Chapter 154: Mental Illness Rehabilitation Center
The members of Liu Dao’s studio gathered around Chen Ge, none of them speaking, all unsure of what to say.
Finally, Liu Dao stepped forward: “You need to be careful tonight. Safety first. We took a look around that mental hospital during the day.”
“You went? Any findings?” Chen Ge stared at Liu Dao, making him a bit uncomfortable.
“We circled the outside but didn’t dare go in… However, I managed to get the rehabilitation center’s floor plan online, supposedly drawn by a patient who stayed there.” Liu Dao opened a file on his computer, revealing a very rough map.
“The rehabilitation center has three buildings, clustered together, reportedly connected internally.”
“The first and second wards house regular patients, with exits facing the sunny side. The third ward is more mysterious—a closed-off area for dangerous patients, with exits facing away from the sun.”
“You need to be especially careful with that third ward. According to the online patient’s description, it’s a restricted zone in the hospital, strictly off-limits to other patients. If anyone from the regular wards is caught sneaking in, they face severe punishment.”
“If you ask me, don’t go to the third ward during your livestream tonight. Take it slow; the first two wards are plenty to explore.”
Liu Dao turned the computer screen toward Chen Ge, letting him memorize the route.
“Is the third ward special? Did you find more detailed info online?” Chen Ge stared at the screen, his expression serious.
“Not much, and it’s all pretty far-fetched. You can tell it’s made up. Some say a patient killed a doctor in that closed ward, and it took days for it to come to light. Others claim the ward doesn’t house people at all—just ghosts and monsters.” Liu Dao let out a dry laugh. “Sounds fake, right?”
Closing the computer, everyone present noticed a shift in Chen Ge’s demeanor. He seemed worried about something.
“Let’s adjust the cameras. We don’t have much time.” Chen Ge slung on his backpack, fitted the chest-mounted mini camera, wrist micro-camera, and microphone, confirmed everything was working, and headed out of the tent.
“If you’re really scared and can’t handle it, just turn back. And remember to mark your path. Set my number to speed dial.” Liu Dao called after him. “I’ll call you a minute before you go live. You’ll be able to see the stream on your own phone. One last thing—no one’s ever been inside that place. Who knows what’s hidden there. Stay safe!”
Chen Ge hadn’t expected Liu Dao to say so much. He stopped at the tent entrance and, in front of everyone, set Liu Dao’s number to speed dial.
He waved at them: “Stay in the tent tonight. Don’t go anywhere. No matter what you see or hear, don’t come looking for me. Got it?”
“But what if…”
“You handle the logistics. Leave the livestream to me.”
One man and one cat entered the dense forest, darkness swallowing their figures.
Watching Chen Ge and the white cat disappear, Li Jie, who had been questioning Chen Ge earlier, crossed her arms over her chest and muttered to herself, barely audible: “That kid’s got a pretty cool silhouette.”
Facing a scenario with a scream index of three stars, Chen Ge was more nervous than anyone. He knew the danger of this place, and he knew that Liu Dao’s final warnings were likely true.
Some things weren’t fabricated by patients—maybe they were labeled patients precisely because they saw what others couldn’t.
Following the map in his memory, Chen Ge reached the edge of the forest, where a dilapidated, connected building came into view.
“This mental hospital covers a lot of ground.” He’d initially assumed it was a small private facility with poor conditions and few patients, but upon arrival, he realized how wrong he was.
The hospital was surrounded by dense forest, with only one entrance, sealed off by a gate. The concrete wall blocked his view of more details.
Drawing closer, Chen Ge noticed something unsettling.
The rehabilitation center’s concrete walls were covered in incoherent sentences. Each one shared a common trait: they all included a person’s name.
At first, Chen Ge tried to memorize the names in the sentences, but he soon gave up—there were too many, and the names rarely repeated.
“Did they write every patient’s name on the wall?” He didn’t understand the meaning of these sentences, only felt a vague unease.
“These sentences couldn’t have been written by a sane person. What are they trying to say?” Staring at the wall, Chen Ge felt an inexplicable dread, as if each sentence was a curse. “White Tiger, don’t stray too far from me.”
Only when no one was around did Chen Ge dare call the white cat by its name so freely.
After approaching the rehabilitation center, the white cat showed clear hostility. This cat, highly sensitive to unclean things, seemed to have sensed something.
“Don’t panic. We’ve got some tricks up our sleeves too.” Chen Ge raised the rooster with its legs tied, and tucked a tool hammer into his belt.
He didn’t rush to enter. He waited until Liu Dao called.
“Equipment’s running fine, the feed is stable. The livestream has started. You can check it on your phone.”
“Got it.” Chen Ge logged into the platform and first saw Qin Guang’s livestream ad. He clicked in to take a look. Qin Guang and his team had run into a minor mishap outside Muyang Middle School—it seemed the car carrying their streaming gear had veered into a nearby wasteland. Qin Guang was apologizing to viewers, saying his driver had just seen a ghostly figure pressing against the windshield.
“These guys actually went to Muyang Middle School. Guess he didn’t take my warning seriously. Still, Qin Guang’s apology is drawing 400,000 viewers—can’t underestimate him.” Chen Ge then entered his own livestream. The platform’s promotion seemed to be working; the viewer count had shot up to 25,000 in no time.
The stream was split-screen. The main screen showed the high-definition camera on his chest, with a stable, high-quality feed.
In the bottom-left corner was a smaller screen from the wristband camera, like a watch, free to move. Raising his arm, he could capture his own body.
“Ten at night. Time to start the livestream.”
He aimed the wrist camera at himself, watching the rapidly scrolling comments on his phone screen: “Never thought I’d be doing something this crazy late at night.”
Placing the white cat and backpack on the wall, Chen Ge climbed over and entered the Third Mental Illness Rehabilitation Center.