The smartphone's screen erupted in cold blue light at 2:44 AM, casting jagged shadows across the cluttered art studio. Lin Che's paint-stained fingers froze over his half-finished canvas—a grotesque fusion of human faces and circuit boards. The incoming video call ID displayed his father's old work number, the one etched on the tombstone they'd visited three years ago after the plane crash.
A drop of crimson acrylic paint splattered onto the ringing device as his trembling thumb hit Accept.
"Happy birthday, Xiao Che." The figure pixelated through static, yet unmistakably Father—same salt-and-pepper stubble, same lab coat with the missing third button. But the hospital hallway behind him writhed with digital decay. Ceiling panels dripped molten code, while an overturned IV stand grew metallic tentacles that scratched at the bleeding walls.
"Your brother...has the key..." Father's voice stuttered like corrupted audio. Lin Che's eidetic memory instantly flagged the anomalies: the pocket watch chain dangling from Father's wrist (buried with him), the fresh scar along his jawline (acquired post-mortem), and the faint *click-click* of a second camera shutter somewhere beyond the frame.
The studio door burst open as Lin Shen entered, his smart glasses flickering with emergency alerts. "Who the hell are you talking to at..." His voice died when he saw the screen. The brothers' reflections glitched in the smartphone's surface—Lin Shen's analytical gaze dissecting every pixel while Lin Che's pupils dilated with manic recognition.
"Don't you see? He's been trapped in some sort of digital purgatory!" Lin Che's finger stabbed at the frozen timestamp on the hospital's wall-mounted clock. "The same 2:44 from my nightmare last..."
"Enough!" Lin Shen snatched the phone, his glasses revealing what raw eyes couldn't perceive—the caller's IP address cycling through global locations every 0.7 seconds. "This is a psychological warfare program. Advanced deepfake layered with..."
A drop of blood splashed onto the phone between them.
Lin Che's nosebleed hit the screen just as Father's image disintegrated into screaming static. The studio lights exploded in a shower of sparks, plunging them into darkness lit only by the phone's dying glow. In that final flicker, Lin Che's hyperthymesia caught the crucial detail—the reflection in Father's left eye. Not the hospital hallway, but a concrete room lined with glass cylinders where shadowy figures floated in amber liquid.
When emergency lights buzzed to life, the brothers found themselves standing in a ring of melted electronics. The air reeked of burnt vanilla—Mother's signature scent from her lab days. Lin Shen's glasses displayed a new notification: Biological Signature Authenticated - Welcome, Dr. Lin Yizhou.
"Your heart rate." Lin Shen's voice cut through the humming silence. His glasses now projected a holographic readout between them—Lin Che's vital signs superimposed over the studio floor. "It's been tachycardic since 2:44. Whatever that was...it's rewiring your nervous system."
Lin Che wiped blood on his jeans, the stain spreading like a Rorschach inkblot. "Then why aren't you affected?" He gestured at the hologram's stable green waveforms representing his brother.
The answer came in a mechanical whirr. Lin Shen's glasses suddenly emitted a piercing frequency that shattered nearby windows. Through the broken glass, the night sky revealed constellations rearranged into the exact pattern of Father's birthmark—a configuration impossible in their hemisphere.
As police sirens wailed in the distance, Lin Che's phone vibrated with a delayed notification—1 Voicemail Received. He pressed play to hear Father's distorted whisper: "...the seventh patient holds the..." before the message devolved into the distinct crying of a newborn.
But the true horror manifested in Lin Shen's silent realization. His glasses' playback function showed what the naked eye had missed—during the call, their shadows hadn't moved with them. Those inky silhouettes remained frozen in pleading postures, mouths open in eternal screams, while the brothers argued.
Somewhere in the city, a hospital's abandoned neonatal unit flickered to life. Incubators hummed as their glass lids etched with glowing hexagrams began cycling through countdown timers—all set to expire in 99 days.