Forgotten Photo Studio

Chapter 116 E-07
He muttered to himself, his voice lacking the panic one would expect from a newcomer, but instead displaying the caution of an experimenter.

He gently placed the camera on the table, the warmth of the metal still lingering on his fingertips.

Open the box and put on gloves.

The light inside was dim and steady, like a layer of skin that could collapse at any moment.

He deftly folded the clothes in the wardrobe one by one and put them into his suitcase. The bills and receipts on the bedside table were also neatly stacked to one side.

These things are all anchors.

—And he is now removing all the "anchors".

The suitcase is specially made to prevent the attachment of spiritual energy.

With each item he stuffed in, he heard a barely audible whisper receding from the depths of the air.

When he picked up the hospital receipt, the name on it made his eyes sting:
"Hao Defeng".

This time, he didn't read it out softly like he did last time.

He just stared at those few words, his gaze so cold it was almost transparent.

He no longer gave the Lonely Building Ghost any chance to anchor itself.

In the bedside table, there was still that familiar USB drive.

The silver casing is dull, and the engravings on the edges remain.

"E-07..."

He murmured, his voice hoarse.

Why am I back in E-07?

He couldn't be sure.

Is this a loop?
Or some kind of tampered reboot.

What message are you trying to convey to me?

He murmured softly, his eyes growing colder and colder.

Does E-07 record him, or Yuan?

Who are the "abnormal samples"?
he does not know.

The room's furnishings gave him a vague sense of familiarity, like lingering memories flickering in the air.

He stared at the slightly tilted photo in the corner, a scene seemingly flashing through his mind—

But the next second, that memory was erased by some invisible force.

"Maybe it's just an illusion," he said softly.

This time, he didn't hesitate.

Place the USB drive in the suitcase and close the lid.

——“Click.”

The sound of the metal latch was crisp and cold, like the final click of a coffin closing.

The phone rang, and at that moment, it suddenly went silent.

The air stagnated again.

Only the cold echoes and his own breathing remained in the room.

He picked up his suitcase, grabbed his camera, and headed for the door.

He stopped the moment his hand touched the doorknob.

At that moment, he stared intently at the camera on his chest.

He is waiting—

Waiting for that familiar sound to appear.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and the pain was so intense it felt empty.

He couldn't even tell whether he was expecting anything.

I'm still afraid.

Two emotions tore and overlapped in his chest until he could barely breathe.

--Then.

"Om-"

A low, mechanical vibration broke the silence.

He suddenly lowered his head.

The camera's printer is slowly ejecting a sheet of snow-white photographic paper.

The white paper emitted a soft glow in the darkness, like a living being breathing.

Xu Yan's body stiffened.

The blood felt frozen.

He slowly reached out, his fingertips lightly touching the edge of the photographic paper. Ink began to spread across it; it wasn't a ghostly image. It was his own back.

A blurry, pale outline appeared on the shoulder.

That hand was long, eerie, and its outline was almost transparent.

Ink stains then appeared on the photo:
"Forgetting is the real death."

He stared at the shadow, his chest heaving violently.

A chill crept up my spine and down my neck, like a cold snake.

—It's here again.

"deep……"

He almost growled, his nails digging deep into his palms, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

"You're here again—"

His voice was hoarse, yet it conveyed a ruthless determination born of being driven to the brink of despair.

But this time, he did not back down.

Those eyes, still lifeless, now held a resolute light.

He tightened his grip on the camera and slowly raised his head.

"This time, you won't be the one to make the first move."

On a summer night, the heat and humidity are like a steamer, and the air is full of moisture and dust, pressing heavily on the chest.

The glow of neon lights spread across the wet asphalt, resembling patches of dying plankton.

There are 15 minutes left until the clock strikes midnight.

Xu Yan walked alone on the empty street.

The footsteps were clear, with an undeniable echo.

The camera's cold, metallic casing pressed against his chest, like a heart that didn't belong to him.

The suitcase's casters rolled across the shallow puddles, leaving a discontinuous, glistening trail before being swallowed by darkness.

—The room filled with “memorials” has been cleaned up.

—The phone went silent, the ghostly figure was sealed away, and the USB drive engraved with "E-07" lay silently at the bottom of his box.

But he did not choose to return directly to the Forgotten Photo Studio.

He had to witness firsthand what kind of skirt the city would lift at the stroke of midnight, revealing the true texture beneath.

He needed to know what the statement "memories will not be recorded after a certain time" truly meant.

The traffic lights at the intersection flickered nervously, sometimes bright and sometimes dim, like the compound eyes of a dying insect.

At the edge of the field of vision, a huge outdoor advertising screen is still playing a promotional video for the "City Service Rapid Response Center" on a loop. The models' smiles are as standard as mass-produced mannequins, against a backdrop of a dazzling, ever-present urban fantasy.

However, at the very moment the scene changed, two frames suddenly jumped out—no longer the bustling city, but an absolute emptiness, pure white, deathly still, as if some great force had forcibly ripped a piece of reality away, revealing the pale canvas beneath.

at this time--

"Boom-"

The first chime of the bell echoed deeply from the direction of the city center.

The sound was solid and hammer-like, striking not the eardrums, but the space itself.

Xu Yan felt a barely perceptible tremor emanating from the ground beneath his feet, yet it reached straight to his soul.

"Boom-"

Second sound.

Out of the corner of his eye, he keenly caught the dim yellow halo of the old street lamp on the right corner. It seemed as if an invisible hand had grasped it, suddenly stretching it into an eerie blue arc of light, and then abruptly shrinking it back to its original shape, so fast that it was almost like an illusion.

"Boom!"

"Boom!"

……

The bell tolled slowly and steadily, like a countdown to fate, each chime striking the rhythm of Xu Yan's heartbeat.

He stood still, his body leaning slightly forward, like a cheetah poised to pounce, his pupils contracted, his senses magnified to the extreme, capturing every unusual ripple in the air.

"Boom--!"

The twelfth chime was abruptly cut off in the thick darkness of the night.

Silence. Absolute silence, silence that could pierce eardrums.

Immediately, some huge, invisible loom began to operate.

The glow of the streetlights seemed to have been recolored by an invisible hand, forcibly calibrated from a dim yellow to a standardized bright white.

In the distance, the once-dilapidated neon sign of a building is now completely woven together as if filled with data streams.

The most unsettling thing is the sound—the sounds of car horns, people talking, and shop shutters rising, which don't come from afar but are like pre-recorded background sound effects, all "played" at the same time from all directions.

(End of this chapter)