This City Is Not Normal

Something happens every day in this city. It doesn't call the police or make the news, but someone remembers it. In the ward at the end of the corridor on the sixth floor of the inpatient department of the People's Hospital, at 2:17 in the middle of the night, the door will open a crack on time. The monitoring will jump one frame at this point in time. In the skipped frame, no one can tell whether the door is closed or open. There is a four-corner game hidden in the unfinished building. Some people walked around blindfolded for a few times and didn't remember anything after they came out. But there was an extra thing on the back of his neck, hidden under the skin, growing quietly and getting bigger day by day. The drain at the car wash was clogged three times, and the things I pulled out became stranger and weirder each time. These things are scattered all over the city, seemingly unrelated. The insurance policy signed by the gambler, the medical records that disappeared from the hospital, and the man in a black suit standing motionless in front of a certain door. There is a line between them, but most people can't see it. There are millions of people living in this city, and there are only three or four people who can connect them together. Or even less.