Chapter 233 The Black Goat
Block N23.
The spacetime in this region is different from other areas, with an unusually fast flow rate.
Sheen felt like he had only been there for less than an hour, and it was already completely dark.
The illusions continued, only growing more horrific as they ventured deeper—in the ditch directly opposite, a humanoid creature was devouring a corpse, its entrails and bits of flesh scattered everywhere. The thing was as large as a car, its body covered in bony skin and oozing dark yellow pus, looking like a mutated creature straight out of a disaster movie.
She heard a cry for help.
Then a girl ran out from the corner, barefoot. A monster of similar size followed closely behind, as if playing some kind of hunting game. But it had clearly had enough, so it suddenly leaped up and pounced on its prey, pinning it to the ground.
That thing was different from the one that appeared in the ditch. It had four extra heads of different sizes, protruding from the narrow space of the neck like lumps of flesh, with bloodshot eyes that were oozing pus.
The girl looked like a refugee, and it was hard to imagine what she had gone through. Her feet and the rest of her exposed torso were a bloody mess, her clothes were tattered, and she was thin and small. The mutated creature looked like a behemoth in front of her.
Sheen watched as it pounced on the girl without batting an eye, easily biting open her skull, and then swallowing the red and white contents like a mother sucking on a jelly. She could even hear the sound of the brain matter being drained from the skull, echoing throughout the street.
These humanoid creatures were still devouring the pile of broken flesh and blood when they suddenly seemed to sense something, raised themselves up and looked in her direction.
Sheehan wondered what other reactions she would have. Would she be like that kid who had just joined Eoubs years ago, bewildered and blindly running from control room to control room, hiding in the dark and crying?
Or perhaps you should simply and decisively shoot the other party?
When the streetlight shone on her, her face was frighteningly pale.
She did nothing.
Everything is just a projection of illusions, at least that's the information Pandora gave us. So let's understand it that way. Any tragedy we see has already happened in the past.
No matter how much it's displayed for viewing, it has nothing to do with anyone here.
Sheen continued walking forward, the screams still echoing behind her, and she told herself again that they were all fake.
After walking for about fifteen minutes, the surroundings gradually quieted down.
The torrential rain stopped, and heavy snow began to fall from the dark sky, the temperature plummeting to a bone-chilling level. The environmental changes here were as bizarre as the climate regulation within the Eoubs salon.
In no time at all, snow had accumulated. Sheen wrapped his coat tighter around himself and trudged through the snow, his steps uneven. The gruesome images had faded, and now he could see three or four gray figures flashing past him, disappearing in an instant.
Another five minutes passed.
She finally saw the building recorded at the operation's base point—the Black Sheep Mental Hospital—distressed and in this harsh winter, it resembled a ruin, truly a typical shelter in a survival game.
The road ahead was covered in snow, and the weeds and abandoned mailboxes peeking out showed that it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Sheen walked straight toward the gate, not seeing a soul along the way, let alone a gatekeeper.
She pushed open the iron gate, and the old, weathered building panels creaked and groaned, revealing the interior—just as it appeared from the outside, the entire building was dark, desolate, and silent, with only a faint light shining from a window on the top floor.
Sheen looked around for a while, then opened his terminal and sent an email to Pandora. She quickly read it, but seemed busy and showed no sign of replying.
She had no choice but to go upstairs first. Each floor had a notice with the mental hospital's shift change schedule. It wasn't time to get off work yet, but there were hardly any people left in the building.
When she reached the third floor, she encountered a middle-aged man in a security guard uniform. His face was covered in tiny bloodstains, his expression was numb, and he seemed oblivious to Sheen. Yet, he was clearly alive, and it was unclear what he had been through, as he simply walked downstairs step by step.
Sheen arrived at the office on the top floor where the lights were on, and there was a rusty sign on it that read "Patient Records Room." Not bad, she thought. At least there were people working in this place that was like a nuclear winter, and they were incredibly dedicated.
The door wasn't locked, and she easily entered the house.
There was a desk directly opposite, and the person sitting behind it was very young, probably only in his early twenties. His hair was messy, his clothes were covered in dirt and cigarette stains, and his face looked ashen, like he had taken too much drugs.
Seeing someone enter, he immediately put away the cigarettes he was about to take out and said fiercely, "This is not the time for family visits! Please leave!"
Sheen stared at him for a moment, then gave a professional smile, as professional as when she visited various continental branches to assess the mental pollution levels of operatives or attended salon banquets. Her smile was elegant and charming. “Hello, sir, I am Sheen Connelly, and I am here to see Ms. Hera.”
"Who?" the other party asked, startled.
“Bell Hera, the director of the Black Goat Mental Hospital,” Sheehan said.
“Oh… Hera,” the man said somewhat vaguely. “Do you have any authorization? We’re a professional organization; official stamps are required for visits and exchanges… Beautiful lady! It’s a pleasure to meet you. Just call me Fitz.”
Halfway through his sentence, Sheehan pulled out three large bundles of US dollars from his bag and threw them on the desk—enough for the man to drink several rounds of ridiculously expensive liquor and sleep with a few high-class women.
Fitz chuckled as he stuffed the money into the drawer, then stood up and straightened his clothes, his once lifeless eyes now focused again; he was trying his best to appear authoritative.
"Please come with me, Hera is in ICU Ward 3."
He took out the key from the locker next to him, walked to the door and opened it, then his expression turned strange as if he remembered something.
"By the way... for your personal safety, it would be best if you stayed behind me for a while and said whatever you wanted to say through the security bars."
Sheen didn't quite understand. What year is it? Is being the director of a mental hospital still such a high-risk job? You just sit in your office drinking tea, and if you encounter a disobedient patient, you just give them an electric shock or force-feed them some sedatives, right?
"Sorry, I didn't understand what you meant. Is she treating a patient at this hour?"
"Oh, no, that's not it."
Fitz sighed and explained.
"She's just mentally ill."
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