Chapter 2：Collective Awakening
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I reopened James's record with shaking hands. The blood writing had vanished from the mirror, but those words—"Welcome home, James"—still echoed in my mind.
Strangely, seeing those words triggered something deeper than déjà vu—not just recognition from moments ago, but a bone-deep familiarity, as if I'd known these words all my life.
James's handwriting in the Day 9 entry had grown messier, as if written in haste. As I studied it, I couldn't shake the feeling I'd seen this exact handwriting somewhere before:
I've begun observing my neighbors' behavior patterns, searching for answers to this madness.
Mrs. Chen, the elderly lady from 3B, goes grocery shopping every Tuesday at exactly 10:15 AM. Her route never varies: first the Asian market at the corner for the same brand of rice and identical vegetables, then the pharmacy for vitamin C, finally the bakery for two sesame buns. The entire process takes precisely 47 minutes, never deviating by more than 2 minutes.
Mr. Rodriguez from 2A wears a blue tie every Wednesday and a red tie every Friday. Never any other color, never on any other day. I've watched for a month—no exceptions. When I asked him why, he paused, looking confused, then mumbled: "I… I don't know. Just a habit, I guess."
Jennifer, the young woman in 4A, calls her mother every night at 8:15. The call always lasts exactly 15 minutes. Through our thin walls, I can hear her recite the same script: weather, work, health updates, then a prompt goodbye at 8:30.
The most disturbing part? When questioned, they all react identically: confusion, followed by an empty smile, then "It's just my habit" or "I prefer it this way."
But now I recognize what lurks behind their eyes: pure, undiluted fear.
Not fear of me—fear of breaking the pattern.
## My Reality
I set down the journal and checked the time: 8:14 PM.
From upstairs came Jennifer's voice, right on schedule: "Mom, the weather was nice today… work is fine… health is good…"
Word for word, exactly as James had described.
But wait—how did I know what she would say? Did I hear her first, then notice it matched the record? Or did I read it first and then "hear" those exact words?
My memory grew hazy. Somehow I could predict her next words, as if I'd heard this conversation a hundred times before.
This was no coincidence. Everyone in this building followed rigid patterns. But how did I already know these patterns?
## James's Record - Day 10
Today at 3:33 AM, something happened that changed everything.
I woke to voices in the hallway—not footsteps, but hushed conversations. Through the peephole, I saw something impossible: all the neighbors standing outside their doors.
Mrs. Chen in pink pajamas, Mr. Rodriguez in striped ones, Jennifer in a white nightgown. Each stood before their door, clutching a piece of paper.
They read their papers with expressions of confusion and terror.
I steeled myself and opened my door.
"Did you all get one too?" I asked.
Mrs. Chen nodded and handed me her note. Though written in her handwriting, she swore she'd never written it:
"Mrs. Chen, why do you buy the same vegetables every Tuesday? Do you truly enjoy them? Or is something forcing this routine upon you? When did you last try something new? Can you even remember?"
Mr. Rodriguez's note read:
"Mr. Rodriguez, what significance do your blue and red ties hold? When did this habit begin? Why never green or yellow? Are you afraid of change?"
Jennifer's note was the most unsettling:
"Jennifer, you call your mother every night at 8:15, but are you actually communicating? When did you last share your true thoughts? Are you afraid of her knowing the real you? Are you afraid of anyone knowing the real you?"
The four of us stood in the dim hallway, each holding notes in our own handwriting, questioning behaviors we'd never thought to question.
"Who wrote these?" Jennifer asked, her voice shaking.
"We did," Mrs. Chen said flatly. "But I don't remember writing a word of it."
"Neither do I," Mr. Rodriguez added, "but that's definitely my handwriting."
A chilling realization dawned on us: we were all following rules we had no memory of creating.
## Reality Intrusion
As I read this passage, my phone buzzed with a new message:
"Come downstairs, the 3:33 meeting has begun."
Sender: my own number.
I checked the time: 3:32.
My body began moving on its own. I set down James's journal and walked toward the door, my hand reaching for the knob without my permission, as if some invisible puppeteer pulled my strings.
I opened the door to find the hallway already occupied.
Mrs. Chen stood before apartment 3B in pink pajamas, note in hand. She nodded at me as if we'd arranged this meeting long ago.
Mr. Rodriguez emerged from 2A in striped pajamas. Jennifer descended from 4A, her white nightgown ghostly under the dim hallway lights.
The four of us gathered in the hallway, exactly as James had described.
But with one difference: I held no note.
"You're new here," Mrs. Chen said with unnerving calmness. "You haven't received your question yet."
"What question?" I asked.
Jennifer approached and handed me a folded paper. The handwriting was unmistakably mine, though I'd never written these words:
"Why are you reading James's story? Do you truly believe this is merely a story? When did you first notice losing control of your actions? Do you even remember how you arrived here?"
## James's Record - Day 11
With shaking hands, I continued reading James's account:
Last night's gathering changed everything. We realized we weren't just following habits—we were being controlled by something.
Mrs. Chen confessed she once tried shopping on Wednesday instead of Tuesday. She physically couldn't enter the store—her body simply turned around and walked home against her will.
Mr. Rodriguez admitted trying to wear a green tie once. Each time he reached for it, his hand would involuntarily drop it and select either blue or red.
Jennifer's story was the most disturbing. She tried calling her mother at 8:16 once—the call wouldn't connect. At exactly 8:15, it went through perfectly.
