Chapter 18: Music Box and Footsteps

The cramped storage cabinet was suffocating, the air thick with dust and the faint smell of old wood. Jiang Yuxin’s heart pounded, not from fear but from the sheer audacity of Chen Dongyang shoving her into this confined space. Her wrist still burned where he’d grabbed her, his grip surprisingly strong for someone with a bandaged arm. She glared at him, her voice a low hiss.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Chen Dongyang pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes wide with panic. His face, illuminated by the faint glow of her phone, was ghostly pale, sweat beading on his forehead. “Quiet,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Someone’s coming.”

The footsteps grew louder, heavy and deliberate, echoing in the deserted corridor. Each step sent a jolt through Jiang Yuxin’s nerves, not because she was afraid—she wasn’t—but because Chen Dongyang’s reaction was so visceral, so unlike him. He wasn’t just scared; he was terrified.

She narrowed her eyes, her mental power still probing outward, but the corridor felt… empty. Her ability, usually so precise, returned nothing—no thoughts, no emotions, just a void. It was as if the person approaching didn’t exist in her mental landscape.

Her frown deepened. “There’s no one—”

“Shh!” Chen Dongyang’s grip on her wrist tightened, his breath ragged. “Trust me. Just… stay quiet.”

She yanked her wrist free, her patience thinning, but his expression stopped her from snapping back. His eyes darted toward the cabinet door, his body tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap. Whatever he was sensing, it was real to him.

The footsteps stopped just outside the music classroom.

Jiang Yuxin held her breath, her phone’s light dimmed to a faint glow. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards as someone—or something—shifted their weight. Then, a voice, low and guttural, barely audible through the cabinet door.

“You can’t hide forever.”

It wasn’t the same whisper from the restroom or the music room. This was different—deeper, heavier, laced with menace. Jiang Yuxin’s skin prickled, a rare flicker of unease stirring in her chest. She glanced at Chen Dongyang, whose eyes were fixed on the door, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitching.

The voice came again, closer now, as if the speaker were standing just outside the cabinet. “You’re too late.”

Jiang Yuxin’s mind raced. Her power was useless here—no thoughts to read, no minds to control. She reached out mentally again, probing deeper, but the void was absolute. It was like Chen Dongyang’s immunity, but… different. Colder. More deliberate.

Chen Dongyang’s hand trembled, his bandaged arm brushing against hers in the tight space. She could feel his pulse racing, his fear palpable. But there was something else in his eyes—recognition. He’d heard this voice before, or something like it.

The footsteps resumed, slow and deliberate, moving away from the classroom. Each step echoed fainter, until the silence returned, heavy and suffocating.

Jiang Yuxin waited, counting the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. No more footsteps, no more voices. She pushed the cabinet door open, ignoring Chen Dongyang’s whispered protest, and stepped out into the classroom.

The room was unchanged—the piano silent, the music box still in the drawer, the air thick with dust. But the atmosphere felt different, like the residue of something dark had settled into the walls.

She turned to Chen Dongyang, who was still half-crouched in the cabinet, his face pale and slick with sweat. “Explain,” she demanded, her voice sharp.

He stumbled out, his legs unsteady, and leaned against a desk. “I… I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I just… felt it. Something bad was coming.”

“Felt it?” Her eyes narrowed, her patience fraying. “Like you ‘felt’ the basketball would explode?”

He flinched, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s not like that. It’s… hard to explain.”

“Try,” she said, stepping closer, her voice low and dangerous. “You dragged me into a cabinet, Chen Dongyang. You’re terrified, and you know more than you’re saying. So talk.”

He met her gaze, his eyes conflicted. For a moment, she thought he might crack, spill whatever secret he was guarding so fiercely. But then his expression hardened, a spark of defiance flaring.

“I just had a bad feeling,” he said, his voice steadier now. “That’s all.”

She studied him, her power brushing uselessly against his mind. He was a wall, impenetrable, and it infuriated her. But she saw the fear lingering in his eyes, the way his hands trembled despite his bravado. He wasn’t lying—not entirely. He was scared, and he had reason to be.

“Fine,” she said, her tone icy. “Keep your secrets. But don’t think I won’t find out.”

She turned toward the door, her mind already racing. The music box, the footsteps, the voice—it was all connected. To the building, to the anomalies, to Chen Dongyang. And maybe to the shadow she’d glimpsed in Ms. Yang’s thoughts, the one tied to a student’s disappearance years ago.

“We’re leaving,” she said, not looking back. “Now.”

Chen Dongyang followed, his steps hesitant. “What about the music box?”

She paused, glancing at the drawer. “It’s not going anywhere. We’ll come back.”

Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo, the old teaching building a looming silhouette against the stars. Jiang Yuxin walked briskly, her mind churning. The voice, the void in her mental probes—it wasn’t just an anomaly. It was something else, something older, tied to this place.

Chen Dongyang trailed behind, his bandaged arm heavy at his side. His head throbbed, the pain sharper than before, as if the building itself had triggered something in him. The voice—“You can’t hide forever”—echoed in his mind, merging with the whispers from the mirror, the figure in the music room.

He thought of the rooftop, Jiang Yuxin at the edge, the shadow pushing her. Was that figure connected to this place? To the voice?

He glanced at Jiang Yuxin, her posture rigid, her silence heavy. She was a puzzle, a danger, but also a key. If he told her about the loops, about his power, would she help him? Or would she use it against him?

They reached the main campus, the lights of the school buildings a stark contrast to the darkness they’d left behind. Jiang Yuxin stopped, turning to face him.

“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice cold. “The park, after school. You’re coming.”

He nodded, too tired to argue. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Her eyes lingered on him, searching, probing. “Don’t do anything stupid, Chen Dongyang.”

He managed a weak grin. “No promises.”

She turned away, her figure disappearing into the night.

That night, Chen Dongyang sat at his desk, the digital clock glowing: 22:30. His bandaged arm rested on a pillow, the pain dulled but persistent. The ballpoint pen sat in its holder, a silent challenge.

He thought of the music box, the footsteps, the voice. The building was alive, or something in it was. And it knew him.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the classroom: the music box, the voice, the shadow. He pushed, willing time to bend, to show him more.

The pain hit like a sledgehammer, his skull splitting, his vision blurring. Images flashed—Jiang Yuxin at the rooftop’s edge, the shadow behind her, the music box spinning, a girl’s face, pale and hollow, her eyes empty.

He gasped, collapsing forward, sweat soaking his shirt.

The clock read: 22:29:40.

Twenty seconds.

The pain was unbearable, his body trembling, but the image lingered—the girl’s face, not Jiang Yuxin’s, but familiar. The same figure from the music room, the mirror.

“Who are you?” he whispered, his voice shaking.

No answer came, but he knew one thing: the old teaching building held answers. And he’d have to go back, whether he wanted to or not.

In her room, Jiang Yuxin sat at her desk, her notebook open. She added a new line: Old teaching building—music box, voice, shadow. Connected to anomalies?*

She tapped her pen, her mind racing. The building, the voice, Chen Dongyang’s fear—it was all part of the puzzle. And tomorrow, with Yin Xiran, she’d start piecing it together.

She closed her notebook, her eyes narrowing.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “No more games.”

The board was set, and she was ready to play.