Landlord

Chen Ge's first glimpse of Wang Qi etched a stark portrait: weary as a wind-worn husk, torpid as a beast in slumber, frail as a reed bent by storm. As they brushed past on the shadowed stairs, Chen Ge pressed the retrieved notice into the man's trembling hand. A gravelly "thank you" rasped from Wang Qi's throat—his first words, rough-hewn and murky, like a voice dredged from a bog. Chen Ge strained to parse it, offering a tight smile before trailing the limping man upward.

The second floor unfurled a grimmer decay than the first—a dank warren of neglect. Shadows pooled thick and humid, spiderwebs draped the corners like tattered shrouds, and the walls bore scars as if clawed by unseen blades. The limping man hobbled to the corridor's end, unlocking the final door and emerging with a jangling chain of keys. "One night's fifty bucks. Pick any room here you fancy."

"Fifty?" Chen Ge balked. "That's robbery!"

"It's the only roof for miles—you should kiss my boots for fifty," the man snapped, his eyes darting behind him, as if tracking a phantom's tread.

"Fine, but why only the second floor? First and third off-limits?"

"Why the bloody inquisition?" The landlord snatched the cash, thrusting a key into Chen Ge's palm. "Number's on it—find it yourself." He retreated into his lair, the door thudding shut. A choked croak seeped through—guttural, like an old man strangling on his meal. Suspicion creased Chen Ge's brow as he pressed a hand to the wood. "Hold up."

"What now?" the man growled, irritation crackling.

Chen Ge peered through the sliver of an opening. The room was a cramped cell—beyond the landlord loomed an old man, slumped in a wheelchair, back to the door, likely the source of that eerie gurgle. "Thirsty," Chen Ge said. "Got a vending machine or water?"

"No!"

"Charming hospitality…" The door slammed, leaving Chen Ge in the murk, suspicion festering like mold in his chest. Normal flats greet you at the gate—this one hides its keeper on the second floor's tail end. Why bar the first and third? Who's that old man with him?

Key in hand—208, etched in faded ink—he noted its proximity to the landlord's den. First, my gear. After two hours pedaling, exhaustion gnawed his bones. Unlocking 208 unleashed a whiff of mildew, sharp and sour. Dust cloaked the room in a gray veil, the bed a fungal tapestry—spongy, alien under his touch. Sleep here? Doubtful.

A crash jolted him—next door, a plate shattering. He eased his door shut, ear to the wall. The limping man's curses erupted, laced with foreign snarls, his accent a stranger's to these parts. The old man's feeble mumbles answered, drowned as the tirade stretched minutes before cutting off. Then, the television blared louder.

What's he playing at—masking something with noise? Chen Ge strained for hints, but the broadcast smothered all else. He relented. Focus on yourself, fool—you won't sleep a wink tonight. Setting his pack on the table, he pocketed the penknife. That online rant spoke of blood behind paint, rot's stench at night. Yet no murders surface in Ping An's records.

The black phone's choice of this forsaken place hinted at buried horrors. He hefted the multi-tool hammer, tapping walls and corners—nothing. A mundane guest room, save its squalor. Second floor's open for rent, so it's likely safe. Secrets lurk on the first or third. The Trial Mission loomed at 11 p.m.—three hours to kill. He stowed the hammer and crept to the door.

Hand on the knob, he nudged it open—then froze. Sweat beaded his palm, a shiver racing his spine. The limping man stood inches away, silent as a wraith—how long had he lingered there?

Shock mirrored shock. "Landlord, why're you lurking?" Chen Ge's eyes narrowed, unease thickening with every moment near this man.

"You whined about thirst—here." The landlord thrust a warm water bottle at the threshold, his face a mask of strained civility.

"Thanks." Chen Ge dragged it inside, probing, "Anything else?"

"Nope. Rest up." The man's gaze flicked into the room, muttering, "Corridors go black at night—no lights. Stay put after sunset." He shuffled off, the neighboring door clicking shut.

Chen Ge exhaled, tension easing faintly. Short fuse, socially stunted. That limp doesn't weaken him—he felled Wang Qi with one kick. Stronger than he looks. Sleuthing wasn't his forte; he sifted through mental scraps of murder tales. A limp from birth—bullied, twisted, unhinged? Bloody hell, he's a textbook psycho!

He set the bottle aside, a chilling thought blooming: If he's the killer, I'm bunking next to a murderer all night? His skin prickled. The man might hover outside, waiting to pounce—and as landlord, he held keys to every lock, a predator with free rein.