We debated the source of this control. The building itself? Some supernatural entity? Or something buried in our own minds?
"Perhaps," Mrs. Chen suggested, "we built these cages ourselves. Then conveniently forgot where we hid the keys."
"But why?" Jennifer asked. "Why would anyone trap themselves?"
"Because it's safer," Mr. Rodriguez replied quietly. "If we always do the same things, we never make mistakes, never fail, never get hurt."
I realized he was right. We were all trading possibility for certainty, freedom for security.
But the real question remained: was this truly our choice?
## The Call from the Basement
Back in the hallway, Mrs. Chen glanced at my note and nodded knowingly.
"Now you understand," she said. "We're all the same. All following rules we never remember creating."
"But why?" I demanded. "Why must we live like this?"
"Because it's safer this way," Mr. Rodriguez echoed his words from James's journal. "If we always do the same thing, we never make mistakes."
"But this isn't living," Jennifer whispered. "This is just existing."
Just then, the elevator chimed. The doors slid open, revealing an empty car.
On the control panel, the basement button pulsed red.
"It's summoning us," Mrs. Chen said flatly. "Just like last time."
"Last time?" I echoed.
"Didn't James tell you?" Jennifer asked. "We go down once every month. It's the rule."
The four of us moved toward the elevator against our will. I tried to resist, tried to turn back, but my body refused to obey.
The doors closed, and we began our descent.
The elevator descended far longer than it should have. I counted—at least two minutes. For a five-story building, we should have reached the basement in seconds.
When the doors finally opened, what lay before us was nothing like any basement I'd imagined.
An enormous space stretched before us, ceiling lost in darkness, walls extending beyond sight in all directions. Dim fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow.
Rows upon rows of filing cabinets dominated the center, each bearing different labels. I could make out several:
"Apartment 4271 Resident Files"
"Life Force Harvesting Records"
"Contract Enforcement Status"
"Administrator Training Materials"
"Welcome to the real Apartment 4271," a familiar voice called from behind the cabinets.
A man emerged. About thirty, with skin pale as paper and eyes that gleamed with an unnatural light. He wore an impeccable suit and carried a thick folder.
"James?" I ventured. Based on the handwriting and descriptions in the journal, this had to be the former resident.
"You've arrived just in time," he said with a thin smile. "It's time to sign your formal contract."
Mrs. Chen, Mr. Rodriguez, and Jennifer showed no surprise. They'd clearly known what awaited us.
Only I stood shocked at this impossible scene.
"James?" I stammered. "You're… alive?"
"Alive?" He laughed coldly. "That depends on how you define 'alive.' I'm the administrator now. I ensure each resident… adapts to our lifestyle."
He opened the folder, revealing a stack of contracts.
"Now, let's discuss your future," he said. "Each of you has a choice. Continue your current lifestyle, follow the rules, and live out your remaining days in safety. Or…"
He paused, something unreadable flashing across his eyes.
"Or you can resist, and face the consequences."
As James spoke, dizziness overwhelmed me. The surroundings blurred and seemed to melt away.
I found myself back in Apartment 4271, sitting on the sofa, James's journal still in my hands.
But something was wrong.
Outside the window, night still reigned, yet the clock read 6:47 AM.
My phone showed three unread messages:
"You have signed the probation period contract."
"Welcome as an official resident of Apartment 4271."
"Tomorrow at 3:33, please attend the residents' meeting on time."
All sent from my own number.
I rushed to the mirror. My reflection appeared normal except for one detail—a small numerical tattoo on my neck: 4271.
I had no memory of getting this tattoo.
I opened the final page of James's journal to find a single line:
"If you can read this, you've become one of us. Welcome to Apartment 4271, new resident. Now, please turn the page to begin your administrator training."
I turned the page and found fresh text appearing before my eyes, as if being written in real time. The handwriting looked disturbingly familiar…
Lesson One: How to identify suitable candidates.
Look for those with questioning minds but fragile hearts. They're drawn to "true stories" and believe they can find answers. These make the best tenants—they walk into the trap voluntarily.
Your first task: Post an advertisement on a rental website. Suggested title: "My Real Experience in Apartment 4271—Don't Trust Any Advertisements About This Building"
Remember, write it like a real experience. That way the next person won't believe it's just a story.
I stared at these words as a terrible realization washed over me. This handwriting… it was identical to mine.
I frantically flipped back through the journal, comparing the handwriting. What I first dismissed as coincidence became undeniable. Every curve, every dot, every pressure point matched perfectly.
I grabbed a pen and wrote "James" on a scrap of paper, then compared it to the signature in the journal.
A perfect match.
My hand shook violently as pieces fell into place:
Why did this apartment's layout feel so familiar?
How did I know the neighbors' schedules?
Why could I predict exactly when Jennifer would call?
Why did my body instinctively wake before 6:47?
Most terrifying of all, memories began surfacing: me at this very table writing these notes, observing neighbors, receiving cryptic messages at 3:33 AM…
But these memories remained foggy, simultaneously real and unreal.
My hand moved of its own accord toward the computer. My fingers hovered over the keys, then began typing:
"If you're reading this post, it means you've received an invitation…"
I tried to stop, but my fingers continued their dance across the keyboard, guided by some terrible muscle memory.
Before I lost control completely, the horrifying truth hit me:
I never "read" James's story.
I'd been "remembering" my own experiences all along.
Those records weren't written by James.
They were written by me.
I am James.
