When Zong Ying rushed downstairs to the entrance, she was greeted only by a curtain of pouring rain.
An ambulance wailed its way into the emergency building, followed by a burst of noise and bustling activity, all swallowed by the rain and the night.
In her line of sight, there wasn't a single figure in a white shirt holding a black folding umbrella.
She had taken only 37 seconds to run down, yet the other party had vanished without a trace. Zong Ying even began to doubt whether she had hallucinated.
The ground grew wet so quickly that water splashed under passing wheels. The summer heat was utterly defeated by the sudden night rain, and a damp coolness seeped into the lobby.
Zong Ying took a few steps back, then turned and sat directly on the bench by the entrance, steadying her breath.
Outside, the sound of the ambulance faded, leaving only the relentless downpour. Fresh air flooded in, replacing the stagnant exhaustion in her body.
Most of the double-rowed lights flickered off abruptly, leaving only a few people moving about on the first floor. Zong Ying stretched out her legs, closed her eyes, and gradually her breathing slowed.
It felt as if she were climbing stairs, or perhaps treading on clouds—her steps unsteady yet somehow safe. But just as she moved forward, she suddenly missed her footing, jolting out of the dream as if her heart had plummeted to the ground.
She opened her eyes, her pulse racing, only to be startled by a sudden pat on her shoulder.
"Why are you sitting here?" It was Sheng Qiushi, returning from a consultation.
"Just came down for a smoke and accidentally dozed off," Zong Ying offered a flimsy excuse, leaning forward to prop her forehead on her hands.
Sheng Qiushi said, "You’ll catch a chill here. Don’t end up with a summer cold." He tucked his hands back into his white coat pockets and glanced at the easing rain outside. "Go home and sleep once the rain stops. For now, come upstairs and sit for a while."
Zong Ying didn’t feel like moving, but Sheng Qiushi waited patiently beside her until she was ready to get up.
"Your aunt may speak harshly, but that’s just how she is. Don’t take it to heart," he offered, trying to console her.
Zong Ying obliged with a simple, "Mm."
She stood and followed Sheng Qiushi upstairs. He asked if she had any rest during the day, and she leaned against the elevator wall, answering honestly, "On standby."
As the elevator doors opened, Sheng Qiushi glanced back at her and suddenly thought she resembled a machine—a state-operated machine in uniform.
When they pushed open the consultation room door, her aunt and Zong Yu’s mother were still there.
Perhaps having received some comfort, Zong Yu’s mother seemed much calmer, though her eyes were predictably red-rimmed. Seeing Zong Ying enter, she said in a thick, nasal voice, "Zong Ying, thank you."
Before Zong Ying could respond, her aunt interjected, "You scared me half to death when you suddenly ran out earlier!" She grumbled as if talking to herself, "Since you were little, you’ve always acted without telling anyone."
Sheng Qiushi shot Zong Ying a look, subtly gesturing toward a chair behind the computer desk for her to sit. He then pulled up a chair opposite the sofa and addressed the two family members, "This incident seems quite serious. The emergency department already had reporters earlier. Can Zong Yu’s father be notified now?"
"He’s abroad on business—how could he return immediately?" Her aunt wore a troubled expression, tinged with irritation. "Those reporters have nothing better to do. Why must such matters be dragged into public discussion? Who knows if it’ll affect the company."
As they murmured among themselves, Zong Ying paid little attention to the details of the matter.Her elbow accidentally bumped the mouse, lighting up the computer screen to reveal the long-unseen PACS system (Picture Archiving and Communication System) query terminal—already logged in with access permissions.
The imaging display showed Zong Yu's cranial examination scans in a 3×4 grid of twelve images. As she reviewed each one, she could confirm the extent of Zong Yu's brain injury—
Fortunately, nothing too serious.
Outside, the rain grew lighter. Zong Ying closed her eyes, deliberately tuning out the conversations in the room, and could distinctly hear the ticking of the quartz clock.
