Chapter 7: The Crack (Part 1)
The night Zhao Lei left, Lin Yuan sat in the dorm for a long time.
Old Zhao was already asleep. The other roommate wore headphones, gaming. Lin Yuan reached under his pillow, pulled out his wallet, and took out all the cash. A little over four hundred yuan, including crumpled fives and tens. He folded the money and slipped it under Zhao Lei's pillow. Zhao Lei had a standing ticket — over ten hours on the train, then straight to the hospital. His mother's surgery. No telling how much it would cost. Four hundred wasn't much, but it could buy some fruit.
The next morning, Zhao Lei was gone. The money under his pillow was gone too. Lin Yuan didn't ask. Zhao Lei didn't text to say he'd received it. Neither mentioned it.
---
Three days later, Zhao Lei came back.
Lin Yuan was eating lunch in the cafeteria when someone sat down across from him and put a bag on the table. He looked up. Zhao Lei. Dark circles under his eyes, chapped lips, but his spirits seemed okay.
"My mom's fine," Zhao Lei said. "Benign. They removed it. The doctor says she's recovering well."
Lin Yuan swallowed his rice. "That's good."
"Did you ask about the exam?"
"Yeah. The teacher said I can make it up. Need to register at the academic office next week."
Zhao Lei nodded and pushed the bag toward Lin Yuan. "My mom wanted you to have these. Homemade dried sweet potatoes."
Lin Yuan stared at the bag. He'd never met Zhao Lei's mother, and she didn't know who he was. But a woman just out of surgery, still thinking to send dried sweet potatoes to a stranger. His throat tightened.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. You gave four hundred."
"That was for fruit for your mom."
"We bought some. Used the rest for these." Zhao Lei smiled. It was a little forced, but more real than before. "Eat up. They're sweet."
Lin Yuan took a piece and bit into it. Sweet. Sunlight came through the cafeteria window, falling on the table, stretching the shadows of the sweet potatoes long.
Zhao Lei went to get his food and came back with two trays. One with rice and tomato egg, the other with rice and braised pork. He pushed the braised pork toward Lin Yuan.
"You have this."
"You're the one who likes meat."
"My mom said to thank you. I don't have much to give, so let me buy you a meal." Zhao Lei sat down and took a bite of rice. "Eat. Don't be polite."
Lin Yuan didn't refuse. They ate in silence. The cafeteria was nearly empty. A few windows had already closed, only two still lit. A TV in the distance played the news, too quiet to make out. Lin Yuan picked up a piece of braised pork — fatty, melted in his mouth. It reminded him of his grandmother's cooking. She used to make it the same way, more fat than lean. He'd always eat the lean first, leaving the fat at the bottom of his bowl. She'd say, the fat is the flavorful part, try it. He tried it. It was good.
She'd been gone three years. He'd never have her braised pork again.
---
In the afternoon, his phone buzzed. A text from Old Zhou: Come to the teaching building rooftop.
Not the library. Lin Yuan climbed the stairs, wondering what kind of umbrella Old Zhou would need to bring his tea-and-reading routine up here. The May wind was already warm, rattling the windows in the stairwell. He pushed open the rooftop door, and the wind rushed in, messing up his hair.
Old Zhou leaned against the railing, holding an unlit cigarette instead of a teacup. Three files sat on the concrete ledge, their corners lifting in the wind, pages flapping. He wore a gray jacket with the collar up, looking less like a Dreamkeeper elder and more like a retired old man waiting for someone to play chess.
"You're here," Old Zhou said without turning around.
"You wanted to see me." Lin Yuan walked over and pressed down on the files. "Why not the library?"
"Too stuffy in there." Old Zhou turned, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. "I've been looking into a few missing persons cases. Three years ago, the east district, south city, north suburb — one missing person each. The first two were collected by local Dreamkeepers. The third hasn't been found."
Lin Yuan opened the first file. East district, a night-shift factory worker. Didn't come home after her shift ended at two in the morning. Her husband reported it. Three days later, they found her bag in an alley. No sign of her. A photo was clipped to the file — a woman in her early thirties, smiling, two dimples.
"All caused by nightmares?"
"Not sure." Old Zhou opened the second file. "Residual nightmare energy was detected at the scenes, but low grade. The factory worker was F-grade. The courier was D-grade."
"F and D don't make people disappear." Lin Yuan frowned. "They just cause nightmares, low moods."
"Exactly why these two cases are suspicious. Neither body was found. No trace." Old Zhou opened the third file. "But this one is different."
