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墨書 Inktalez
The sound of heels clicking against the tiled floor echoed down the empty corridor, like a countdown timer reverberating in the midnight stillness. I curled up inside the rusty metal cabinet in the pharmacy room, my back soaked with pus and blood that had seeped through the bandages, trailing a sticky path down my spine. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the metallic scent clawed at my throat, and the glass vial pressed painfully against my ribs. The blue serum injected three days ago still burned in my veins, as if countless centipedes were gnawing at my marrow.
“Miss Xia, it’s time for your check-up.” The static crackle of the intercom was wrapped in the hoarse voice of a man in black, like a rusty saw cutting through nerves. I stared at the glowing green hands of my watch; with each tick, my stomach twisted tighter. As shadows in black tactical gear flickered past the corridor monitors, I counted the dark red tattoos on the napes of their necks—037, 052, 094—three numbers etched into my memory like tombstones.
Suddenly, a distorted groan echoed from the ventilation duct, resembling the dying gasp of a man. The moment I burst open the cabinet door, a steel shelf collapsed with a thunderous crash, sending shards of glass scattering under the moonlight like diamonds. A sharp pain shot through my calf, causing me to stumble and fall to the ground. The scent of blood mixed with a burnt odor—indeed, they had implanted a self-igniting device in the tracking chip. Flames burrowed into my flesh through the wound as I tore off my lab coat to wrap around it; the fabric was instantly stained dark red.
The loud bang of the fire door on the seventh floor shook my eardrums, dust from the walls raining down onto my shoulders.
“Patient in bed 207 is exhibiting hallucinations; we need to double the sedative.” Footsteps split into three as they echoed down the stairwell, rubber soles scraping against the ground like a snake flicking its tongue. I yanked off a lab coat hanging at the nurse's station to cover my head. When I knocked over a saline solution bottle, it shattered with a crisp sound, and the cold liquid spilled over my feet, reminding me of that year when I was sixteen.
That was when I was first pinned to an operating table; the director said I needed an appendectomy. The moment the anesthesia mask was placed over my face, I caught a glimpse of his nails caked with soot, like an ancient corpse's stain. Later, I learned that what was taken that day was not an inflamed appendix at all.
The emergency lights in the fire escape suddenly went out, darkness flooding in from all sides. I groped along the wall towards the rooftop, fingertips brushing against nail fragments left by last year's jumper; those raised scratches still oozed with long-dried bloodstains. The iron door to the top floor stood ajar, moonlight frosting over the plaque reading "Dean's Office," and a decaying scent of gardenias wafted through the crack.
Documents lay scattered across the floor; atop them was a diagnosis signed with last week's date. Beneath the red stamp reading "Dissociative Identity Disorder" lay an organ transplant consent form with my brother's name glaringly listed as the beneficiary. Blood dripped onto the guardian's signature line, blurring it; my father's handwriting was just as neat as on that abandonment certificate from years ago—the same cold indifference evident in every stroke.
The night wind rushed in with a crash from the rooftop door as I perched on the railing, my school uniform skirt torn into shreds by gusts. Three black figures blocked the entrance; electric batons crackled with blue light illuminating their silver masks. Sirens blared below as red and blue lights flickered among clouds—whether coincidence or death knell remained uncertain.
“Sister!” A scream pierced through the night sky; I turned to see my brother standing by a police car below. The second button on his uniform glinted under searchlights—that silver-plated button was something I bought with my first month's salary; he had blushed and said it was “too extravagant.” At that moment, all three men in black suddenly stepped back collectively; from this angle, I could clearly see their neck tattoos reappear—on number 037's neck was even a centipede-shaped scar.
As cold air rushed into my lungs, I faced the police car's camera and mouthed: Save me. From this height on twenty-eight floors up, it felt like mocking laughter—just like when I discovered that my bento box had been replaced with dog food at seven years old and cut holes into my adoptive father's suit—the shape of those holes mirrored exactly those bullet holes now marking that rooftop door.
The moment the sensation of weightlessness seized my insides, I heard a dull thud from the top floor as something heavy fell to the ground. I couldn't tell if it was those men in black or the deafening beat of my own heart. The sound of police sirens suddenly became sharp, and in a daze, I saw my brother frantically gesturing. The way he tucked his thumb inward was exactly like the man in the yellowed photograph from the director's drawer. The man in the photo wore a white lab coat and held a scalpel, with drops of blood falling to the floor, scorching marks left behind.
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