Chapter 277: Nightmare

Kraft and Yvonne returned to the clinic; their hair was half-dried by the wind, and from appearance alone, they looked like teachers who had skipped work to take students on a camping trip, slipped accidentally into a mountain stream, and hastily packed up to return early.

He declined everyone's offers to carry the packages, instructed them to prepare a late-night snack and a fire, then vanished up the stairs.

Kup, who arrived upon hearing the news, heard only the sound of the door closing.

The attendant and assistant shrugged, set down the instruments he was disinfecting, washed his hands, and walked toward the kitchen, asking the chef also working late to prepare two more bowls of hot soup, with extra cinnamon.

After finishing their tasks, the group sat at the table sharing food, waiting for the professor to finish his work and return to explain his absence and review recent reports.

As Yvonne, who remained silent, began her third bowl of soup, Kup realized tonight might be different.

If there was one person most suited to leave the table at this moment, it was him.

So the professor's assistant set down his bowl, rose, and walked to the door, stepping on the newly repaired floorboards, only to find the light still on inside.

He raised his hand to knock, but stopped inches from the door. The room was utterly silent—no splashing, no footsteps, not even the faint tapping of a brass pen nib against the desk through paper.

He wasn't sure when he'd become so sensitive—perhaps from days of forced repetition in medical work, training his ears to reflexively distinguish subtle differences in sound.

Or perhaps something lurking beneath his conscious awareness. Like after finishing cleaning, being the last to leave a darkened ward, noticing the front door slightly ajar, air rushing through its creaking crack blowing against the flickering candle of his lantern.

Behind that door lay nothing—or perhaps the breath of an entire dark, damp world passing by, triggering an instinct to retreat, then later leaving one puzzled by the sudden, unexplained fear.

He pulled his hand back, shielding the flame; the warmth in his palm neared pain, yet brought comfort.

Perhaps the person inside was simply too exhausted and fell asleep without turning off the light—uncommon, but understandable, given the state of his clothes, clearly from a difficult journey.

Recognizing this was good—it spared waking someone already asleep, and any matter could wait until tomorrow.

Yet he still stood at the door for a moment, waiting for the next sound—if there truly would be one.

He'd learned this from auscultation: not every sound appears precisely when you press the stethoscope to the skin; sometimes you must wait through several cycles.

He did hear it—a very low sound, even fainter than his own breath and heartbeat.

Through the door, the porous sound-absorbing material, the special container—it retained its crisp, original tone. It was the sound of something hard striking glass, rhythmic, one tap after another.

Because it was so regular, it was easy to ignore, filtered out as background noise—but listen closely, and you could tell it came from inside the room.

It made him imagine a tidal shore, tiny creatures activated by water opening and closing their hard shells, generating an endless rhythm.

And the "tide" was still rising—an invasion of the familiar by another environment, rising like tide, spreading like mist, filling the room invisibly, rippling and diffusing.

Kup felt the surroundings had grown strange. He hadn't moved—he stood on a floor he'd walked countless times, the repaired boards still bearing his own labor—but now it had become a shoreline, he was immersed in invisible tide, viewing everything through a layer of transparent liquid, everything subtly altered.

The crisp tapping grew faster, as if celebrating the tide's arrival.

Kup took a deep breath and began to retreat, then moved faster, turned, and hurried downstairs, interrupting Yvonne's meal and pulling her to the door.

Something had happened—but he needed someone else to confirm it.

The answer was yes: Yvonne suddenly clapped her hands over her ears, then released them, glancing around as if something had screamed abruptly beside her ear, then vanished instantly.

Clearly, Kraft could not continue sleeping.

"Mr. Kraft, are you in there?" He pounded hard on the door; the thuds echoed through the entire corridor.

In response to the pounding came a sound like ticking clocks—on top of the previous one, a second source activated, striking the glass at a different frequency, like two stirring rods swinging back and forth inside a glass vessel, tapping the walls.

"No, no good." Kup reached for his left waist, realizing the page hammer was not on him—these days' work made carrying weapons impractical; even the most sluggish patient wouldn't mistake it for medical equipment.

But there was a better way than the hammer: "Yvonne, we need to get in."

Without needing further instruction, Yvonne pressed her hand against the door; the sound of strained, sour wood fibers warping leaked out.

Kup quickly corrected her technique: "Not in the center—push near the lock."

As the girl adjusted her stance, leaning her full weight sideways against the door, the wood began to shift inward; a tearing sound like paper ripping came from the frame, accompanied by the clatter of small metal fittings falling and rolling.

When the deformation reached a critical point, the hinge snapped sharply; half the wooden doorframe tore free from the wall, and Yvonne, unable to stop her momentum, stumbled forward with the detached door, collapsing onto the floor with it.

【Broken—this door opens outward】

Now was not the time to dwell on this minor error. Kup immediately scanned the room; upon seeing the figure sitting at the desk with its back to them, he exhaled in relief.

The noise of their entry stirred a reaction from the figure—it tilted its head slightly, as if a reflexive response to external change within a dream, then fell still again.

"Mr. Kraft?" The attendant called again. The man showed no reaction to his name. His throat itched; a faint sour taste surged up through his nasal passages, mixed with another indescribable flavor—the invisible tide seeping into the room brushed against his taste buds and olfactory senses.

And the source of the "tide" sat right at the desk. On the table lay a locked box storing hazardous reagents—the crisp tapping came from within.

He did not dare place a hand on the shoulder of someone seemingly lost in a dream—it might provoke an extreme reaction, especially from someone far more advanced than himself.

Instead, he carefully circled to the front.

Externally, the man merely looked exhausted—his half-dry clothes still on, whatever important and urgent matter he'd stored away had been properly secured, and now he'd finally relaxed, intending to rest briefly in his chair before going down for dinner.

But the moment his head touched the support, irresistible sleep seized his consciousness, and with it came other things.

Kup slammed his palm on the desk; objects on the surface trembled and settled. "Kraft!"

This time, perhaps close enough—within his self-defense range—Kraft's eyelids snapped open, his left hand rising. Kup felt something forming around them, but as consciousness returned halfway, it halted.

"Kraft..." he repeated the word he'd heard; his gaze was not focused where it should be, as if for an instant he questioned his own name, "Oh, Kup—has the late-night snack been prepared?"

"Are you alright?"

"I suppose so." Kraft straightened his back, glancing at the quiet box on the desk, "Did I just fall asleep?"

"Did you dream of anything?"

"Nothing." Kraft replied. Kup saw no signs of tension or seriousness on his face, and relaxed slightly.

"Just over there."