Jiang Qianyu had no idea how many people had entered and left this room.
Too many. Far too many.
Men and women, young and old.
It seemed every tenant in the apartment building had used that key to open this door.
Without exception, each held the pills with a nauseating smirk, then violently forced the unknown medication into her mouth, washing it down with water.
If it had been mere force-feeding, it might have been bearable.
But nearly every one of them carried a twisted, almost pathological need for control.
They treated the woman as a vessel for their darkness—venting freely, forbidding her to step outside or even end her own life, trapping her forever in this cramped space under seventy-five square meters.
Physical humiliation. Psychological ruin.
Jiang Qianyu felt “herself” become a doll, slowly taken apart piece by piece.
Flashing images. Faces already warped beyond recognition.
They kept smiling—a grin clenched tight with gritted teeth, hungry enough to swallow her whole.
She lived every moment through first-person eyes:
From the first man entering with hemp rope, to the old woman plucking her hair strand by strand.
Each arrival was a new “torture.”
Missed medicine? Scalding water poured over skin.
One wrong glance? Nearly lost an eye to that middle-aged woman—recently divorced, claiming an incurable eye disease.
*“If only I could have these eyes for myself.”*
How long did the “feeding” last? Jiang Qianyu couldn’t tell. From this dizzying carousel of fractured memories, it must have dragged on for ages.
At first, their cruelty was mild.
But time changed everything.
Blurry, frantic flashes left only guesses:
The woman was likely the landlord’s daughter, suffering mental illness.
Medication on schedule. No leaving the apartment.
The frail old landlord passed care to the tenants.
Why? Simple.
Money.
In one memory fragment, a young student muttered:
*“Once Mom gets the demolition payout, we can finally escape this hellhole.”*
So the truth unfolded: the building was slated for demolition. The landlord, nearing his end, dangled future shares to keep them “caring” for his sick daughter.
These tenants? Lives frayed at the edges. Discarded by the world.
Day by day, patience eroded—blame the illness, blame her stubborn survival.
No consequences. No accountability.
A “toy” for darkness was born.
Staring at those twisted faces, Jiang Qianyu couldn’t tell: was it the white-clad woman’s mind that broke… or theirs?
One detail stood out.
At the very end of the despairing reel, she saw the woman’s daughter.
A girl of eight or nine—about Bai Dongqing’s age.
Final memory: the rooftop.
Police and firefighters hauling something from the water tank.
The woman pushed through—only to see her daughter’s corpse.
Submerged for over a month. Unrecognizable.
The memory didn’t stop there. What followed was even more chaotic.
From that day, the white-clad woman shattered completely.
Daily, she slipped out, knocking door to door: *“Have you seen my daughter?”*
No answers. No daughter. No killer ever found.
Darkness swallowed the vision. Silence returned.
Back home, Jiang Qianyu set down the still-warm milk, falling into quiet.
She’d underestimated it. Had her true body been there instead of a clone, the psychic assault would’ve driven her mad—ending her life in that room.
This was the woman’s “corruption”:
Years of darkness compressed, violently crammed into a 100GB mind, replayed at ten-thousand times speed.
*“Lu Yunzhi… Lu Yunzhi. Is this what you call a Class B mission?”*
She sighed.
Her vampire loli clone rose from the sofa, tossing the nearly drained man aside like trash.
The white-clad woman still stood at the door. Seeing Jiang Qianyu rise, she stepped back silently.
Psychic power was her only weapon.
Too bad Jiang Qianyu was immune.
Soul threads coiled around the woman—binding, absorbing, dismantling.
Just a wisp of psychic residue mixed with soul energy. Harmless. To Jiang Qianyu, it tasted like cake.
She devoured it effortlessly.
Just as relief flickered—*knock*.
A key turned. The door opened.
A frail old man stood there, holding a dark red thermos.
Behind him—another white-clad woman.
Before she could react, footsteps multiplied.
One after another.
Within seconds, the fourth-floor hallway filled with bowed heads.
Every tenant.
Every one who’d once entered that room to vent their darkness.
*“This place… is truly sick to its core.”*
Jiang Qianyu planted her foot on the dying man’s chest. Blood and soul energy surged into her.
No clever solution to cleanse the psychic residue.
Only one crude method remained.
Eat it all.
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