"Restricted superpower user, number 1002—'Ji Minghuan', mentor visit, prepare for interrogation immediately."
From the ceiling, a cold, harsh command echoed from the speaker-like broadcast equipment, breaking the long-standing silence that shrouded the confinement room. Rows of blazing white lights lit up, with cold light spreading across every corner of the room.
A series of highly aggressive noises, like a sudden rainstorm, fell onto a deserted lake, stirring the fish resting at the bottom.
On the plain, thin bed, Ji Minghuan, lying on his side like a fish, awoke from his dream.
He slowly turned over, his gaunt face facing the ceiling.
The eyelids of the young boy in hospital clothes fluttered slightly, as if the overwhelming light was too dazzling.
His bloodless lips slightly parted as he yawned, then stiffly and sluggishly, like a machine executing a predetermined program, raised his hand to rub his temples.
"Might as well be dead..."
He murmured softly, sighing listlessly. His right hand, rubbing his nose bridge, slowly dropped back to his pillow, hanging listlessly like a broken kite over the edge of the bed.
He lay there, as still as a corpse, for a while until annoying footsteps echoed in his ears, ending his short five-second return to sleep, abruptly opening his heavy eyelids.
Blink.
His scattered pupils contracted in response to the cold light, and his retinas focused instantly.
Raising his clear eyes, the young boy in hospital clothes stared motionlessly at the familiar, silvery white ceiling.
Ji Minghuan focused on the surveillance camera beneath the ceiling.
He was expressionless, as if still half-asleep, listening to the approaching footsteps, his nose slightly twitching.
This was likely due to his exceptionally keen sense of smell, resembling that of a small animal. Consequently, his first impression of someone was often the scent, followed by other aspects—truthfully speaking, he didn't quite favor the "mentor's" suffocating smell of disinfectant, which made him feel the person was somewhat pretentious and always reminded him of the doctors from the welfare institute who regularly came to inject immune serums into the children. They always wore masks, revealing only cold brows and noses, holding syringes, their aloofness unmistakable.
Relying on the scent perceived by his nose to confirm the visitor, Ji Minghuan turned his head from the pillow, glancing at the entrance of the confinement room.
In his view, the partition doors made of unknown metal material opened one by one to the sides. At the end of the corridor, a man with slicked-back hair and a white coat came as expected, carrying the scent of disinfectant.
His steps were light and slow, yet the footsteps still resonated transparently through the confinement room.
Ji Minghuan leaned against the bed's headboard, silently sat up, and removed the quilt covering his legs.
After a while, the man finally passed through the open electronic doors and stepped into the interior of the confinement room.
"Good evening, mentor... do you always have to come when I'm in the deepest sleep?"
Ji Minghuan greeted while turning his face to look at the man, his tone casual, as if saying hello to an old friend.
What reflected in his eyes was not a soulless figure akin to disinfectant, but rather a face that could easily represent all characters in a drama symbolizing intellect and justice: either a wise and gentle elder or a sage skillful in understanding the human heart.
But this didn't stop Ji Minghuan from disliking him.
If it were before, the time Ji Minghuan spent in the welfare institute, whenever he encountered someone he disliked, he would leverage the peculiarity of being an "orphan brat" to act out, make a fuss, and roll around, effectively retreating from the person's side.
However, doing so had its downsides, such as being confined to the library attic by the director—that place was the acknowledged "confinement room" in the eyes of the welfare institute children, absolutely terrifying, especially during quiet nights. But Ji Minghuan didn't care, even spending a night alone in the attic wasn't frightening. Thus, he always managed to infuriate the director.
Yet now, despite still being an "orphan brat," merely changing venues, he couldn't rely on this identity to use the same tactics again.
The reason was evident: Ji Minghuan was imprisoned in this strange iron box-like place, watched over in his every move these days. There were no windows here, only ventilation openings, so he couldn't see the sky or differentiate between day and night. When the lights were off, the surveillance camera box on the ceiling looked like the devil's eyes, making one shiver.
The crux was, why was he locked here?
Even Ji Minghuan himself couldn't figure it out, finding it utterly absurd. Every night, he would lay in bed, arms propped behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling, meticulously recalling the sequence of events:
—About a month ago, he was still in a welfare institute situated in the Chinese capital Li Jing. One night, he fell asleep in the dormitory of the welfare institute, only to wake up finding himself in this confinement room. What's chilling is he was completely unaware during the transfer here, as if he had teleported. Of course, it's also possible someone drugged him.