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Lucifer resigned. After completing the formalities and signing the 3,742 rules, he came to the human world and rented an old store with a monthly rent of 3,000. Next door is the nine-tailed fox's nail salon, at the entrance of the alley is the werewolf's delivery station, and opposite is the vampire's dental clinic. He thought it was okay here - warmer than the ninth level of hell. He began to learn to use a mop, learn to pay utility bills, and learn to be an ordinary tavern owner in the world. But there are some things that you can't just retire if you want to. On the other side of hell, someone is waiting for him to return. There are some doors on this side of the world that should not be pushed open. And Lucifer just wants to ask one question: When will this glass of wine give me a headache?

I'm an investigative reporter. After waking up at 3:33 in the morning for three consecutive days, I received a text message: [Dear patient, your appointment registration has been successful. Please go to the self-service machine in the outpatient hall of the Third Municipal People's Hospital before 22:00 this Saturday to pick up your appointment. Overdue admission will automatically be transferred to emergency room. The hospital has been closed for three years. But the call machine actually spit out my registration slip, number 047. The "Inpatient Code of Conduct" on the wall has 10 rules. There are also 8 red supplementary clauses posted on the back of the bed board. Hidden deep in the archives are 5 meta-rules. The rules contradict each other. Consequences for violations escalate. One wrong step and the pupils will turn gray. Make three wrong moves and you'll forget who you are. Take five wrong steps and you'll be wearing a hospital gown, pushing a mop, and walking up and down the corridor at 4:00 in the morning, never reaching the end. They told me: I can be discharged as long as I follow the rules. But what they didn't tell me was that people who followed the rules completely became nurses. There is a line in my medical record: [Patient's statement: Everything is normal. But that's my handwriting. I don't remember writing this sentence. What's even more frightening is that this line was written at 2:00 in the morning. The ward rounds are from 2:00 to 4:00 in the morning. I had to lie in bed with the door open and my eyes closed. Someone put their hand on my forehead. Then my hands began to write medical records. It's helping me write my diagnosis. I need to be discharged from the hospital. However, the medical records room is on the second floor, and the emergency channel is only open when someone is "rescued ineffectively."