The rhythmic sound of the second hand quickened her pulse. The curve of her spine made breathing difficult, reminding her of the claustrophobic moment yesterday morning when she was pushed into the scanning machine.
She exhaled sharply in discomfort, then opened her eyes. Her hand, as if guided by some unseen force, clicked back to the query interface.
Sheng Qiushi suddenly turned his head and asked what she was doing.
Zong Ying entered the medical record number for precise filtering and smoothly retrieved her own MRI scans.
She replied, "Minesweeper."
The screen's glow was dim and uneven. Hidden within the unmarked, unenhanced raw images was a "verdict."
An experienced clinician could make a diagnosis from this alone.
Ten minutes later, the gaze that had been intently searching the screen gradually dimmed. Her neck, previously bent forward, slowly straightened. Zong Ying's shoulders slumped, her breath hitching for a moment in quiet despondency before she leaned back into the chair and clasped her hands together.
In the examination room on this summer night, an eerie chill crept up from the floor.
The surroundings seemed to fall silent all at once—even the ticking of the clock vanished—only for a sudden clamor to burst through the door.
Zong Ying looked up to see three people barging in, brandishing voice recorders and cameras with exaggerated urgency, demanding to interview those involved. Aunt and Zong Yu's mother were caught off guard. Sheng Qiushi stood abruptly, loudly ordering them out: "This is an examination room. No interviews here."
The one holding the recorder didn’t even introduce himself, heading straight for Zong Yu's mother and cutting to the chase: "Are you the family member of the deceased?"
"Deceased who?! Who the hell are you talking about?!" Aunt shoved him hard, but the man remained fixated on Zong Yu's mother, pressing on: "Are you the sister of the deceased Xing Xueyi? Why would Xing Xueyi take his nephew out in the middle of the night? Were you aware of this?"
The invasive probes of questioning were ruthless—a brutal, callous intrusion.
Aunt, furious, grabbed a paper cup from the coffee table and flung its contents at them: "Get out!"
The electronic shutter of a camera clicked. Sheng Qiushi stepped forward to block them, but one sharp-eyed reporter spotted Zong Ying sitting behind the computer desk.
Her light-blue uniform shirt stood out conspicuously. The man immediately aimed his lens at her, while another rushed over to ask, "Are you the officer in charge of this case?"
As the shutter clicked, Zong Ying turned her head away, grabbing a prescription pad to shield her face.
She frowned, refusing to answer, but the relentless shutter clicks continued. The barrage of questions that followed blurred into noise—she didn’t catch a single word.
Her mind craved undisturbed silence, yet she was forcibly thrust onto this chaotic interrogation platform. Every second was agony.
The security guards arrived belatedly. Though quiet was restored to the examination room, it was now strewn with disarray and lingering frustration.From the aggressive stance of the other party just now, Zong Ying realized this might not be just a simple traffic accident—it likely involved more complicated matters. But she had no energy to dwell on it now.
The clock showed 3:56 a.m. The rain had stopped, the night was pitch-black, and everyone’s face bore the numb exhaustion of overwork as they slumped in silence.
Zong Ying snapped back to attention, mustered her strength, and gripped the mouse. She selected her own retrieval record and deleted it.
Standing up, she pushed in her chair and said to Sheng Qiushi, "The rain’s stopped. I’ll head out first. Contact me if anything comes up."
Sheng Qiushi had intended to see her off, but when she reached the door, she said, "Emergencies can happen in the wards at any hour. You should stay here." With that, she pushed the door open with her body out of habit and slipped away without a sound.
The night was quiet, the ground still damp.
Turning left outside the hospital led to the road home. At a little past four in the morning, nearly all the shops along the street were locked up, except for the 24-hour convenience store diagonally across the road, glowing with warm white light like a transparent pantry.
A car sped past, splashing water loudly before vanishing just as quickly.
Zong Ying briskly crossed the pedestrian walkway and pushed open the convenience store door, setting off a chime.
