Starting on the 8th Floor

When Xiao Chun opened his eyes, he was alone in a small room.

He sat up and looked around blankly. The room was less than five hundred square feet, windowless, with only a closed security door at the far end. He had no way of telling day from night, and there were no decorations or signs to indicate where he was.

The concrete floor was cold, the white walls colder still. Overhead, the fluorescent light gave off a faint electrical hum and flickered now and then. It was as eerie as the set of a horror movie.

Xiao Chun got to his feet and brushed at the hem of his trench coat. He had been working late at the company. Once he sent his assistant the last of the handover materials, everything he had striven for through the first half of his life would come to a complete end. He had stood blankly before the office's floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the neon lights below, seized by the absurdity and ridiculousness of it all—

His first twenty-eight years had probably gone too smoothly. This was his retribution. His background had been perfect, without a single flaw: he was the second son of the Xiao Group; above him was a capable older sister, below him an adorable younger brother. The family was close and warm, and his parents were deeply in love—a model couple renowned throughout their circle.

He had always been at the top of his class, gracious and refined, the elegant young gentleman everyone praised. He kept himself above reproach and never entered a relationship lightly. Thoughtful and attentive in every respect, he had an impressive academic background; at twenty-six, he became executive vice president and helped his elder sister run the family company. His ability was exceptional and his accomplishments dazzling, earning admiration from countless people.

But the day after his twenty-eighth birthday, a competitor revealed that he was not, in fact, a biological member of the Xiao family.

By then, the outside world's astonishment was the least of Xiao Chun's concerns. A DNA test lay in black and white on his father's desk, while his normally gentle, virtuous mother sat in a corner, weeping in disarray.

Xiao Chun could not even remember how his furious father had driven him from the house. His mother, who had pleaded desperately, was thrown out with him. Their luggage lay scattered across the ground. His father ordered the butler to watch as his mother packed; aside from clothes, nothing else was to leave the Xiao residence.

No matter how his mother wept and begged, the Xiao family's gates remained shut. She could not win even a shred of his father's softheartedness or forgiveness.

Of course he would not forgive them. Even Xiao Chun could not forgive himself.

He was not his father's son. He was not part of the Xiao family. He and his elder sister and younger brother had the same mother but different fathers. At least his sister and brother were his father's biological children and would not be implicated by his rage. His younger brother in particular had been pampered all his life; he would never withstand such upheaval over his parentage... But why? Why was he the only one who did not belong?

All his years of effort, forbearance, and pride had been destroyed in an instant.

Knock, knock—

Someone knocked on the office door. He acknowledged it without turning around. It was a former subordinate—the new executive vice president, due for promotion tomorrow. Dressed in a suit and leather shoes, with a trench coat draped over one arm, the man smiled at him. "Mr. Xiao, you haven't left yet? Want to go get a drink?"

Xiao Chun slipped both hands into his pockets. The floor-to-ceiling glass reflected his handsome, aloof face as his thin lips parted slightly. "No need."

The man seemed to be saying something else, but Xiao Chun only felt dizzy. His ears rang, and he could not make out a word. It was as if he had stepped into a vast heap of cotton; his knees gave way, and his whole body fell toward the night beyond the floor-to-ceiling window.

When he opened his eyes again, he was here.

The powerful sensation of weightlessness seemed to linger. Xiao Chun's temples throbbed. He clenched his fists on instinct and swallowed, tasting only bitterness and blood.

Frowning, he surveyed his surroundings. Where was this?

Was he dreaming?

Or was he already dead?

How had he died?

The floor-to-ceiling window had vanished into thin air. Had he fallen to his death? How could that be possible?

Xiao Chun searched the pockets of his trench coat and trousers. His phone was gone, and so were his car keys. His mind was a blur, as though something important had slipped his memory—the cold, desolate office at night and the false smile on the man at the door had become twisted and indistinct. It was as though that had been his dream, as though it had happened in a past life.

He took a bewildered step forward, and his gaze fell on an old wooden chair lying crookedly in the corner. The room's only object.

One of its legs was broken. For some reason, Xiao Chun could not look away. He stared fixedly at the broken chair leg, as if it held a crucial clue.

A clue?

Xiao Chun hurried over. His limbs felt stiff, his joints as though they had not moved in a long time, creaking like rusted hinges. When he reached it, he bent down and picked up the broken chair leg, but there was nothing on it. Only blurred red writing marked the inner side, as if it had been soaked in water; the strokes had bled together, making it impossible to read.

An inexplicable emptiness rose in Xiao Chun's heart. He stared at it vacantly for a long while when, beside him, the security door creaked open on its own.

Xiao Chun jumped, instinctively raising the chair leg as a weapon. But there was nothing beyond the door, only endless darkness. After a moment's hesitation, he held the chair leg across his body and slowly approached the door. Raising his voice, he called, "Is anyone there?"

No one answered.

Every muscle in Xiao Chun's body tightened, and his fingers tingled. He squeezed his hand hard, then called again, "Hey! If someone's there, say something! Where is this? What do you want?!"

The silence beyond the door was so complete that a pin drop would have been heard.

Xiao Chun pressed his dry lips together. With one hand gripping the chair leg, he seized the doorknob with the other and yanked the door open—

There was nothing outside. Fluorescent lights lit the hallway, casting a cold, metallic stillness over the gray walls on all four sides. A huge red 8 had been painted on the opposite wall. This appeared to be the top floor. At the end of the hall, a short iron staircase descended into the darkness, its lower reaches impossible to see clearly.

Xiao Chun's room was the only room on the entire floor. The rest of the walls had neither windows nor doors, nor any kind of signage.

The small emergency-exit light in the corner cast a ghostly green glow. Xiao Chun looked around and around, but it seemed he had only one choice left—to go down.

His gaze settled on the staircase. For some reason, a powerful aversion and fear welled up within him. It was as though something terrible waited below, and once he went down, there would be no turning back.

He retreated into the room and searched once more for clues, but the small space could be taken in at a glance. Other than the old chair in the corner, there was nothing. Unwilling to give up, he even felt along the walls and scraped at the plaster. There was no hidden door or compartment. Then he laboriously stood atop the three-legged chair to look higher, but there was nothing on the fluorescent light either—no hidden note, camera, or anything else.

With a grim expression, Xiao Chun returned to the doorway. Outside, it was still perfectly quiet. The gray walls on all sides resembled four expressionless faces, watching him struggle as he might; in the end, he still had to set out toward the staircase fate had prepared for him.

At last, Xiao Chun sighed, straightened his lapels, and swept a cool fingertip over the disheveled hair on his forehead. He muttered to himself, "If I die, I die."

He walked toward the staircase and looked down. Below was pitch-black, without a trace of light.

He called out again and heard only his own echo.

Then he gritted his teeth, stepped forward, and slowly descended the stairs, clutching the chair leg.

After he left the eighth floor, its only security door slammed shut on its own with a bang.