Chapter 3: Warning of Death
3290words
The seven survivors each spent a sleepless night in their rooms, every one of them tormented by fear and despair. Emily's death had struck like a sledgehammer, completely shattering their last illusions about this place. Now no one believed this was some wealthy person's game or a prank; Death's scythe had begun its harvest, and none of them knew who would be next.
Richard was the first to leave his room, his face as pale as paper, eyes sunken, hair disheveled as if blown by strong winds. He wore yesterday's clothes, his suit wrinkled and his tie askew, completely losing his usual image of a business elite. His hands trembled constantly, and each step he took seemed heavy and difficult, as if the floor beneath his feet might collapse at any moment.
The moment he pushed open the door, the scene before his eyes left him completely stunned. On the coffee table in his room sat an exquisite black leather folder with his name written in gold lettering: "Richard Stone." The folder looked expensive and substantial, like the kind law firms use for important contracts, but now it felt more like a death sentence.
Richard stood at the doorway, staring at the folder for a long time, as if it were a venomous snake that might leap up and bite him at any moment. The air conditioner in the room continued to run softly, yet he felt a chill running up his spine straight to the top of his head. His throat was as dry as a desert, making even the act of swallowing difficult.
Finally, he walked into the room with heavy steps and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock was particularly distinct in the quiet room, like the tolling of fate's bell. He slowly moved toward the coffee table, each step feeling like a walk to the gallows, with the thick carpet fibers making a slight friction sound beneath his feet.
He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the surface of the folder. The leather felt cold and smooth, and seemed to carry a strange scent, like the distinctive smell of newly crafted leather goods, but mixed with an unsettling chemical odor.
Richard took a deep breath, trying to control his trembling, then slowly opened the folder. The contents made his blood freeze instantly—it was a disturbingly detailed investigation report, documenting every sinister detail of his involvement in the East District demolition project.
The first page is an enlarged photograph showing the 83-year-old woman, Mrs. Margaret Wilson. In the photo, she is standing in front of her small cottage that is about to be demolished, holding a skinny orange cat in her arms, her eyes filled with desperation and helplessness. The time of the photograph is clearly marked: three days before the demolition. She is wearing a worn but clean coat, her hair is gray, her face covered with the traces of years, but one can still see the beauty of her youth.
Richard's hands began to tremble involuntarily, and the photograph slipped from his fingers, floating down to the carpet. He remembered that face, remembered those accusatory eyes. In that cold December, when the bulldozers roared as they pushed down her house, she stood not far away, looking at him with those same eyes.
He continued to flip through the documents, each page like a sharp knife cutting into his heart. The files detailed Mrs. Wilson's life: she was a retired teacher who had lived alone in that small cottage for sixty years—it was the love nest she had shared with her late husband. She had no children, and the orange cat was her only companion. After the demolition, she was forced to move into a crude temporary housing unit without heating or adequate medical protection.
The last page of the file was a death certificate from the hospital, dated eighteen days after the demolition. Cause of death: heart failure, secondary to severe depression and malnutrition. In the doctor's remarks section was a small note: "Patient repeatedly mentioned losing her home, showing symptoms of severe post-traumatic stress disorder."
Richard slumped on the sofa, documents scattered across his knees. He recalled the scene from that day: Mrs. Wilson kneeling in his office, begging him to give her some time to find a new place to live. Her voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears, saying she would accept any compensation terms, just asking that her house not be demolished before winter arrived.
But Richard coldly refused her request. He said it was a business decision and couldn't let personal emotions affect the progress of the entire project. He didn't even look up at her, just coldly said: "The market waits for no one, Mrs. Wilson. Survival of the fittest, that's the rule of the business world."
Now, those words churned in his memory like poison. He remembered Mrs. Wilson's expression after hearing these words—that deep despair, that pain of being completely abandoned. She slowly stood up, without saying another word, just gave him one deep look, and then silently left the office.
That look now haunted him like a ghost, making it difficult for him to breathe.
Meanwhile, in another room on the third floor, Victoria also discovered the folder that belonged to her. Her reaction was more intense than Richard's—the moment she saw the folder, she immediately realized its significance and froze completely, as if struck by lightning.
Victoria's folder was deep blue, looking very much like something with medical authority. She opened it with trembling hands, and the contents nearly made her faint. The first page was a group photo showing seventeen young faces, all patients who had died after taking "New Hope," an antidepressant produced by her company.
Among these faces were recent college graduates, newlywed couples, and hopeful artists. Each photo was labeled with a name, age, occupation, and the time of death after taking the medication. Most heartbreaking of all, next to each photo was a small paragraph describing their dreams and plans before they died.
Sarah Johnson, twenty-four, music academy graduate, was preparing for her first piano solo concert. Died of cardiac arrest during the third week of medication.
Twenty-eight-year-old David Miller, who had just married his sweetheart and was planning their honeymoon, died of severe liver failure after the second week of taking the medication.
Thirty-one-year-old Emma Brown, a children's book illustrator who was creating a fairy tale about hope and courage, died of a cerebral hemorrhage after the fourth week of taking the medication.
