A bizarre and terrifying experience; I messed up the dungeon world.

"Hello." The nurse looked up, her smile textbook perfect. "Welcome to Renxin Hospital. Please register for admission here."

She pushed eight forms towards me.

Zhou Lang picked up a form; the information to be filled in was quite ordinary—name, age, and symptoms. He wrote "insomnia" in the symptoms section.

Han Yingying leaned over for a look: "You really know how to pick."

"Insomnia is the easiest problem to solve; you don't need to do any tests."

Han Yingying thought for a moment and also wrote "insomnia". Zhao Qiang wasn't there, so she could only follow Zhou Lang's train of thought.

Lin Chuan wrote "headache", Wang Defa wrote "backache", and Iron Fist Chen wrote "fracture" - he laughed after writing it: "I did break my leg in the last boxing match."

Song Wan filled in "fever" for An'an, and wrote "stomach problem" for herself. Li Yuanzhi wrote "physical examination".

The nurse collected the forms, flipped through them, and entered everyone's name into the computer.

"You've been assigned to the third floor." She handed over eight room cards. "Rooms 301 to 308. One person per room. Please keep your room cards safe; they're your proof of entry and exit."

"Nurse," Iron Fist Chen raised his hand, "Where's the cafeteria?"

「一楼东侧。早餐7:00到8:00，午餐11:30到12:30，晚餐5:30到6:30。请不要在规定时间外进入食堂。」

Why?

The nurse's smile remained unchanged: "Because the cafeteria will be closed."

This answer is flawless, but everyone knows in their hearts that it's probably not that simple.

Eight people went up to the third floor. The corridor was long, with wards lined up on both sides. Strangely, except for wards 301 to 308 which were assigned to them, the doors of the other wards were sealed with tape.

The seal was red, with two words written on it: "Discontinued".

When Zhou Lang passed by 309, he put his ear to it and listened for a moment.

There were breathing sounds coming from inside.

It was very faint, rising and falling, like someone was sleeping.

He didn't say anything and continued walking forward.

Room 301 was his room. Pushing open the door, the furnishings were simple—a hospital bed, a bedside table, a chair, and a wardrobe. A whiteboard hung on the wall, displaying his daily schedule.

Wake up at 7:00

7:00-8:00 Breakfast

8:00 AM Morning rounds

9:00-11:00 Free time

11:30-12:30 Lunch

Lunch break from 13:00 to 14:00

14:00-17:00 Free time

Dinner 17:30-18:30

19:00-20:00 Free time

20:00 Evening ward round

Lights out at 21:00

22:00 curfew

The schedule was very tight. The total free time was less than seven hours, and those seven hours were the only window of opportunity they could actually take action.

There is a red button by the bedside—a call bell.

Zhou Lang pressed it.

Three seconds later, there was a knock on the door.

The door opened, and a male nurse stood outside. He was tall, with delicate features and a calm expression.

"Is there anything you need?"

"Let's test if the bell works," Zhou Lang said.

The male nurse paused for a moment, then smiled: "The bell has never been broken. However, I suggest you don't press the bell in non-emergency situations."

Why?

The male nurse tilted his head: "Because it might not be me who comes."

After saying that, he turned and left.

Zhou Lang closed the door and went over the sentence in his mind several times.

It might not be him who comes—then who could it be? Ringing the bell is supposed to be a safety measure, but what if it's not a regular medical worker who comes?

Rule three states that the call bell can be pressed in case of emergency after 10 PM. Considering the male nurse's comment, pressing the bell during the day is fine, but pressing it at night is questionable.

He spread the items out on the bed and checked them over, then went out to find Han Yingying.

Han Yingying lived in room 305, which faced the end of the corridor. Her room window faced west, overlooking an open space behind the hospital. A low building stood on the open space, its iron gate tightly locked.

"That should be the morgue," Han Yingying pointed.

"Or the morgue."

Is there a difference?

"It's psychological," Zhou Lang said. "The morgue sounds alright, but the mortuary is a bit lacking."

Han Yingying ignored his lame joke.

"Did you notice? There isn't a single patient in the corridor besides the eight of us," she said.

Zhou Lang nodded. Of course he had noticed. The entire third floor was empty, except for their eight rooms, which were all sealed off. But there was breathing coming from the sealed rooms—he heard it in at least three of them.

"It should be fine during the day," Zhou Lang said. "Let's go and familiarize ourselves with the hospital's layout first."

The two had just reached the top of the stairs when they ran into Lin Chuan.

"Together?" Lin Chuan asked.

"Walk."

The three of them walked around the hospital.

First floor: lobby, registration desk, pharmacy, cafeteria, emergency room. Everyone was busy—nurses, doctors, registration clerks—everyone was working, looking normal, behaving normally, almost too normally.

Second floor: Various consultation rooms. Internal medicine, surgery, orthopedics, neurology... The doors were all closed, but through the glass windows you could see doctors seeing patients inside. And the patients? Not a single one. The doctors sat at their desks, blank medical records in front of them, pens in their hands, making writing motions—but the pens never actually touched the paper.

"Damn it," Lin Chuan muttered under his breath.

Third floor: A ward for eight people.

Fourth floor: Operating room. The entire floor reeked of disinfectant, it was pungent. Every few meters along the corridor, there was a surgical light, all of them lit. There were three operating rooms, one of which had a red light on – “In Surgery”.

Zhou Lang looked inside through the small window in the door.

A person lay on the operating table, covered with a green surgical drape. Four people in sterile gowns surrounded him, skillfully performing various procedures.

But the person on the operating table—

The chest cavity is open.

It's empty inside.

There were no internal organs at all.

Four "doctors" moved surgical instruments back and forth inside the cavity, working in perfect coordination. Occasionally, someone would throw out a word like "hemostat" or "suture needle," and a nurse would hand them some air.

"Let's go." Zhou Lang pulled Lin Chuan along.

Rule Seven – Do not approach the operating room while it is in use. They've already violated half of the rule; if they continue watching, something bad might happen.

Fifth floor: Office area and archives. This floor was very quiet. Zhou Lang tried several doors, but they were all locked. Only the door to the archives was ajar.

He pushed open the door and went inside.

The filing cabinets were neatly arranged, each drawer labeled. He randomly pulled one open; inside were medical records.

"Zhang San, male, 45 years old. Admission symptoms: chronic headache. Attending physician: Liu Mingyuan. Treatment plan: specific drug treatment. Treatment outcome..."

The following words were blacked out. The "Treatment Outcome" column of every medical record was completely covered with black ink.

Han Yingying flipped through more than a dozen copies, and the situation was the same.

"The attending physician is Liu Mingyuan all the time," she said.

Zhou Lang found something different in another cabinet—a letter.

The letter paper was yellowed and deeply creased, indicating it was handwritten. The handwriting was neat but messy, becoming increasingly disorganized towards the end.

"Old Chen, I've found out. Little Liu and that guy surnamed Zhao are hooking up. I checked the lab on the basement floor; those patients aren't receiving treatment at all, they're being..."

Here, a large bloodstain appeared on the paper. The writing stopped.

There were a few words on the back of the letter, which were carved with a fingernail:

"They are not treating patients."