Chen Ge's face hovered mere inches from the mirror, so close that the cold glass seemed to breathe against his skin, amplifying every chilling detail of the figure reflected within. The blood-soaked school uniform clung to her lithe frame, the fresh crimson staining it so vividly that it outlined her curves with a grotesque intimacy. Her face remained veiled by a cascade of matted black hair, but the exposed patches of her skin were unnaturally pale, almost luminescent, exuding an eerie, otherworldly allure that sent a shiver of both dread and fascination through him.
Blood seeped through the delicate fabric of her school uniform, the damp cloth clinging tightly to her skin. If one looked closely, the faint outline of her nipples was just visible beneath. Her disheveled hair obscured her face, and the pale slivers of exposed flesh looked unnaturally white—almost ghostly.
His limbs felt leaden, as if the air itself had thickened to hold him captive, and the warped light from his phone's screen twisted the scene into a nightmarish tableau. Summoning every shred of willpower, Chen Ge steadied his trembling lips, forcing out a whisper that felt like a plea. "Zhang Ya?"
The name hung in the air, and as if stirred by his voice, the figure in the mirror began to move. Her head lifted slowly, the curtain of hair parting to reveal the faintest glimpse of an unmarred, porcelain face—hauntingly beautiful yet devoid of warmth. But before her eyes could meet his, a mist clouded the mirror's surface, obscuring her form. She took a single step forward, and then she was gone, the reflection dissolving into an empty, rippling void. Chen Ge's breath caught, his pulse hammering in his ears. Where did she go?
He stared, transfixed, as the mirror seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Then, something even more unsettling occurred. His shadow, cast by the phone's flickering light, began to shift independently. It rose from the floor, elongating to a height of about 1.7 meters, taking on a distinctly feminine silhouette. A faint dripping sound, like blood pooling on the ground, filled the silence, and the shadow started to bleed color—vivid scarlet seeping into its form, shaping a blood-drenched uniform that clung to a slender body. Chen Ge's heart lurched, his body rooted to the spot as a bone-deep chill crept up his spine, radiating from his back to his brain. The red shadow took another step, pressing itself against him, back to back, its icy presence a tangible weight that made his skin prickle with goosebumps.
The sensation was overwhelming, a suffocating mix of terror and an inexplicable intimacy. Is she… stuck to me? Standing back-to-back with a Red Specter in the dead of night, in an abandoned dance studio, was a scenario that teetered on the edge of madness. He gasped, but the air felt thin, as if the specter's presence was siphoning his breath. A cold, delicate touch grazed his fingers, sending a jolt through him. He didn't dare turn, didn't dare confirm what—or who—was behind him. His frozen hand loosened, and his phone slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor. The screen flickered twice before plunging the studio into near-total darkness, save for the faint, eerie glow emanating from the mirror.
His mind swirled with dark, fragmented thoughts. His hand tightened around something round and supple, the warmth and elasticity unmistakable. Zhang Ya's hips, he realized. Behind her, the girl's dark hair swayed with movement, her locks tangling with Chen Ge's own—a grotesque intimacy between the living and the spectral.
In the blackness, the coldness at his back intensified, spreading like frost across his body. Chen Ge's mind raced, conjuring images he couldn't bear to dwell on: 2 a.m., an abandoned school, a towering mirror, and a Red Specter pressed against him. This could be romantic, in a twisted way, he thought, a hysterical edge to his reasoning, as if humor could shield him from the terror. Something gripped his hand tighter, its touch both frigid and possessive, while silken strands—her hair, he realized with a shudder—began to entwine with his own, binding them together in a chilling embrace. What does she want? My mission is to find her red dancing shoes before dawn, but I can't move.
His body remained paralyzed, his eyes locked on the mirror, the only anchor in the suffocating darkness. Seconds ticked by, and then, faintly, shapes began to form within the glass—fuzzy at first, like figures emerging from fog. Chen Ge's eyes widened as the shadows sharpened, revealing five young women in pristine school uniforms, their laughter echoing faintly as they entered the dance studio. Their attire was starkly different from the tattered, bloodied rags of the chair-bound students he'd encountered earlier, suggesting these were echoes of a past long buried. Are these the same girls trapped in the chairs? he wondered, his mind grappling with the implications.
In the mirror's reflection, five shapely girls stepped into the dance studio, their pristine uniforms a stark contrast to the grime and decay of the present. The scene captured in the glass was a relic of the past, a fleeting moment preserved in time.
The five women moved with carefree ease, chatting animatedly as they approached the mirror, their reflections pristine and untouched by the horrors Chen Ge had witnessed. Moments later, Zhang Ya appeared in the scene, her presence distinct even in this spectral memory. Though she wore the same uniform, her demeanor set her apart—graceful yet solitary, her posture radiating a quiet strength that drew the eye. In her hands, she carried a familiar bag, one Chen Ge recognized from the girls' dressing room, containing five candy boxes. Her expression was bright, almost hopeful, a stark contrast to the vengeful specter he knew her to be.
