Chapter Thirty — Burn My Face

After the click of the latch dissipated in the empty multimedia building, Shen Mo’s knuckles pressed against the briefcase clasp; his fingertips could feel the residual body heat on the metal surface—the strange vibration transmitted through the evidence bag when the cassette moved just moments ago.

He glanced at his watch. It was 2:17 AM; Old Chen at the forensic evidence laboratory should have arrived for his shift.

The glass door of the lab clicked open under the fingerprint scanner, spilling out cold white light mingled with the scent of disinfectant.

Old Chen was just emerging from the locker room, clutching a thermos. His eyebrows knotted immediately upon seeing the briefcase in Shen Mo’s hand. "Forensic Pathologist Shen, what kind of 'treasure' have you brought this time? The mass spectrometer is still throwing a tantrum over the ashes from that spontaneously combusted corpse last week."

Shen Mo placed the briefcase on the workbench. The moment the metal clasp opened, the cassette inside the evidence bag suddenly emitted a faint, rustling "hiss."

Old Chen’s thermos clattered to the floor, and a brown tea stain bloomed on the tiles like a malformed flower.

"This thing..." He backed away half a step, hitting the fume hood, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "The security office saw shadows flickering on the third floor last night and thought it was a stray cat—turns out it was you causing a stir with this relic?"

"Spectral analysis." Shen Mo took out the cassette, pinching the edge through his rubber gloves. "Focus on the magnetic powder composition." He paused, then added, "Add a test for neural protein residue."

Old Chen’s reading glasses slid to the tip of his nose, his clouded eyes squinting into slits. "You’re casting a wide net. Magnetic powder is an industrial product; what could it possibly have to do with neural proteins?"

"Extreme emotions release stress-related substances." Shen Mo’s thumb unconsciously stroked the scale on the edge of the workbench. "If the cassette is a container, it might not be holding images, but..." He cut himself off, staring at Old Chen’s increasingly pale face. "We'll know after the tests."

Seven hours later, when the analysis report was slapped down in front of Shen Mo, the paper made a crisp sound.

Old Chen didn't dare enter the office, merely poking his head in from the doorway. "There’s S100β protein in the magnetic powder, matching the stress markers secreted by the human brain during extreme depression. The quantity isn't large, but..." He swallowed hard, "it aligns with the data from the psychological evaluation reports of those students from back then."

Shen Mo’s pupils contracted slightly.

He recalled the overlapping shadows on Xiao Wu’s computer yesterday—it wasn't a simple image duplication; it was emotional resonance taking root at the data layer.

His finger traced the words "data cycle reinforcement" on the report, and the tip of his fountain pen left a heavy ink blot on the "Termination Protocol" column: This footage must be completely "terminated," not replicated.

The scent of disinfectant in the nursing home was even thicker than in the lab.

Professor Zhou’s hospital bed was cranked up thirty degrees. The old man’s hands rested on the sheets like withered branches, and when he saw Shen Mo, those branches began to tremble violently.

"Xiao Shen..." His voice was breathy. "You shouldn't have come."

Shen Mo slammed the medical record onto the nightstand, the cover striking the blood pressure monitor with a metallic "ding." "When the chemistry building exploded back then, the student was knocked unconscious by experimental exhaust before falling. To protect your research project, you claimed he had depression." He flipped open the copy of the autopsy report, the conclusion of "no external trauma, no poisoning" on the yellowing pages stinging the eyes. "My report became your fig leaf."

Professor Zhou’s Adam’s apple worked, and tears flowed down his wrinkles, soaking into the pillow in dark traces. "I never thought... a recording could come alive. That day, he was holding the camera, filming the experiment, saying he wanted to 'record the most authentic process.' Later, the tape kept playing on a loop in the classroom, and the students would cry, they would shake..." He suddenly grabbed Shen Mo’s wrist, his nails digging into the skin. "It recognizes you! You are just like him—the second button of your lab coat is always left unfastened!"

Shen Mo pulled his hand back sharply, red marks instantly appearing on his wrist.

He stared at the old man’s trembling lips, suddenly remembering the "himself" on the multimedia building’s surveillance footage—the second button of the lab coat had indeed been loose, even though he had fastened it tight that morning.

"It didn't come alive." His voice was like an ice pick. "It is a debt you owe, and it is settling it for you."

***

When he left the nursing home, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

A message from Su Wan-ying popped up: "The equipment in the multimedia building is set up—high-speed cameras and infrared thermal imagers. Do we need to bring incense and candles?"

He stared at the word "incense" on the screen, recalling Su Wan-ying saying that folk methods for handling malevolent objects required an "information funeral"—using specific identity markers to sever the anchor of the lingering echo.

His fingertip paused on the keyboard for two seconds before replying: "Bring his student ID number and the dates of his birth and death."

The hinges of the multimedia building groaned in the twilight.