Each case documented in detail the progression of the drug's side effects, and how Victoria's company chose to push the drug to market despite knowing the fatal risks. The documents even included transcripts of internal meetings, in which Victoria personally stated: "The incidence of these side effects is only two percent, which falls within acceptable business risk parameters. We cannot abandon a potential billion-dollar market because of adverse reactions in a very small minority."
Victoria's hands gripped the document tightly, her knuckles turning white from the pressure. She recalled the meeting scene: in the luxurious conference room, board members sat around the polished mahogany table, discussing human lives with the same coldness as they would discuss stock prices. She remembered wearing an expensive black business suit, sitting in the chairman's seat, using professional medical terminology to mask the absence of morality.
The last page of the document was a handwritten letter from David Miller's wife:
Dr. Victoria Hart, I don't know if this letter will reach your hands, but I must write these words. My husband David started taking your company's 'New Hope' medication due to mild work pressure. The doctor said it was a safe and effective new drug that would help him better cope with life's stresses.
But two weeks after taking the medication, David began experiencing serious side effects. His skin turned yellow, he vomited frequently, and completely lost his appetite. We went to the hospital for an examination, and the doctor said his liver function was severely damaged. We immediately stopped the medication, but it was already too late.
David lay in agony at the hospital for ten days, and I watched helplessly as the man I loved deeply grew weaker day by day. In his final moments, he gripped my hand and asked me why this had happened. I didn't know how to answer him.
We had planned to have a child, to buy a house with a garden, to grow old together. Now none of that is possible. David has left me forever, and I don't even know why.
I don't need your apology, because no words can bring back everything I've lost. I only hope you understand that behind each of your business decisions, real lives are suffering. David is not a statistic; he was a person of flesh and blood, he was my entire world.
Please remember his name: David Miller. Please remember all of our names. We are not stepping stones for your empire of wealth, we are people.
At the end of the letter was a simple signature: Anna Miller.
After Victoria finished reading the letter, she completely broke down. She collapsed onto the edge of the bed, the documents slipping from her hands and scattering across the floor. She remembered David Miller's face, a young and hopeful face that she had seen in the clinical trial video footage. At that time, he smiled at the camera, saying that this new drug gave him more confidence to face life's challenges.
But now, that smile had become an eternal pain in Victoria's heart. She realized that she wasn't just a successful entrepreneur, but also a killer. Her greed and indifference had directly led to the disappearance of seventeen innocent lives.
In other rooms, similar discoveries were happening simultaneously. James collapsed to the floor after finding his folder. The documents detailed how his financial fraud had led to the bankruptcy of hundreds of families, three of which had chosen suicide out of desperation.
The files particularly highlighted one case: fifty-two-year-old construction worker Robert Jones. For his daughter's college tuition, he had invested his life savings of $120,000 into a fund managed by James. James had manipulated stock prices using insider information, selling all shares before a crash, while small investors like Robert remained completely unaware and lost all their money.
Attached to the file was Robert's suicide note: "...I cannot face my daughter, cannot tell her that I've ruined her entire future. I wanted to give her the best education, but I've destroyed everything through my own stupidity and greed. I hope my death will provide her with some insurance compensation, at least enough to pay for her college expenses..."
Thomas's folder documented how his data breach incident led to users suffering from cyberbullying and financial losses. Among them, a young mother named Jessica Lee, whose personal information was maliciously used, endured months of online attacks and threats, ultimately choosing to take her own life, leaving behind a three-year-old child.
Sara's folder revealed her true identity as an environmental lawyer—she was actually an agent for large polluting corporations, helping these enterprises cover up the truth about environmental pollution, which resulted in a small town called "Green Water Village" becoming a high-incidence area for cancer. At least forty-three people died due to environmental pollution, including eleven children.
Michael's folder showed how his media empire spread hate speech and fake news, eventually triggering a three-day racial conflict that resulted in eighteen deaths and hundreds of injuries. The documents detailed how he deliberately distorted facts to boost ratings and incite hatred between different racial groups.
Ross's folder documented the detailed process of her misappropriation of charity funds, and how this behavior led to delays in hurricane disaster relief operations, ultimately resulting in the deaths of twenty-one disaster victims, including five children. The documents even contained receipts for her luxury purchases, funds that should have been used for disaster relief were instead spent on jewelry and artwork.
Each person experienced varying degrees of psychological breakdown after seeing their own files of wrongdoing. These documents not only detailed their crimes, but more importantly, they revealed the true face of each victim—they were no longer abstract statistics, but real people with blood and flesh, with families, dreams, and unfinished life plans.
Around ten in the morning, seven people gradually gathered in the lobby. No one actively mentioned the folder, but each person's face was filled with pain and despair. They sat in different corners, avoiding eye contact with one another, as if each had become a symbol of sin that no one dared to look at directly.
The atmosphere in the lobby was suffocatingly oppressive. The usually luxurious decorations now seemed like mockery, those exquisite art pieces and expensive furniture had all become witnesses to their ill-gotten wealth. The crystal chandelier still glittered, but its light appeared cold and harsh, like the light of judgment day.
