Party of More Than One?

The small room sagged under neglect, a wretched hollow where a leak wept from the ceiling, staining the walls with damp tendrils. Barred windows—planks nailed tight like a prisoner's cage—trapped the air, letting a rancid stench of festering mold bloom thick and heavy. It clawed at Chen Ge's throat, an unwelcome guest in his lungs. He stepped inside, boots scuffing the gritty floor, and peered at the wooden slats barring the glass. Unlike the room's decay, they gleamed faintly—unworn, fresh-hewn, as if hammered up mere days ago. Recent work in this ruin? Odd.

Just a guest room, stripped bare, he mused. The fire's wrath had gutted it—ruined furniture carted off, leaving an empty shell. Years gone—any clues would've rotted or vanished. He retreated, stepping back into the darkened corridor—a choked artery of trash and forsaken relics. Broken chairs, shredded cloth, and unnameable detritus sprawled like a hag's hoard, snagging his steps.

A man's rubbish mirrors his soul—could this mess whisper what I need? With a new spark, Chen Ge plunged into the filth, grimacing as the stink clawed deeper. An hour slogged by, his hands sifting through grime, until glints of oddity surfaced. Toy dolls? He frowned, hauling up four ragdolls from the muck. No children roamed among the tenants he'd met—whose were these? As a toy design alum, their shapes snared his eye; submerged in the trash sea, they'd have faded into oblivion otherwise.

Time-worn and fragile, the dolls bore stains like old blood and mold that crept over their forms like a plague. A careless tug risked spilling clumps of filthy wool. Chen Ge squinted, tracing their craftsmanship—each distinct, yet stamped by one maker. Ex-tenants of Ping An? He discarded the thought quick. Kids in this dump? Slim odds—and four dolls from one line, for one family? Nonsense. His old gig at a toy firm taught him the market's churn—these designs screamed years past, outdated relics.

Not new blood—then Fu An's original brood? The owner's two daughters flickered in memory. Theirs, maybe. But a snag loomed: Fire razed this place—how'd these survive? His pulse quickened. Coincidence, or… placed safe from the flames—by the killer? Why risk it—sentimental trinkets? The notion gnawed. He ripped open a doll's rusted zipper, fabric tearing like flesh. Nestled in the cotton, a card—palm-sized, a love note. Cheesy enough to curl his lip. Stashing confessions in dolls? Merlin's beard, that's soppy.

A shy killer, then—too meek to speak, gifting secrets in stitches. Curiosity flared; he gutted two more. Same deal—cards of cloying adoration. But the fourth? Ice slithered down his spine. No tender words—shredded paper spilled out, pieced together snarling: GO TO HELL! Love twisted to venom—something snapped between then and now, lost to him.

Killers' leavings—gold dust for proof. He pocketed scraps, poised to delve deeper, when—snap!—the stairwell's voice-activated light blazed on. Bloody hell—someone's climbing! Panic surged; he doused his phone's torch, snatched the dolls, and bolted to the nearest guest room. Breath held tight as a goblin's vault, he wedged behind the door, peering through the crack.

Footfalls grew—two voices drifted up, a man and a woman, sharp with urgency. "We've got to shift that thing soon—no more stalling," the man growled.

"The new tenant's been sniffing 'round the third floor," the woman hissed. "Good thing he turned tail at the stairs, or he'd have caught me."

"Too many fresh faces lately—we need it gone, quick."

"Aye."

"Round up the lot—tonight we dig it out, bury it up the hills."

An oil lamp's flicker bobbed with them—old-fashioned, casting a jaundiced glow. Chen Ge's gut lurched: the landlord and the first-floor woman, conspirators in the witching hour. What pulls them here now? He pressed flat against the wall, a shadow among shadows.

More boots thudded up—the tattooed lout and the fat man, swathed in black like reapers, lugging wires, a gunny sack, cleavers glinting cruel. What devilry's this? They clustered in the corridor, tension crackling like a storm brewing.

The fat man lagged, head bowed, grumbling, "Must we? Digging it up—our prints'll stick. How'll we talk our way out then?"

"Think it's a breeze now?" the landlord barked, eyes blazing like a troll's glare. "Quit whinging—move!"

"We should call the law," the fat man muttered, rooted.

The tattooed man lunged, seizing his collar with a snarl, "Gone daft? Craving death? Coppers'll pin us first—your hit-and-run, our squat on the old man's turf—all laid bare!"

"Honey, ease off," the woman cooed, her hand on his arm. "Same boat, us—don't sink it squabbling."

"No clean slates here," the landlord snapped, tossing an iron hammer to the fat man. "Found this cozy den after hard scrabble—cross us, and you'll regret it. You crack first."

"Me?" The fat man's face drained, sweat beading as he dragged the hammer, its scrape a dirge on the floor.

Chen Ge's unease swelled—Dig what up? The fat man shuffled to the corridor's end, shoving trash aside. Under the others' hawkish stares, he peeled back a curtain—hidden 'til now—revealing a cement wall, fortified, unyielding. Embedded within, a woman's form—back turned, entombed in gray, a silent scream in stone.