A real killer playing a villain; the guy surnamed Zhen in Detective, run!

The broadcast van was deathly silent.

The images on the monitor screen were still flashing. Yan Ji's hands rested on the control panel, the knuckles of all ten fingers white.

What did he just do?

He made the driver brake suddenly and cause the vehicle to skid. The seatbelt snapped, and the person was thrown out; the camera slipped from the driver's hand and nearly killed a guest.

If it weren't for that man, the consequences would have been unimaginable!

Yan Ji's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

Old Fang leaned against the wall and dry heaved in the corner.

Xiao Zhao, clutching the script, remained frozen in his chair.

Jiang Yan leaned back in her chair and turned her gaze back to the screen.

In the video, Lu Yuan is already walking towards the car door.

The side door of the van slid open with a whoosh, and the night wind, carrying the smell of earth and rust, rushed into the cabin.

Outside the vehicle, industrial searchlights illuminated a five-story concrete building, revealing its scarred appearance. Most of the plaster had peeled away, exposing mold-covered red bricks and reinforcing steel. Above the main entrance, a plaque with cracked paint leaned precariously.

"Qingshan Mental Health Rehabilitation Center".

Shen Yiming stepped out of the threshold first, reaching back to steady Meng Ying, whose legs had already gone weak.

"Dear guests, please put your blindfolds back on, place your hands on the shoulders of the teammate in front of you, and line up in order to enter the abandoned mental hospital."

He Rihuo retreated far away. His back was pressed firmly against the stainless steel frame of the car door, the back of his head against the glass, his eyes darting left and right warily, determined not to stand next to Lu Yuan in line. In the end, Da Yan gritted his teeth and endured this tough challenge, taking the second-to-last position in the line.

Lu Yuan naturally ended up at the end.

Five people strung together like a swaying threadworm. The blindfolds severed all visual pathways once more. The moment the group groped their way across the iron threshold, the lingering, putrid dust, carrying the pungent smell of formaldehyde, violently assaulted the depths of their nasal cavities.

Meng Ying's suppressed, shrill scream slipped from her throat. The echo chamber inside the corridor was extremely strong, amplifying and distorting the sound, layer upon layer, echoing deeper and deeper, making it sound eerie.

The four people ahead each walked in their own disheveled manner. Da Yan's shoulder and neck muscles were as hard as frozen pork, his steps were extremely sluggish, and his toes shuffled along the cold tiles, each half-inch of movement consuming a great deal of energy.

The scenery at the back of the line was completely different.

Lu Yuan's hands were loosely draped over Da Yan's shoulders, his gait leisurely and relaxed, as if he were taking a stroll in a park.

"drop--"

A sharp, penetrating single tone pierced the eardrum, prompting the system to announce: Blindfold restrictions lifted.

Everyone frantically ripped off their blindfolds. The darkness before them didn't lessen at all; instead, it intensified. Before their eyes could adjust to the dim light, a blaring alarm sounded from above at a deafening 105 decibels!

The high-frequency sound waves felt like tangible steel needles, scraping harshly against the ear canals. Three sets of strobe lights, mounted side by side, flashed wildly without warning, their high-powered incandescent light sources brutally slicing the dark corridor into dozens of blinding visual fragments.

When the human nervous system is faced with a sudden attack of sound and light, retreat is the only effective command. The four people in the front row instinctively crouched down, covered their heads, and huddled together, pushing and shoving each other backward.

In the midst of this bizarre, flickering light, Lu Yuan slipped into the visual and movement blind spot pre-designed in the script.

Inside the broadcast van, the central air conditioning vents were spewing out cold air.

The dynamic graph transmitted back by the monitor overjoyed Yan Ji. Lu Yuan was alone, and his position was exactly at every trigger point of the encirclement.

Shoving the microphone aside, Yan Ji pushed the clippers to their maximum setting: "Target in position! Four-pronged attack activated! Old Ghost, give me the most powerful shot! I want a close-up of his face filled with terror, you hear me!"

Jiang Yan, who was sitting in the folding chair in the left rear corner, suddenly straightened her back. Her right arm pressed down uncontrollably, her fingertips pressing heavily on the side of her tactical belt. Her eyes, like a red-tailed hawk staring at its prey, were firmly locked on the fourth monitor's split screen.

A large metal wardrobe stands against the wall on the right side of the corridor.

The top-tier NPC, Old Ghost, was huddled behind the cramped, damp cabinet door, using the gaps in the louvered ventilation opening to desperately cling to the silhouette of the casually approaching human figure.

With his hands overlapping and exerting force, he squeezed the 60-centimeter-long, specially made silicone blood axe, producing a dull sound of material deformation under force.

Beneath the mask, Old Ghost's lips parted, revealing a row of white teeth and an extremely excited, cruel professional smile.

Calculate the stride difference. 0.5 seconds—more than enough time. Slam the door, get close, flash, press—the whole sequence of actions is completed within 30 centimeters, guaranteed to bring this internet-hyped big-screen demon king down to earth, making him kneel and scream.

Above their heads, a second source of intense flashlight projected the daytime waterfall.

The metal door of the wardrobe suffered a horrifying internal impact, causing the hinges to snap. Old Ghost, covered in a frizzy silicone fake skin and smeared with dark red, viscous artificial blood, burst out of the wall.

The massive body, weighing over two hundred pounds, carrying a heavy blood axe, crashed down on Lu Yuan's face like a grenade, with the force of a mountain falling down. The physical distance was less than a foot, an absolute blind spot of terror where a person's sense of security was completely lost.

A hoarse growl, filled with the ferocity of a wild beast, erupted from deep within the old ghost's throat, its volume exceeding the 105-decibel strobe alarm.

In front of the control panel in the control room, three directors pressed their faces almost against the LCD screen, their eyes fixed on the screen, all in order to capture the perfect footage of the target person breaking down, losing control, or stumbling backward.

Deep within the screen.

Lu Yuan's black pupils contracted at a speed defying physiological norms, shrinking into two dangerously small black dots.

The rational defenses of civilized society were brutally severed by external stimuli. The stress response mechanism, honed countless times in a past life amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood, violently took over the highest authority of the central nervous system.

In a fraction of a breath, this slender body completed an impeccable chain of tactical evasion and lethal strike.

His hips sank, his knees bent. His upper body defied the laws of physics and pressed down fifteen centimeters. The blade wind wrapped around the silicone blood axe grazed the stray hairs on his forehead, the strike missing its mark.

Immediately following, he stepped forward with his right foot, forcefully locking the center of gravity of the old ghost as it lunged forward. His left arm extended out in a full moon shape, fingers bent, firmly gripping the middle of the axe handle, neutralizing the downward momentum of the two hundred pounds of weight.

With his right hand suspended in mid-air, his five slender fingers were tightly joined together, extremely taut, and the veins on the back of his hand bulged out like vines.

The edge of his palm forcefully cleaved through the cold, stagnant air, bringing with it a chilling whistle. It pierced straight into the old ghost's neck, targeting the unprotected carotid artery on the side.

A deadly technique using bare hands, capable of piercing the throat with a single blow.