Zhang Ya hurried into the dressing room with a lightness in her step, her bag of candy boxes clutched tightly, as if they were a precious offering. The five other women—young adults, all at least eighteen, their vibrant energy a stark contrast to the tormented specters Chen Ge had encountered—continued their chatter, their voices a melodic hum that filled the dance studio with a deceptive warmth. Moments later, the six emerged, transformed into ethereal figures in their ballet dresses, the delicate fabric shimmering under the studio's soft lights. The five women formed a tight clique, their movements synchronized, their laughter a private melody that excluded Zhang Ya. She trailed behind, her solitude a silent weight, her ballet dress accentuating her graceful form yet underscoring her isolation. Her eyes, though bright, held a flicker of yearning, a quiet hope that seemed to go unnoticed by her peers.
The training session unfolded with disciplined precision, the women gliding across the polished floor in a series of elegant pirouettes and arabesques. Zhang Ya danced with a haunting intensity, her movements flawless yet imbued with a melancholy that set her apart. The five others, absorbed in their own camaraderie, barely acknowledged her, their glances dismissive, their smiles reserved for each other. Chen Ge's heart clenched, a surge of empathy cutting through the icy fear that still gripped him. She was an outsider, even among her own team. What did they do to her? The mirror's vision was a window into Zhang Ya's past, a cruel prelude to the resentment that had forged her into a Red Specter.
The studio door swung open, and a female teacher entered, her presence commanding yet warm. She held a certificate emblazoned with Swan Lake, its gold lettering catching the light as she waved it proudly. Her voice, though muffled in the spectral memory, carried an infectious enthusiasm, her gestures animated as she addressed the group. The five women clustered around her, their faces alight with pride, basking in her praise for their recent competition victory. Zhang Ya lingered at the edge, her smile faint, her posture slightly hunched as if to make herself smaller. The teacher's gaze swept over her but didn't linger, her attention consumed by the others. Zhang Ya's fingers tightened around her bag, and Chen Ge caught a fleeting shadow of hurt in her eyes—a wound that seemed to deepen with every passing second.
The scene shifted subtly, the light in the mirror dimming as the teacher's voice faded. The five women began to unpack their candy boxes, their laughter growing sharper, their glances toward Zhang Ya laced with something darker—mockery, perhaps, or disdain. Zhang Ya approached, offering her own box with a tentative smile, but one of the women waved her off, her gesture dismissive, her lips curling into a smirk. The others giggled, their voices a cruel chorus that seemed to echo beyond the mirror, resonating with the studio's oppressive silence. Zhang Ya's smile faltered, her hand retreating as she clutched the bag to her chest, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Chen Ge's breath hitched, the cold presence at his back intensifying, as if Zhang Ya's spectral form was reacting to the memory. The mirror's images grew hazy, the figures distorting as the scene fast-forwarded to a later moment. The studio was now empty, save for Zhang Ya, who stood before the mirror—the very one Chen Ge faced now—her ballet dress replaced by her school uniform, now pristine but soon to be stained with blood. Her hands trembled as she slipped on a pair of ruby-red dancing shoes, their vibrant hue a stark contrast to the muted tones of the studio. She began to dance, her movements fluid yet frantic, as if driven by an unseen force. The mirror reflected her solitary performance, but something was wrong—her steps grew erratic, her body swaying as if fighting an invisible restraint.
A low, guttural sound emanated from the mirror, and Chen Ge realized with a jolt that it was coming from behind him, from the specter pressed against his back. The red dancing shoes in the vision glowed brighter, their crimson hue pulsing like a heartbeat. Zhang Ya's dance became a desperate struggle, her legs moving against her will, her face contorted in terror. The five women reappeared in the mirror, their faces no longer laughing but twisted with malice, their hands clutching objects Chen Ge couldn't quite discern—perhaps the candy boxes, now symbols of betrayal. They circled Zhang Ya, their voices a venomous whisper, and the mirror's surface rippled violently, the scene dissolving into a blood-red haze.
Chen Ge's body shuddered, the cold grip on his hand tightening until it was almost painful. The studio's darkness seemed to close in, the mirror now reflecting only his own pale, terrified face—and the faint outline of Zhang Ya's bloodied form behind him. Her hair, still entwined with his, brushed against his neck, and a whisper—so soft it might have been his imagination—slithered into his ear: Find them. The words carried a weight that crushed his resolve, a command that left no room for defiance. His mission—to locate Zhang Ya's red dancing shoes before dawn—was now a matter of survival, not just for him but to appease the vengeful specter whose wrath could consume him whole.
The mirror flickered, and a new image emerged: the dressing room, its lockers ajar, the bag of candy boxes spilled across the floor. At the far end, near a cracked mirror, lay a pair of red dancing shoes, their surface gleaming with an unnatural luster, as if soaked in fresh blood. Chen Ge's heart raced. They're there. But how do I reach them with her behind me? The specter's presence was a constant threat, her cold touch a reminder that any misstep could be his last. Swallowing his fear, he bent slowly to retrieve his phone, its screen cracked but still functional. The light it cast revealed the studio's grim reality: the chair-bound students, their white dancing shoes now tinged with red, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of fear and accusation. Zhang Ya's shadow loomed larger, her intent clear—she demanded justice, and Chen Ge was her instrument, whether he willed it or not.