Can I live in a well-decorated house for 600 yuan per month? Only when Lin Qiu moved in did he find out that every tenant in this apartment would not survive more than three months. The rules handed over by the administrator read: Pretend to sleep after midnight, don't touch the neighbors, and change the locks every month—until he saw with his own eyes the old woman in Room 204 wiping the blood seeping from the crack of the door with her eyeballs.
There are three new scratches under the bed every day. My phone receives a warning text message from the tenant ten years ago. The management card shows that he died in 2003. When Lin Qiu discovered that the heavy rain outside the window was a projection playing in a loop, and the time in the entire building was 17 minutes slower than reality, a new code suddenly emerged: "Now you are the administrator."
There are monsters in rubber shoes wandering in the damp corridors, the black-haired "former administrator" is locked in an iron cage in the basement, and all the exits have become load-bearing walls at some point. The old tenant reminded him with a sinister smile: "Be careful who you shake hands with." Lin Qiu raised his left hand, and the black lines on his palm were swallowing up the blood vessels.
Every rule here is a lie, and behind every door lies a corpse of time. When black hair began to leak out of the closet, Lin Qiu finally discovered that the real rules were written on the palm of his left hand that was gradually decaying.
