A suffocating feeling.
A powerful stench of rotting wood and fresh, earthy soil rudely flooded her nostrils.
Shen Zhiwei’s eyelids twitched violently.
What kind of international joke was this?
Wasn’t she supposed to be in her feng shui studio, staying up late to study an old compass said to date back to the Ming dynasty, which she’d picked up at Panjiayuan? How had she ended up... here?
She tried to move her fingers. They felt something cold and rough: some kind of hemp rope. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her wrists burned from the chafing.
She couldn’t move.
The space was so cramped it was outrageous; her knees nearly touched her chin. Everything around her was pitch-black and dead silent, except for her own heart pounding like a war drum being struck in a frantic rhythm.
This was a box.
A box... big enough for a person.
In an instant,
a ridiculous, terrifying word flashed through her mind like lightning.
A coffin.
She had transmigrated.
And from the start, she was facing hell mode: being buried alive.
“Little sister, rest in peace... It’s all my fault for not realizing sooner that you were possessed by an evil spirit. Now you’ve ended up... ah...”
A woman’s voice drifted faintly through the thick wooden boards. Her sobs were carefully restrained, and every word sounded like poison wrapped in honey, so sickly sweet it made you want to throw up.
So fake.
The corner of Shen Zhiwei’s mouth silently curved into a mocking smile. As a twenty-first-century psychologist and feng shui master specializing in “paranormal phenomena,” she had heard more “sincere apologies” than this woman had eaten bowls of rice. This level of acting was worse than the beggar singing outside her studio.
