded, the mist retreated, and a sliver of red light shone through the door's seam, as if watching.

Old Zhong's face paled, the rag slipping from his hand to the floor. He warned in a hushed tone, "Don't make it angry. When it says destroy, it destroys—I've seen it… people vanish." He paused, his expression heavy. "Thirty years ago, I failed to file something properly. My partner disappeared—soul and all."

Jiang Hao frowned, his hand pausing mid-rub on his temple. "Disappeared? What do you mean?"

"Means you two better behave," Old Zhong said, picking up the rag and turning toward the counter, his voice low. "What it wants isn't just solving cases—it's cleaning up. Resentments, souls, tangled bits of history—all of it has to be filed. Otherwise…" He trailed off, his silhouette vanishing into the shopfront.

Lin Yao stared at the door, her notebook crumpled in her grip, murmuring, "Filing is a mercy? Cleaning up history?" She glanced at Jiang Hao. "Brute, do you buy this?"

Jiang Hao smirked. "Does it matter if I buy it? It's not letting us go." He stood, strolling to the workbench and idly picking up a shard of broken porcelain to toy with. "Old Zhong's right—there's no running."

The walkie-talkie crackled suddenly, a stranger's voice cutting through static: "Old Zhong, I dropped off a bronze mirror. Last night, it reflected something wrong with my face, and this morning, the guy's gone." The voice trembled, the signal faltering. From the shopfront, Old Zhong shouted, "Leave it at the door—don't come in!" The walkie-talkie fell silent.