The figure of 3,000 per mannequin hit Chen Ge like a cold splash of water, and he coughed involuntarily, his hand drifting to the backpack where roughly 20,000 in cash from the Ping An Apartment reward lay folded. He forced his voice to remain steady, betraying none of the sudden pinch in his wallet. "Money is not a problem," he said, "but the new scenario opens in a few days—no, the day after tomorrow. I need the mannequins finished by then. You mentioned a lack of employees, but do you at least have the materials on site?" The question was sharp, practical, cutting straight to the heart of the issue. The workshop boss blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone, unsure why Chen Ge was suddenly fixating on raw stock rather than labor.
"I do," the boss replied, scratching the back of his neck. "Plenty of resin, silicone, joint mechanisms—everything's here. If you give us a few extra days, I promise the quality will satisfy you." His voice carried the weary optimism of someone clinging to a fading business, hopeful that this order might breathe life into the dying workshop. But Chen Ge's expression didn't soften; the timeline was non-negotiable. The black phone's Hidden Mission for Mu Yang High School loomed large, its completion tied to housing the twenty-four lingering spirits, and every delay risked failure. The Haunted House's reputation—and his own progress—depended on launching the new scenario on schedule.
Chen Ge's gaze hardened. "The new scenario opens the day after tomorrow. There can be no delay." His words were final, leaving no room for negotiation. The boss's shoulders slumped, the weight of his struggling business pressing down on him. "We're not doing well—you saw the 'FOR RENT/SALE' sign, didn't you? I used to handle designs; the workers did the rest. But with no large orders, I had to let them go to cut costs." He hesitated, unwilling to lose the deal. "How about this—I'll call them tonight, get them back on short notice. We can rush the order in a week. That's the best I can do." His voice carried a plea, a last-ditch effort to salvage both the order and his workshop's fading relevance.
"A week is still too long," Chen Ge countered, his tone unwavering. "I need them the day after tomorrow." The boss exhaled a helpless sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Even at full speed, with everyone back, I could only manage three or four mannequins by then. The process—molding, curing, joint assembly—it takes time." His honesty was tinged with regret, the reality of his understaffed operation laid bare. Chen Ge's mind raced, the black phone's missions teaching him to adapt, to find solutions where others saw dead ends. "You have the materials but not the workers," he said, setting his backpack down with purpose. "How about this: lend me your workshop for twenty-four hours. You just need to prepare the materials."
The boss stared, his mouth slightly open. "Huh?" The proposal hung in the air, absurd yet strangely compelling. As the conversation veered into uncharted territory, the boss struggled to keep up, his mind still processing the idea of a customer taking over his workspace. "Then… what am I supposed to do?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and curiosity. Chen Ge's eyes swept the cavernous room, already mapping out the workflow. "Just stand aside and watch," he said confidently. "You have no other customers, right? Once this place sells, the materials will be discarded or sold cheap. Why not lease the workshop to me for a day? I'll buy the materials at market price—no loss for you." His logic was airtight, turning the boss's desperation into opportunity.
The boss mulled it over, his initial wariness giving way to reluctant agreement. Chen Ge's confidence was infectious, and the offer carried no real risk. "Alright," he said finally, nodding with difficulty. "But I need a 10,000 deposit. I'll deduct the material costs and return the rest when you're done." His voice was cautious, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of hope—this deal might be the workshop's last hurrah. Chen Ge didn't hesitate, counting out the cash and handing it over. "Deal," he said, sealing the agreement. The transaction was swift, and with the deposit paid, Chen Ge stepped into the workspace, the vast room now his temporary domain, its tools and materials a canvas for the Dollmaker's Talent.
The workshop was a treasure trove of equipment—molds, sculpting tools, curing ovens, and joint mechanisms scattered across the floor in organized chaos. The scale of the space dwarfed the Haunted House's props room, offering everything Chen Ge needed to bring his vision to life. "You sure you want to do this yourself?" the boss asked, still hovering with hesitation. "I can help if you need it—I've got nothing else going on." His offer was genuine, a mix of curiosity and a desire to stay involved in what promised to be an unusual project. Chen Ge nodded, appreciating the gesture. "Then I'll thank you in advance," he said, his mind already shifting to the task. His internship at a toy factory had familiarized him with sculpting and assembly, and the black phone's Dollmaker's Talent would elevate his skills to supernatural precision.
A plan formed as Chen Ge toured the workshop, his fingers brushing over the tools with growing excitement. To craft twenty-four life-sized, jointed mannequins in a single day, he needed reference—exact likenesses of the Mu Yang High School students whose spirits lingered in the scenario. He pulled out his phone and dialed Inspector Lee, his voice calm but urgent. "Uncle Lee, I need a favor. It's about Mu Yang High School." The line went quiet for a moment, Inspector Lee's familiar wariness palpable. "The station closed that case. Why are you still obsessed with the school?" he asked, his tone heavy with concern. Every call from Chen Ge seemed to carry the promise of trouble, and the inspector braced himself for the worst.
