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墨書 Inktalez
At lunchtime the next day, the delivery cart appeared punctually at the stairway entrance on the west side of the teaching building. I hid in the shadow of the stairwell corner, watching as a figure wearing a mask and hat, their face obscured, pushed the cart up. A few minutes later, they returned empty-handed.
The cart was covered with a thick cloth, making it impossible to see what was inside. After school, I circled to the back of the building. The windows were tightly shut, and the curtains drawn closed. Occasionally, I could see the rooftop exhaust fan spinning silently. There were no special supplies being brought in; at least, I hadn’t seen any.
That smell of disinfectant mixed with a sickly sweet chemical odor still occasionally wafted down from above, carried by the wind. Now, just catching a whiff would send waves of nausea through my stomach.
The janitor, Old Zhang, pushed his large trash bin down that corridor every evening. His hair was graying, and he had a slight hunch; he was always taciturn. When he cleaned up trash from other floors, his movements were routine. But when he reached the west side of the top floor, especially near The Last Classroom, he would pause for a moment, his gaze seeming to scan the opening of the trash bag before donning heavy canvas gloves. Sometimes he would pull his old mask up higher on his face before tossing the bag into the bin. His movements were slower and more cautious than usual.
That night, I returned home and opened my computer. “XX Middle School Parent Group,” “Anonymous Campus Forum”... I typed in some keywords, hoping to find a clue—perhaps other parents had noticed something amiss or students who had experienced similar “tutoring” and regretted it.
Most of what popped up on the screen were posts praising the school or expressing admiration for its strict management. Occasionally, there were complaints about excessive homework and overwhelming pressure, but these quickly got buried.
I took out a new notebook and flipped to the first page.
“September 15th, clear. At 5:20 PM, west side of the top floor; smelled chemicals, nausea intensified. During evening study session, recited the English word ‘ambition’ three times; in the next moment my mind went blank—I couldn’t remember it. Watched streetlights outside flicker repeatedly; slight dizziness.”
“September 17th, overcast. Old Zhang cleaned up trash on the top floor wearing a double-layer mask. In the cafeteria at noon, saw rotating food display; dizziness worsened with slight tinnitus.”
I closed the notebook. The next day on my way to the teaching building, I caught a glimpse of Wang Yan’s figure flash past a window in the Administrative Building. Since then, I felt as if there was a gaze fixed upon me from behind.
When I turned around to look, there was nothing there—only the rustling of leaves in the wind and distant murmurs from the playground.
The air on campus grew increasingly oppressive. Some parents began to look at me differently; their initial unfriendly glances turned into open wariness and rejection.
"... I heard that Zhou Ran is not in good spirits, always lost in thought..."
"... Yeah, we mustn't let him affect our child..."
These words occasionally drifted into my ears.
One day, as I passed by Teacher Li's office, the door was slightly ajar. I inadvertently caught a glimpse of a document on his desk titled "Summary of the Positive Guidance Program for Enhancing Student Focus."
My heart skipped a beat. Taking advantage of the moment when no one was around, I quickly scanned it. The pages were filled with terms like "scientific meditation," "potential activation," and "positive psychological suggestion."
In the following days, new rumors began to circulate around the school about The Last Classroom.
"... I heard it's the latest technology imported from abroad to help students concentrate..."
"... Yes, it uses a special meditation method, and the results are particularly good..."
These conversations left me puzzled.
Could it be that I was overthinking things?
But I quickly realized. The voice from Chen Shuo's U Disk, those photos, and my own physical reactions... they were definitely not part of any "positive guidance."
Wang Yan was misleading me and testing me at the same time.
During chemistry class, when I opened a bottle of disinfectant, the familiar pungent smell made me frown, but that was all.
Since it lacked the sweet, nauseating scent of chemical agents, my reaction wasn't severe.
However, in the evening, as I walked past the corridor on the west side of the teaching building again—
A gust of wind blew from deep within the hallway, carrying an unusually strong mix of disinfectant and that sickly sweet chemical smell.
It was more intense than ever before.
The moment the odor hit me, my stomach churned violently, and a wave of nausea surged up my throat.
Everything went black for a moment, followed by a rapid flash of a blurred image: a pale arm, a cold needle piercing through skin...
I stumbled slightly and leaned against the wall; cold sweat instantly soaked my shirt. That hallucination lasted only a second or two but left me nearly drained.
Just when I felt I could barely hold on any longer, an email appeared in my unused anonymous inbox.
Sender: "A Desperate Father."
The email was brief, yet it conveyed a deep sense of fear and oppression.
"…I heard that you were warned multiple times by Director Wang regarding 'That Classroom'… you are the only one who still has 'spirit'..."
To verify the identity, there was an attachment containing a heavily pixelated photo, revealing only a glimpse of a thin wrist covered in numerous dark purple bruises.
There was also a three-second audio clip. The voice had been altered, making it nearly unrecognizable, but two words stood out with chilling clarity:
"Format… Obey…"
I put on my headphones, and those cold words pierced through my ears.
At the end of the email, my father wrote in trembling handwriting: "Save my child, and save yourself! I know far more than this! If you are willing to believe me, please reply and provide a safe contact method."
I stared at the screen, my fingers feeling icy.
"Format…"
"Obey…"
What was happening behind that tightly closed door?
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