Unlocking a New Scenario

A battered wooden table bore the detritus of haste—used cotton swabs, crusted with grime, a half-drunk bottle of mineral water, its label peeling like old skin, and an unopened bun, stale and forlorn. Chen Ge slumped across from a young officer, the air heavy with the tang of antiseptic and tension. The officer set down his recorder with a soft clack and slid his phone forward, a grainy photo glowing on the screen. "This the bloke you saw?"

Chen Ge peered at the image—several men striding from a building, caught mid-step. The tallest loomed, a peony tattoo blooming vivid on his hand. "Aye, that's him—spot on."

"Peony's a gambler's mark—wealth and luck in Chinese lore," the officer said, voice clipped as a prefect's reprimand. "Name's Zhang Peng. A cardsharp dodging a debt—hundreds of thousands in RMB. Robbery, mugging—he's got a rap sheet thick as a troll's hide." He swiped to another shot, this one snatched from a traffic cam. Zoomed tight, it framed a driver—pudgy, frantic, eyes darting like a cornered kneazle. "How about this one?"

Chen Ge squinted—ninety percent a match to the fat man from the apartment. "Familiar, yeah."

"Matches your tale. Traffic records peg him as Feng Chunlei—out-of-towner. Hit-and-run, drunk driving—nasty piece of work." The officer stowed his phone, shuffling papers like a deck of cursed cards. "That's all I need for now, Mr. Chen, but you're not free to scarper. Main City's investigation squad'll be here soon—want a deeper chew of your story. You're our lone witness—hope you'll play nice."

"Course," Chen Ge muttered, sinking onto the cot, its springs groaning like a ghost's lament. Relief seeped in, slow and shaky. Hours back, Western Jiujiang's precinct had jolted alive—a call shrieking murder at Ping An Apartments. The cops swarmed, intercepting Chen Ge on the road, wild-eyed and waving. Quick questions split them—one team trailed him to the shack to nab Wang Qi, the other plunged into the forest after the tenants. At the wooden house, only a slick of blood greeted them—crimson and fresh—Wang Qi vanished like a wisp of smoke.

The clothes, the gore—it clinched their trust in Chen Ge's mad tale. Radios crackled, summoning reinforcements to cordon the mountain, a net for the fleeing killer. As the sole thread tying this nightmare, Chen Ge got a guard tighter than a Gringotts vault. They'd pushed to haul him to the station, but the black phone's mission loomed—a specter in his mind. Stay, finish it. He'd dug in, claiming more clues hid in Ping An's bones, demanding his statement be taken there, tethered to the cursed flats.

Flanked by four officers—two inside, stern as gargoyles, two outside the door like sentinels—Chen Ge sprawled on the creaking cot, its damp stench a faint echo of the night's horrors. The black phone's mission ticked on, a spectral clock he couldn't shake. He waited, eyes tracing the cracked ceiling, for the ordeal's end.

At 3 a.m., the door groaned open, hinges wailing like a banshee's lament. A middle-aged officer strode in—forties, grizzled, cap tucked under his arm. He snatched the water bottle from the table, gulping it down in greedy swigs, droplets glistening on his stubbled chin. "Uncle Sanbao, that's mine," Chen Ge grumbled, hauling himself upright. Lee Sanbao—Western Jiujiang's deputy head, and the man who'd once fished Chen Ge from the abyss after his parents vanished—shot him a mock glare.

"You lippy git, how many times've I said—no 'Uncle Sanbao'? It's Superintendent Lee, or Inspector if you're feeling posh." He plonked the bottle down, a grin tugging at his weathered face. "I'll let it pass—this time. You've done a cracking deed, lad."

Chen Ge swung his legs off the bed. "Caught him, then?"

"Damn right—don't doubt the investigation crew. Nabbed Wang Qi, plus the apartment rabble. Only Zhang Peng's still loose—slippery sod." Lee Sanbao adjusted his cap, voice brisk as a spell snapped off a wand.

"Brilliant!" Chen Ge's shoulders eased, a knot unwinding.

"They've dug up Wang Qi's fiancée—poor lass's with the forensic lot now, getting poked at. Got questions? Spit 'em out—I'm off soon, other fires to douse." Inspector Lee was there for the good word, a rare visitor in this grim tale.

"Zhang Peng and Feng Chunlei—fugitives, sure. What about the other two?" Chen Ge didn't hesitate, curiosity sharp.

"The woman's Zhang Peng's wife—harboring a crook, at worst. Landlord's trickier. Started as a caretaker, got greedy, teamed up to snatch the old man's digs. No torture marks on the senior, though—no scars we could spot," Lee Sanbao said, jamming his cap back on. "Why the interest?"

"Just wondering," Chen Ge quipped, flashing a grin cribbed from He San—guileless, bright. "Heard aiding the law bags rewards, though?"

"Banner and badge'll come by post when it's wrapped—ta-ra!" Lee Sanbao turned for the door.

"Oi, hang on, you git!" Chen Ge yelped.

The young officer by the table chuckled, a dry snort. "Inspector's yanking your chain. If Wang Qi's pinned as the arsonist from four years back, you're in for 30,000 RMB—local treasury's purse, not ours. Plus, the old man once chucked 5,000 RMB on the table for any lead on his kin's murder."

"Cash, really?" Chen Ge's lips curled, eyes glinting like a niffler scenting gold. "Asked for kicks, mind. Wasn't about the coin—preserving our fair city's peace is honor enough."

The young officer smirked, saying nothing, and resumed his post at the door, a silent sentinel in the flickering light.

After the investigation team grilled him—questions sharp as curses— the officers offered to whisk Chen Ge home, their patrol car idling like a steadfast hippogriff. But the black phone's mission gnawed at him, an unbreakable hex. He spun excuse after excuse, digging his heels into Ping An's cursed soil. "Need my gear from Room 408," he'd mutter, or, "Let me tag along to the third floor—eye the crime scene proper." Anything to linger. He clung there 'til 6 a.m., a sentinel in the gloom, unmoving until the black phone buzzed—a spectral chime—and flashed: Mission Completed. Only then did he slump into the police car, its leather seats creaking like an old tome.

Staring out the window, the world blurred past—trees and rooftops streaking like a potion's swirl—yet exhaustion didn't touch him. Adrenaline still hummed, a dark thrill. He slipped the black phone from his pocket, its sleek menace glinting under the dawn's frail light, and thumbed through the reward, breath hitching at the words.

"Player reached the Mission Location on time, unmasked the murderer, and endured 'til dawn. Trial Mission, Murder by Midnight, successful! New scenario unlocked: manipulate props within the set via the phone's interface!"

A grin flickered—his Haunted House would feast on this nightmare. But the screen scrolled on:

"Trial Mission completion rate exceeds ninety percent. Congratulations—hidden item unlocked: Wang Qi's Missing Person Notice."

"Wang Qi's Missing Person Notice (11 Malice Points): Every day I hunt the love I slew. I kill her, again and again, yet she tracks me down. Each morn, her trinkets greet me in my bed—clothes, whispers, shadows. I entombed her in the wall, but she's burrowed into my heart."

The words sank in, cold as a dementor's kiss. Chen Ge's fingers tightened around the phone, the cabin's junkyard hoard flashing in his mind—those moldy rags, the "Save me!" pleas. Wang Qi's madness wasn't just guilt—it was a haunting, a curse woven into his soul. The notice pulsed with malice, a trophy as much as a warning, promising new terrors for his haunt—and perhaps for him.