"Welcome," the part-time night-shift student greeted mechanically, voice drained of energy.
Zong Ying grabbed a cup of instant noodles from the shelf and a bottle of water from the fridge. At the counter, she turned back and grabbed another cup.
"Thirteen forty," the clerk said curtly.
Zong Ying patted her pockets, realizing she hadn’t brought her wallet, so she had to pay with her phone. The screen showed 1% battery left—like her, it was barely hanging on.
After pouring hot water into the noodles, she sat at the green table by the window, where cold air blasted down relentlessly.
She twisted open the bottled drink and gulped down half in one go. Her empty stomach trembled like a shivering water pouch.
With no customers in sight, the clerks busied themselves discarding overcooked oden. One muttered, "This konjac is completely ruined, and this fish ball needs to go too," while the other filled out a disposal form. Once done, they bickered over who should clean the pot and change the broth.
Amid their petty squabbles, Zong Ying peeled back the foil lid. The pungent aroma of instant noodles rushed out eagerly.
The broth was scalding, topped with a thick layer of chili oil. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she ate, seemingly enjoying it, though her stomach protested. Still, she finished both cups.
At one point, Xue Xuanqing called. The phone screen lit up, stubbornly clinging to that 1% for twenty seconds before going dark—like a star winking out.
A full stomach truly felt carefree, as if all troubles and trivialities stayed outside the glass door.
Zong Ying sat in the convenience store for a long time, only realizing dawn was near when a delivery truck arrived with fresh rice balls and bread for the day.
The sky would always brighten eventually, and the city’s people would always wake to hustle for their livelihoods. Zong Ying got up and headed back to Apartment 699.
The apartment was close to the hospital, just a ten-minute walk. The air was fresh and damp. Early risers were already out—children buying breakfast, elderly men preparing for morning exercises. The far end of the street brightened leisurely, a scene of everyday life unchanged for a century.
Built in the 1930s, Apartment 699 was an L-shaped building with seven floors. Nestled in the city center, it offered quiet amid the bustle, having weathered wars and nearly a century of storms.In earlier years, Zong Ying's grandmother had lived here. After the grandmother went abroad with her youngest child, only Zong Ying remained, making this place her home.
Too busy to stay anywhere but her dormitory, she hadn’t returned to No. 699 for several days. Across the street, a French plane tree had shed a carpet of green leaves after a night of wind and rain.
The arched entrance was topped with square, stained-glass panels that cast colorful patterns on the ground when the sun shone.
Swiping her access card, she entered the building. The modern elevator had long replaced the 1930s original, and the dozens of residents had all moved in later.
Zong Ying lived on the top floor in an old duplex apartment, which had been extremely stylish and convenient in its time. The only drawback was the windows—narrow-framed and slender, leaving the apartment perpetually starved of sunlight, forever gloomy.
The hallway was filled with the homely scent of boiling rice porridge, but Zong Ying moved through it like a ghost from hell.
The moment she stepped inside, she had no energy left. The door slammed shut behind her, and after a few steps, she collapsed onto the sofa.
The curtains were tightly drawn, leaving the room in deep shadow. A few minutes later, Zong Ying slowly opened her eyes. Her first instinct, as usual, was to reach for the teacup on the side table.
Her mind must have been foggy, because she lifted the cup to her lips and drank without a second thought.
Her parched throat rejoiced at the water’s arrival—only for her to realize a horrifying truth moments later.
The water was hot.
Author’s Note:
Mr. No Rush: I boiled the water.
A few explanations:
In practice, when patients undergo imaging tests at hospitals, the images are usually uploaded to PACS within about a minute after the scan. Authorized terminals can access and view them immediately, though reports and films require further processing—selection, technical adjustments ("technical PS"), printing, and diagnosis by radiologists before they can be issued.
No. 699 Apartment is still inhabited today, with around sixty to seventy households. Nearby is a low-lying café—I often worry it might flood during heavy rain.
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