The Great Dumbbell Uprising

The doctors and orderlies were on high alert, treating the situation with all the delicacy of coaxing children out of a tantrum.

The children in question? Lin Fan and Old Zhang—two notorious veterans of the psychiatric ward.

"We want this!" Lin Fan declared.

"And we must get it!" Old Zhang added, puffing out his chest with the pride of a revolutionary leader, eager for everyone to recognize his role in the movement.

The medical staff huddled like nervous diplomats.

"What is it they want exactly?"

"From the look of it," one whispered, squinting at the scribbles, "that 'O—O' might be two boiled eggs and a sausage."

"The '0'… thinner than the others. Maybe a quail egg?"

"Ah, I see! It's food they want."

Working in a psychiatric facility had rewired their minds. Every problem, no matter how bizarre, eventually came back to one root cause: snacks.

A seasoned doctor, full of self-belief and hot tea, stepped forward. After a dignified sip from his thermos, he cleared his throat.

"We understand your demands," he announced diplomatically. "And we will meet them. Each of you will receive two boiled eggs, one sausage, and a quail egg."

The crowd of patients erupted in celebration.

"Boiled eggs! Boiled eggs!"

"Sausage!"

"What's a quail egg?"

"You idiot—it's an egg from a quail."

"Ohhh… cool!"

None of them had the slightest idea what they were demanding.

They just knew it was fun.

They were following Lin Fan and Old Zhang for the excitement—and now they were getting snacks. Bliss.

But then—

"We don't want those," Lin Fan called out.

"We want this!" Old Zhang insisted, pointing to the scrawled images on their makeshift protest signs.

The veteran doctor frowned. The first few symbols were somewhat decipherable… but the last one? Utter gibberish.

"What is it you want, exactly?"

"This!" Lin Fan and Old Zhang replied in unison.

"But what is it?"

"This."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Just this."

"…Right. But what is it?"

"This!"

A silence fell across the hallway.

The doctor's face slowly fell, the confidence he'd built over twenty years of psychiatric experience evaporating like mist.

He looked at his thermos.

For a fleeting moment, he considered smashing it against his own skull.

Who am I?

Where am I?

Why… am I still in a psychiatric hospital?!

A young orderly gently patted his back. "Uncle, it's not your fault."

And truly—it wasn't.

No one could blame him.

This was simply impossible communication.

They could just say what they wanted… but no, they insisted on chanting this, this, this like some kind of absurdist ritual.

"Director's here!"

Hope returned like a divine wind.

Director Hao—their beacon, their last line of sanity in a place built on madness.

In their eyes, there was no patient he could not reach.

Director Hao arrived, his silver hair shining under the hallway lights. His face was grave, but as he approached, he straightened his posture and smiled faintly.

It was the smile of a weary warrior.

The kind of smile that said: It's okay. I've survived worse.

"Director," a doctor approached him, breathless. "Lin Fan and Old Zhang are demanding something they drew. We don't know what it is. They just keep repeating 'this' again and again."

"I see," Hao nodded. "Let me try."

He stepped forward, maintaining a safe distance.

Never let their innocent faces fool you.

Close contact was a risk.

Always.

"What is it you want?" he asked calmly.

"This!" they chorused, pointing to the drawings.

A pair of eyes.

A circle.

That's it.

We want O—O, and 0.

…What the actual hell.

Anyone else in his position would have lost their mind. But not Hao.

He remained composed—on the outside.

Because inside?

He was screaming.

If someone could understand what these drawings meant, it wouldn't be proof of brilliance.

It would be a red flag, a massive red flag, prompting a swift recommendation for a padded room, lifelong observation, and an honorary ID card for the institution.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "But this can't be done."

"We want this!" Lin Fan and Old Zhang repeated, their voices in perfect harmony. Their spirits, unified. Their will, unshakable.

The others joined in—

"We want this! We want this!"

Director Hao sighed.

His March 1st birthday had turned into a riot.

No peace. No joy. No cake.

Just chants of this, this, this ringing in his ears.

He thought of his age.

His job.

His future—or lack thereof.

Once, long ago, he had faced a career choice.

Prison warden or psychiatric director.

He chose… poorly.

Had he picked the prison, he could've called in the guards, ordered them to break out the stun batons, and beat the chaos out of the situation.

But here?

They were all vulnerable patients.

You couldn't beat a psychiatric patient.

You couldn't even shout.

Worse, psychiatric patients were terrifying.

You never knew what they'd do next.

Some would turn on the gas and light a cigarette, ready to blow everyone sky-high just to prove a point.

Others would calmly stab themselves first—just to see if the knife was sharp enough—before coming for you.

He'd read the case studies.

He knew the horror stories.

True madness always tests itself first.

The situation was spiraling.

Time for retreat.

"Fine!" Director Hao shouted. "Give it to them!"

"Xiao Li, go and get it."

"…Get what, sir?" asked Dr. Li, stunned.

"The dumbbell and the sandbag."

Only Director Hao could interpret this madness.

Only he could make sense of O—O and 0.

And in that moment, he felt so very… alone.

If anyone out there could hear him—

If anyone could spare a little help—

Director Hao swore:

"I, Director Hao, would thank your ancestors for eighteen generations."

(End of Chapter)