North suburb. A middle school student. Never came home after school. The file noted: no nightmare residue detected at the scene.
"Not a nightmare?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." Old Zhou closed the files and looked into the distance. "What these three cases have in common: the missing persons were never found. Another commonality — the disappearance sites all line up in the southeast direction."
Lin Yuan looked at the map. Three red dots connected in an arc, curving toward the city's southeast corner, ending in the suburbs.
"You can't find anything more specific?"
Old Zhou was silent for a few seconds. "The Abyss records what has already happened. Someone deliberately hid this information."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But not many people can make information disappear from the Abyss."
The wind flipped a page of the files. Lin Yuan pressed it down. Qin Shou's words echoed in his head — things Old Zhou doesn't want you to know. Maybe this wasn't the first time.
"So what do I do?"
"You go." Old Zhou pulled an envelope from his pocket. "No. 17 Southeast Road, a scrap yard. It's near the site of the third disappearance. Use your badge to sense. If you find anything, don't engage. Come back and tell me."
"By myself? What about Su Wanqing?"
"She has another task. Take the bus. Don't take a taxi — too conspicuous."
Lin Yuan took the envelope. Old Zhou turned and walked toward the rooftop door. He stopped after a few steps.
"Lin Yuan."
"Yeah?"
"If you find the nightmare, don't collect it. Just see what it is and come back. Remember — see, not collect."
The door closed. Only the wind remained on the rooftop.
---
The bus ride to Southeast Road took over forty minutes. The buildings outside the window changed from residential towers to warehouses to empty lots. Lin Yuan leaned against the window, watching the trees pass one by one. The sun on his face was warm, making him drowsy, but he didn't sleep. His mind kept spinning.
Old Zhou said the Abyss couldn't find the information. What could hide from the Abyss? Qin Shou said the three-month deadline could be changed. How? Chu Yunfei had been missing for three years. Dead or alive? Su Wanqing said her brother died. How? The questions swirled without answers.
There weren't many people on the bus. An old woman sat in the front row, clutching a woven bag full of plastic bottles. A middle-aged man in the back wore headphones, nodding off. Lin Yuan looked at them and thought — these people don't know nightmares exist. Don't know someone is cleaning up the things that leak out of their dreams. Did the old woman's bag contain a nightmare? Was something hiding in the man's headphones? No way to know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
The bus stopped. The old woman got off. Another stop. The middle-aged man got off. Only Lin Yuan and the driver remained. The driver was a heavyset man in a faded blue work shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips. An old song played on the radio, the melody slow, like it was underwater.
"Southeast Road," the driver said without turning around.
Lin Yuan got off.
The road was lined with low, dilapidated houses, their walls peeling, windows covered in newspaper. He walked a few hundred meters and saw a yard enclosed by rusted iron sheets. A crooked sign hung on the gate: Southeast Road Scrap Yard. No one at the entrance. A yellow dog tied to an iron post looked at him but didn't bark.
The lines on his hand began to warm. Not the slow warmth he'd felt before — a rapid, pulsing heat, like a heartbeat relocated to his hand. Somewhere inside the yard, to the left.
He pushed open the gate and walked in. Piles of scrap metal — old refrigerators, discarded tires, dismantled machines, rusted frames. The air smelled of iron, grease, and a sour sweetness, like garbage left too long in the sun. He circled a pile of wrecked car shells and saw a metal door half-buried in the ground, concrete slabs pressing down on it.
The pulse came from below. Strong, like something knocking.
He crouched and tried to move the concrete slabs. Too heavy. He found a metal pipe and wedged it into a gap, prying. One slab rolled aside, hitting the ground with a thud, kicking up dust. A rusty lock hung on the metal door. He hit it a few times with the pipe until it snapped. The lock fell to the ground with a sharp clink that echoed in the empty yard.
Behind the door — steps leading down, darkness swallowing the light. He turned on his phone's flashlight and descended. The steps were concrete, slick with moss. Moisture beaded on the walls, reflecting the light like eyes. The air was cold and damp, seeping into his collar. He shivered.
After about twenty steps, he reached the bottom — a narrow corridor, barely wide enough for one person. The flashlight beam couldn't reach the end. Graffiti covered the walls, the patterns unclear. Fresh footprints in the dust — not his. Whose?
He walked forward. Each footstep echoed, loud in the confined space. After a while, he reached a wooden door, half-open. Words had been carved into the door, but the paint had long since peeled, illegible.
He pushed it open.
(Continued in Part 2)