Fu An Apartments

To an outsider, Wang Qi's fervor to shoo the newcomer might've reeked of obsession. Chen Ge offered no vows, his tongue stilled by a gnawing itch—Wang Qi's tale veiled more than it bared.

"I've spilled all I know," Wang Qi rasped, brushing dust from his tattered garb. "Time's yours to flee. At midnight, this place twists into something else." His shadow melted into the night's embrace, leaving Chen Ge blinking in the gloom. Meant to pry secrets from tenants, not drown in riddles.

Odd duck, that one—mad or masking it? Wang Qi's clouded gaze—unfocused, drifting—prickled Chen Ge's spine. The raw ache and weariness in those eyes couldn't be conjured. Loves his fiancée to ruin, that's plain.

Ascending to his room, he paused at the first-floor woman's door, knuckles hovering—then rapped. "Hey, fresh blood!" a voice barked, not from her lair but across the hall. A door swung wide, revealing a gaunt man slouched against the frame—thirties, scruffy as a stray. Beard tangled into hair, a peony tattoo blooming on his hand.

"Who're you?" Chen Ge whirled, pulse quickening.

"That notice-plasterer? Not even a tenant—cracked up here." The man tapped his temple. "Don't swallow his rot, and steer clear."

First sighting of this lout, yet his casual air stood stark against the apartment's freaks. "His moves are queer, sure—grief's gnawed him hollow."

"He spin you that yarn—fiancée lost 'round here?"

"Aye."

"Fed you the police line—why he haunts this pit?"

"Aye."

A dry chuckle rasped from the man's throat. "Nine months I've festered here—no cop's shadow's crossed this threshold. Madman's lying—ghosts, too, eh?" He dangled a cigarette, unlit. "No spooks in this world—just tricksters in sheets. Night's closing—scramble back to your hole."

Chen Ge nodded thanks and climbed, mulling, One's a liar—but who? Lost in thought, he overshot to the third floor. A faded 3 scarred the wall; the flickering light above buzzed like a dying moth. The corridor sprawled—a wreckage of filth and char. Grime caked the floor, burn marks streaked like curses, and paint peeled in leprous flakes, revealing gashes beneath. Why leave this floor a ruin—funds dry, or something fouler?

Darkness swallowed the light. Chen Ge, seasoned by his haunt's shadows, stood unfazed, fishing for his phone's torch. A silhouette darted past—swift, silent. "Who's there?!" The beam pierced the void, but the figure had vanished. Footsteps echoed below—the landlord? Caught here, that curmudgeon might boot him out. He pocketed the phone and slunk back to the second floor.

Rounding the stairwell, a squat, plump man emerged from a room, basin in hand, humming a jaunty tune. Spotting Chen Ge, his jovial mask shattered—he bolted, melody snuffed. What's that about? Am I a ghoul? Back in 208, Chen Ge sprawled on the bed, clutching his pack. Not a sane soul here—any could be the killer.

The thought jolted him upright. "Hold on—the mission says 'party responsible,' singular or plural! Multiple murderers?" More killings, more culprits—need the old case's bones. He yanked out his phone. Wang Qi's ramblings bore fruit: Fu An Apartments, this place's prior skin.

Typing Jiujiang Fu An Apartments, pages scrolled before headlines clawed forth:

"Family of Four Slaughtered—Killer Vanished!"

"Fire or Foul Play? Fu An's Blaze Unraveled."

"Case in Case—Corpses Unearthed in Ruins!"

Chill seeped into Chen Ge's flesh. Real blood, real death—he slept in its cradle. Five years back, smoke had summoned firefighters to Fu An. They doused the blaze and probed its guts, expecting a mundane spark. But clues twisted the tale: cracked cement, shattered glass, soot-black ceilings—marks of a fierce, swift inferno. Multiple origins, scattered wide—arson's signature.

Police swarmed, unearthing four charred husks—the family who'd run the place. The case roared through Jiujiang, but flames had devoured proof. No fifth soul surfaced; the killer slipped free. Sealed a year, the estate passed to the owner's father, reborn as Ping An—a mocking balm. Four burned alive, murderer loose—no wonder it's cursed. Clarity steadied him—he knew the beast he faced.

A detail snagged: Owner was 41 when torched. Father inherited—should be 60s, 70s now.