《White Square》苏沐戚

7、The Doctor's Smile

　　The door to Room 2 closed behind them with a sound like metal jaws snapping shut.

　　Inside, the air was thicker—dense with the stench of disinfectant and something else underneath, coppery and raw, like meat just carved open. The fluorescent tube above them buzzed weakly, casting light that seemed to flicker over every shadow.

　　And there, seated neatly behind the doctor's desk, was a face Xiao Jingyan knew.

　　Patient #7.

　　Except now he wore a white coat. His hair was combed, his badge pinned crookedly to his chest: Liu Ye — Trainee Physician.

　　The same man who had been dragged into Room 6, screaming, was here now—smiling.

　　Not a human smile. His lips stretched far too wide, pulled back to expose his gums, his teeth slick with something wet.

　　Xiao's breath caught. "Aren't you—!"

　　But Gu's hand closed firmly around his arm, stopping the words before they could spill.

　　The doctor's grin widened, the corners of his mouth trembling as though they could split his skin. "Have you seen me before?" His voice was thick, rolling like syrup across the room, sticky and wrong.

　　Gu's reply came smooth, steady: "No, Doctor Liu."

　　The doctor chuckled. It was a small sound, yet it rolled through the room like a blade scraping bone.

　　Xiao stared, his own face pale, eyes widening until the whites glistened in the light. Sweat prickled across his forehead. His chest tightened with the suffocating knowledge: that man was Patient 7. And Patient 7 had never come back out.

　　The desk between them was scarred and stained. A stack of forms lay scattered across it, but the paper edges were brown, warped, as though damp with old blood. The pen in the doctor's hand dripped a thin trail of crimson instead of ink, seeping into the forms he idly scribbled.

　　Unseen by them, in the live feeds, the audience chat exploded:

　　[They figured it out. The ones holding numbers that match the room—or multiples of it—get eaten.]
　　[But there are two of them. Room 2. ]
　　[No, wait. They said they were "one together."]

　　The viewership count surged. Dozens became hundreds, then hundreds became more. Both Gu and Xiao's channels lit up with a fever of unseen anticipation.

　　The doctor leaned forward slowly, elbows on the desk, his smile never faltering. His eyes—cloudy, milky, yet disturbingly bright—locked on them. "You said you were one. Together. Or are you two?"

　　His mouth twitched when he asked it, as though eager for the answer, as though already tasting it.

　　Xiao's chest constricted, panic clawing through him. His lips parted—but Gu spoke first.

　　Calm. Even. Inarguable.

　　"We are two separate people, as you can see."

　　The doctor tilted his head. His grin did not fade.

　　Unseen by the two men, more commentary spilled across the live feed:

　　[He's sharp. If they said "one together," the system would count them as two total. The doctor eats them all.]
　　[But this way? There are three now—Gu, Xiao, and the doctor himself. The rules don't claim them both. Smart move.]
　　[God, this is why the quiet ones survive. He knows the system's tricks.]

　　The doctor's face shifted almost imperceptibly. Not disappointment, not anger—just a tightening of his grin, like stretched rubber ready to split. His eyes gleamed like scalpels.

　　The hum of the fluorescent light buzzed louder. The faint smell of blood in the air grew stronger, prickling at the back of Xiao's throat. He forced himself not to cough, not to flinch.

　　Gu's hand was still at his arm, steady and firm. To the world, he seemed calm, untouched by the horror.

　　But Xiao could feel it—the slight pressure of those fingers, the only thing holding him still, holding him silent.

　　The doctor finally leaned back, his chair groaning under the weight of that too-wide smile. "Good," he murmured. "Very good."

　　The room shuddered with silence.

　　And Xiao Jingyan understood, with bone-deep certainty:
　　This was no doctor.
　　This was hunger, dressed in a white coat.