Forgotten Photo Studio

Chapter 115 Relic Shop

He was "reset," but not forgotten.

He is still alive;

But he remembers that he was an anomalous sample that was "recycled" but unexpectedly retained his memories;

The "White Lord" thought he had been erased, but some unknown "anchor point" allowed him to retain himself in the next reboot.

He quickly looked down and examined his right palm.

The blue Soul-Suppressing Iron Brand—disappeared.

The bluish-black lines on his right arm that represented the existence of the Abyss were nowhere to be seen, and his skin was as smooth as if it had never borne any power.

In an instant, his mind went blank, as if all sound had been sucked away.

He instinctively pinched his wrist, trying to check the blood flow, but the familiar pulse hesitated for two moments before falling into a weak silence.

A strange emptiness welled up in my chest, as if some important part had been ripped out, leaving not a wound, but an "absence".

He raised his head, his gaze wandering in the void, his lips trembling slightly.

Immediately, scenes from Ah Zhe's last moments flashed into his mind.

That was the trust he earned with his life—a gamble.

The impact of memories surged back like a flood, his breathing became unsteady, and the confusion in his heart gradually turned into anger.

He wanted to shout, to smash everything in front of him, but he was also afraid that if he made that sound, even the remnants of "existence" would dissipate.

He forced himself to steady his breathing, his fingertips digging into his palms, the pain bringing him back to the edge of reality.

"He cannot have died in vain."

"I can't let him die in vain."

Xu Yan closed his eyes, and countless forgotten, swallowed moments flashed through his mind. Those memories he thought he had lost were slowly returning to his mind, blurry yet burning hot.

—What should we do now?
—Drop your camera and escape the photo studio?
The thought flashed through his mind, but he quickly suppressed it.

“That’s cowardly,” he muttered to himself.

“Ah Zhe risked his life, not so that I could escape.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze refocused, and his expression had changed.

Confusion, fear, and anger were all suppressed at the bottom of his chest, leaving only a steely resolve.

Xu Yan raised her head, a cold light in her eyes: "Ω Files."

These three words landed in his mind, as clear as the edge of a knife.

"Gold level, I want to advance to Gold level as quickly as possible and obtain the Omega file."

He muttered to himself, his tone devoid of illusion, only filled with determination and stubbornness.

Tonight's cleaning is no longer just about taking on a job;
It is the starting point, the first step he takes to change his own ending between resetting and forgetting.

Night fell once again.

Summer nights in Jiangcheng are always sultry, like being wrapped in a damp cloth.

Sweating profusely, Xu Yan dragged his suitcase, camera strap gripping his wrist, and once again entered the deepest alleyway of the old town.

He froze.

The air around us was exactly the same, even the temperature was the same.

The blue bricks underfoot were damp and gleamed coldly.

The dim yellow light in the depths of the alley still flickers, as if everything were happening again yesterday.

His gaze could see through appearances. In the corner of his eye, he saw a crack in the lampshade—a "scar" left by the space itself after the impact of the white light.

He recalled his master's dying words once more—

"They're far from the center, but we still have to take their jobs."

The voice seemed to come from an echo from a great distance, carrying a hint of indescribable bitterness.

At the time, he thought it was the old man's compromise with reality.

But looking back now, that hint of hesitation in his tone seemed more like a cover-up—

To conceal some truth that he shouldn't know.

Why "have to pick it up"? And why "from a distance"?
Those were clearly two contradictory instructions.

He looked down at the encrypted terminal.

Mission Instructions: Clear out the relics before midnight.

He frowned, and that familiar unease rose in his heart once again.

Why is it always midnight? Why is every task emphasized "before midnight"?
Last time, he didn't ask.

This time, he had to get to the bottom of it.

He opened the task reply box and typed:

"What if it's not finished before midnight?"

After a moment's hesitation, I pressed "send." The terminal remained silent for a few seconds.

The screen flashed.

[System Reply:]

"If the time limit is exceeded, the memory will not be recorded."

That line of text was cold and clean, offering no explanation.

But his heart suddenly clenched.

He recalled the last white light before the White Lord's arrival—that feeling of being "erased".

In their context, "memories will not be recorded" means "existence will be deleted."

He stared at the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly, his fingertips trembling slightly.

The terminal suddenly flashed again.

The second line of text slowly appeared:

"The contractor is the legacy."

At that moment, Xu Yan felt a chill run down his spine.

He felt as if an invisible hand had pressed him into the depths of time.

The air became thick, and every breath carried a metallic smell.

Midnight is not the "deadline".

— Rather, it's "switching time".

Xu Yan looked up, his gaze darkening.

His breathing gradually calmed, his voice low and hoarse yet extremely cold:

"It seems... I should go faster."

He put away his terminal and picked up his suitcase.

The lights swayed slightly in the sweltering heat of the summer night.

The clock struck midnight, four hours to go.

The dark stairwell loomed over him.

The musty smell and sweet, rotten odor filled my nostrils, and the damp cement walls gleamed bluish in the dim light.

One by one, the motion-sensor lights turned on and off, their halos shifting around my feet—like a cold, indifferent eye following me.

Xu Yan stopped at the end of the third floor.

The moment the key was inserted into the lock, a strange premonition ran down my spine.

It's not that I heard it, but that I "remembered" the bell was about to ring.

—The next second, sure enough.

"bell--"

The piercing metallic vibration echoed through the corridor, unsurprisingly.

He paused for a moment, but did not panic. He simply exhaled softly, as if facing a pre-written script.

He pushed open the door.

The scene inside the house was exactly the same as I remembered.

An old television in the corner flickered with white light, and a kettle boiled on the electric stove, steam billowing out.

The black coat on the back of the chair hung straight down.

He stared at the coat, and a scene from the last time suddenly flashed through his mind:

The same lighting, the same room, but the coat suddenly billowed out, the cuffs twitched, and a blast of cold air hit us, a suffocating feeling pressed against our throats, and the blaring of a camera flash.

That chilling feeling of "death" reignites beneath the skin.

He could almost feel the hallucinatory breath brushing against the side of his neck.

Instinct made his knuckles tighten, but reason restrained his actions.

He took a deep breath and removed his fingertips from the camera.

"It's not that time yet," he said to himself.

At this moment, he resembled a calm experimenter more than a ghost.

He walked to the table; the kettle was still gurgling.

He glanced at the phone; the black dial gleamed dully, and the ringtone was still vibrating.

He knew everything was about to happen, and he knew the name was "Hao Defeng".

But this time, his goal was no longer simply to "clean up".

(End of this chapter)