In Shanghai, a city surrounded by fireworks, Zhuang Sen lives an ordinary nine-to-five life as an advertising company employee. The small rental house is filled with design drafts and instant noodle boxes. One day after get off work, an unsigned package lay quietly at the door. The material looked like leather but was filled with chill. The moment it was opened, time and space were distorted, and the smell of decay and disinfectant water came over. In front of me was the dim front hall of an abandoned nursing home. The chandelier was crumbling, wires were hanging like dead vines, the tiles on the floor were broken, moss was spreading wantonly, and there was an old wheelchair tilting in the corner. The creaking sound was like the whisper of a resentful spirit, starting a thrilling unknown.