Su Wan-ying stood in the center of the lecture hall holding a sandalwood box. Warm yellow light filtered through her hair, illuminating the words "Lin Zhaoyuan 2003-2007" on the lid.

"Provided by his undergraduate roommate." She opened the box and took out a yellowed student ID. The boy in the photo wore black-rimmed glasses and had a small mole at the corner of his mouth. "The last page of his diary reads: 'I am not a failure... I have merely been dissected.'"

Shen Mo’s fingers gently brushed the frayed edges of the student ID, where traces of having been torn and taped back together remained.

He placed the cassette into a quartz crucible, and denatured alcohol flowed slowly along the walls of the vessel, glowing amber in the setting sun.

"Let's begin."

Su Wan-ying’s voice was as light as a sigh, yet it struck the walls clearly: "Lin Zhaoyuan, student ID 0317024, enrolled September 2003, deceased March 17, 2007." With every word, she sprinkled a handful of mugwort powder into the crucible. The light green powder fell onto the alcohol like a thin blanket over a fire. "May your obsession find a place to rest; may your image cease its cycle."

The metallic click of a lighter exploded in the classroom.

The moment the blue flames leaped up, all the surveillance monitors simultaneously lit up with static.

A chill crept up the back of Shen Mo’s neck—it wasn't the wind; it was countless gazes piercing through the screens, pinning themselves to his back.

"It's here." Su Wan-ying’s flashlight beam swept toward the camera in the corner, the intense light creating a burst of noise in the footage.

The static on the screens abruptly coalesced into a shadow: a lab coat, a loose second button, black-rimmed glasses—overlapping with the Lin Zhaoyuan on the student ID and the "Shen Mo" on the surveillance, forming a blurred, humanoid shape.

"It’s looking for the source of the fire." Shen Mo gripped the iron tongs. The flame in the crucible was pushed to one side by the airflow whipped up by the shadow.

He could hear the sound of the magnetic tape curling in the fire, like someone screaming in agony.

The shadow’s hand reached out through the screen. The moment its fingertips touched the flames, a sound like shattering glass rang out, but it immediately reassembled and continued to reach forward.

"Use the thermal imager!" Su Wan-ying turned her flashlight to another monitor. Amidst the noise, the shadow in the infrared display appeared as a blinding red. "Its energy comes from emotion; the intense light can cut the signal!"

The flames began to flicker.

Cold sweat beaded on Shen Mo’s forehead; he could barely hold the iron tongs.

The shadow’s face pressed against the screen, its features twisted into a blurry mass, but those eyes—pitch-black, bottomless—were fixed intently on the crucible in his hands.

***

The next second, the shadow lunged from all the screens simultaneously.

From the projector on the left, the monitor on the right, and the old video player under the podium, the gray-white shadows surged forward like a tide. They struck Shen Mo, passing through his body, and rushed straight for the crucible.

Shen Mo instinctively used his body to shield the fire, but the moment he collided with the shadow, a blinding white light flashed before his eyes.

A rainy night.
A rooftop.
His mother’s sobbing pierced the curtain of rain: "Zhaoyuan, let’s stop studying, Mom will support you..."

The red stamp on the withdrawal notice magnified before his eyes; the words "Responsible Party for Experimental Accident" soaked in the rainwater, bleeding into the color of fresh blood.

The cold glint of a scalpel reflected on Lin Zhaoyuan’s face. His hand holding the camera was shaking, and in the lens, the professor was shifting the blame onto him: "Xiao Lin hasn't been in a good state lately, everyone please bear with him..."

"This is not my memory!" Shen Mo roared, pressing down hard with the iron tongs.

The tape curled into a charred lump in the heart of the fire. "Give it back!"

All the equipment emitted a piercing, shrill whine simultaneously.

In its final breath, the shadow disintegrated into green pixels, as if pulled by an invisible hand, flowing backward into the video player.

The metal casing emitted a sizzling sound of melting, and the smell of burnt plastic mixed with the scent of mugwort, exploding into the air.

Shen Mo collapsed onto the floor, his temples throbbing.

Something was rampaging inside his brain, as if trying to tear it open.

He raised his hand unconsciously, his left index finger tracing crooked marks on the floor—"I am not a failure... I have merely been dissected."

"Shen Mo?" Su Wan-ying’s voice floated from a great distance.

He looked up and saw the worry in her eyes, saw his own reflection in the shattered surveillance screens, and saw the electronic advertisement screen outside the window suddenly flicker. A single frame flashed by for 0.1 seconds: it was his face, the corners of his mouth slowly curling upward, even though he clearly hadn't smiled.

"I burned it..." His voice was as raspy as sandpaper. "But why... do I feel like a piece of me is missing?"

Before he could finish, the throbbing in his temples turned into a dull, heavy ache.

His vision went black. The last things he heard were Su Wan-ying’s gasp and the buzzing of the electronic screen in the distance as it rebooted.