"It's not about the case," Chen Ge reassured him, keeping his true intentions vague. "I just need something specific." Inspector Lee's voice grew stern. "Stop getting involved with that school. The main city's investigation uncovered a darker history there—before it was even built." The warning piqued Chen Ge's interest, but he didn't press. "You misunderstand—I'm not meddling in police business. You mentioned a class accident before. Do you have a photo of all twenty-four students?" The request was unusual, and Inspector Lee's silence stretched long. "Have you lost your mind? Why do you need that?" he finally asked, suspicion lacing his words. Chen Ge's plan—to craft vessels for the lingering spirits—was too fantastical to explain. "It's important, but I can't say why yet. I swear it's not malicious," he said, his voice earnest.
The line remained silent for what felt like an eternity before Inspector Lee relented. "Don't do anything stupid. Call me if you find something. I'll check the files." Chen Ge exhaled, relieved. Ten minutes later, a message arrived—a group photo of twenty-six people, the only image in the police records. A bespectacled senior sat in the center, with twenty-five students standing behind him, their faces frozen in time. "This makes things much easier," Chen Ge said, thanking the boss and gesturing for him to step back. He carved a rough head shape from the clay, its contours guided by the photo's details. With a deep breath, he activated the Dollmaker's Talent, the black phone's reward surging through him like a current, his hands moving with unnatural precision as the workshop transformed into a crucible of creation.
The Dollmaker's Talent coursed through Chen Ge's veins like liquid fire, sharpening every sense and guiding his fingers with surgical precision. He selected a set of carving knives from the boss's cluttered workbench—fine-edged, medium, and broad—and began sculpting the first clay skull. The photograph from Inspector Lee lay propped against a canister of resin; the student's face, frozen in a yearbook smile, served as his blueprint. In under four minutes, the clay took on the exact contours of cheekbones, the subtle dip beneath the eyes, the slight asymmetry of the jaw. His hands fluttered like twin butterflies, each flick of the wrist shaving away microscopic imperfections. The boss stood transfixed, mouth half-open, as if watching a master painter condense a lifetime of technique into a single, breathless stroke. The workshop's fluorescent lights glinted off the blades, casting fleeting shadows that danced across the clay like specters eager to inhabit their new vessels.
When the skull was complete, Chen Ge dipped a damp sponge into a bowl of water and glided it over the surface with the reverence of a surgeon closing an incision. Dust and clay particles dissolved, revealing a texture so eerily lifelike that the boss instinctively stepped back. Under the harsh workshop bulbs, the clay gleamed with a faint, moist sheen—almost like freshly scrubbed skin. Chen Ge repeated the process for the next skull, then the next, his rhythm unbroken. The air grew thick with the scent of wet earth and latent possibility. Twenty-four faces stared back from the counter, each one a silent promise to the lingering spirits of Mu Yang High School. The boss swallowed audibly, unsure whether to applaud or flee.
With the skulls aligned in neat rows, Chen Ge mixed a batch of sticky plaster and sprayed it in thin, even coats. The chemical hiss filled the workshop, a white mist settling over the clay like morning fog. "One hour to cure," he muttered, wiping his hands on a rag. Rather than idle, he moved to the next station—prepping silicone sheets, measuring joint mechanisms, and labeling filler canisters. Time was a luxury he refused to waste. The black phone vibrated faintly in his pocket, a silent reminder that Hai Ming Apartments waited, but Chen Ge silenced it with a glance. The Hidden Mission and the Trial Mission were threads of the same tapestry; one could not be rushed at the expense of the other.
Ninety minutes later, the plaster shells cracked open like eggshells. Chen Ge peeled them away with practiced care, revealing hardened clay heads that now possessed an uncanny weight. He brushed on liquid latex in translucent layers, each coat drying to a flexible, skin-like membrane. Into the hollow core of each head he threaded a bendable aluminum rod—spines for the soon-to-be mannequins. Filler followed, injected through a syringe-like nozzle until the heads achieved the heft of real flesh. From rough clay to finished mannequin head, the entire process took exactly ten minutes per unit. Twenty-four heads lined the counter, their latex faces glistening under the lights, eyes still hollow but mouths curved in faint, frozen smiles. The boss stared, transfixed, as if expecting one to blink.
"It's getting late," Chen Ge said, rinsing clay from his forearms at the industrial sink. "Take this 10,000 as deposit for the materials. Don't touch anything in the work area—I'll return tomorrow to finish the bodies and joints." Water sluiced over his skin, carrying away flecks of clay like blood from a fresh wound. The boss nodded mutely, clutching the cash with trembling fingers. "I won't go near them," he whispered, eyes darting to the counter. He had crafted countless mannequins in his career, but these were different—too real, too alive. The hollow eye sockets seemed to follow him, and he shivered despite the workshop's chill.
Chen Ge shouldered his backpack, the weight of the mallet and rope a familiar comfort against his spine. He climbed the concrete steps, emerging into the dusk-lit street where the air smelled of frying dough and exhaust. A taxi idled at the curb; he slid into the back seat and gave the driver the address for Hai Ming Apartments. The city blurred past—neon signs flickering to life, pedestrians thinning as the older district loomed. Towering billboards gave way to squat, weathered buildings, their facades cracked like old skin. The driver navigated narrow alleys with practiced ease, finally pulling up before a five-story apartment block shrouded in shadow. Chen Ge paid the fare and stepped onto the cracked pavement, the black phone warm against his thigh. Eight o'clock approached, and somewhere in Room 303, Men Nan's nightmare—and the Third Sick Hall's echo—waited.