Michael's condition looked the worst. He leaned against the sofa, his face as pale as paper, his forehead covered with cold sweat. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his eyes hollow and disoriented, as if his soul had left his body. The nausea and vomiting symptoms that had started yesterday had clearly worsened, his lips were cracked, and his body trembled constantly.
"I think... we need to talk about those folders," Richard finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse and trembling, "I believe you all have found them."
This statement was like opening Pandora's box. Ross immediately began to cry, her body shaking violently, tears continuously rolling down her cheeks. "God... God forgive me... what have I done... those children..."
Her words came out in broken fragments, filled with remorse and despair. She remembered a photo from the files: a seven-year-old girl lying in a hospital bed, who had died from pneumonia due to lack of timely medical assistance. That was a patient who could have been saved by the disaster relief funds she had misappropriated.
James covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. "Robert Jones... he had a daughter... she was supposed to go to Harvard... because of me... because of me..."
He couldn't continue speaking, guilt overwhelming him like a flood. He recalled the last time Robert came to his office: the honest construction worker kneeling before him, begging him to return the money, saying it was his daughter's only hope. But James coldly refused, even threatening to call security.
Victoria sat in the corner, trying to maintain a doctor's professional composure, but unable to hide her inner pain. "Seventeen people... seventeen lives... I killed them with my own hands..." her voice was as thin as a thread, "I thought I was saving lives, but in reality I was destroying them."
Thomas's young face was filled with pain and confusion: "Jessica... she just wanted to protect her child... but because of my negligence... her personal information was leaked... those cyber bullies..." his words broke off as tears welled up in his eyes.
Sara's demeanor was the most complex, she was both victim and perpetrator. "Green Water Village... forty-three lives... I helped those corporations cover up the truth... I knew the pollution would kill people, but I still..." her voice carried deep self-loathing.
Michael tried to speak, but could only produce weak moaning sounds. His condition was clearly worsening, and Victoria noticed his state, immediately walking over to check his pulse.
"His heart rate is very unstable," Victoria said in a professional tone, but with obvious worry in her voice, "and his blood pressure is dropping. These symptoms..." she paused, "are very similar to Emily's symptoms before she died."
This discovery filled everyone with fear. Michael, just like Emily, had indulged in the hotel's luxurious food and drinks over the past few days. Now it seemed that he might be the next victim.
"We... we are all sinners..." Michael used all his strength to utter these few words, "I spread hatred... I ignited the flames of anger... those who died... their blood is on my hands..."
His voice became increasingly weak, and his gaze began to blur. Victoria tried to perform basic first aid for him, but she knew that without professional medical equipment, what she could do was very limited.
"Maybe... maybe this is what we deserve..." Ross said through tears, "Maybe this is God's judgment... We are all sinners... We all must pay the price..."
Richard angrily retorted: "This is not God's judgment! This is some madman's act of revenge! We need to find him, we need to stop all this!"
But his words lacked conviction. Faced with those detailed files of sins, faced with the real faces of those victims, it was difficult to continue denying that they indeed needed to bear some responsibility.
In the afternoon, Michael's condition deteriorated rapidly. He began to experience severe hallucinations, constantly mumbling the names of those who had died in the racial conflict. His body convulsed violently, blood tears flowing from his eyes, a horrifying sight.
Victoria did everything she could to take care of him, but she knew it was futile. The poison had penetrated deep into his nervous system, causing irreversible damage. All she could do was to ease his pain, making his final moments of life less agonizing.
"Forgive me..." Michael said brokenly on his deathbed, "Forgive me for the hatred I ignited... Forgive me for the lies I spread... I... I can see them... those who died... they're waiting for me..."
His gaze suddenly became clear, as if seeing something that others couldn't. "They... they don't hate me... they just want justice... just want the truth..."
After saying these words, Michael quietly closed his eyes and never woke up again.
Victoria checked his pulse and breathing, then announced heavily: "He's dead."
Another life has vanished, now only six people remain. The shadow of death grows heavier, and everyone knows that if they don't find a way to leave this place, they will all die just like Emily and Michael.
But what's more terrifying is that they've begun to doubt whether they truly deserve to escape. The contents of those folders struck like sledgehammers against their moral defenses, forcing them to face a cruel reality: perhaps they do indeed need to pay for their crimes.
Night falls once again, and the six people sit gathered in the main hall, each immersed in deep despair. Michael's body has been moved to the cold storage room, lying alongside Emily. Two once vibrant lives, now reduced to cold corpses.
"How much time do we have left?" James asked, his voice filled with fear.
No one could answer this question. On this island filled with the air of death, time seemed to have lost its meaning. They only knew that death's footsteps were drawing ever closer, and they had nowhere to escape.
Outside the window, the moon still hung high in the sky, coldly watching over everything on the island. The waves continued to tirelessly crash against the rocks, making a monotonous and heavy sound, as if singing a dirge for the dead.
And in some corner they couldn't see, someone was quietly observing everything, waiting for the next moment of judgment to arrive. The scales of justice were tilting, and those who once thought they could evade responsibility would finally have to face the true consequences of their actions.
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