In such a street-side restaurant serving three meals a day plus late-night snacks, the late-night service was always the most chaotic.

Perhaps it was because daylight compelled people to maintain polite behavior, while nightfall made it easier to abandon propriety.

Bare chests and feet on tables, fierce drinking competitions and alcohol-fueled madness, one dirty joke after another—Mu Dai regarded it all as ambient noise, helping her cultivate character.

All the folding tables in the restaurant were open. Amidst the boisterous sounds of finger-guessing games, there was barely room to walk when serving dishes. Mu Dai carried plates while moving sideways: “Excuse me, excuse me.”

Some people glared at her impatiently, and she glared right back. A drunk customer leered at her and tried to grope her chest. She caught his wrist, twisted his arm, and pushed his face down onto the table, then poured a glass of beer over his head, saying, “Here, sober up.”

The customer was furious, struggling to stand up, shaking his head, spraying beer droplets everywhere like a dog shaking off water after coming ashore.

For a few seconds, the restaurant fell silent. The customer raised a plate of food, ready to smash it on the floor.

Mu Dai said, “Don’t you dare!”

Her sharp command left the customer holding the plate, unsure whether to smash it or not.

Zheng Shuiyu was conflict-averse and quickly came over to pinch Mu Dai’s arm: “Quick, apologize to the customer.”

Mu Dai stared at the man and began untying her apron: “Want to go outside and fight one-on-one?”

The lights in the small alley outside flickered, and people in the restaurant began to egg them on.

“Or…” she reached for a bottle of beer from a neighboring table and slammed it down hard on this table, causing everyone to look at each other in confusion, “a drinking contest?”

The man’s face grew awkward. His companions quickly rose to make peace, and so the matter was settled without either a fight or a drinking contest.

The late-night service continued, though all the tables seemed much more orderly. When Mu Dai came out to serve dishes again, some people even moved their chairs to make way for her.

When she returned to the kitchen, Zheng Shuiyu and the others looked at her differently.

Zheng Li said, “Sister Mu Mu, you’ve handled situations like this before, haven’t you? You managed it so smoothly.”

Mu Dai said, “No, I haven’t.”

She thought about it and felt somewhat embarrassed: “That was my first time.”

Zheng Li’s face turned pale: “Then you… like that…”

Mu Dai said, “These people, one glance and you know they only respect force. Shouldn’t I take the opportunity to establish authority? Otherwise, chase away one fly and a swarm remains, or they’ll keep coming every day without end. Wouldn’t that be annoying?”

Zheng Shuiyu said, “So you were bluffing.”

She was worried: “That was so risky. What if you had gone outside to fight?”

Mu Dai was unconcerned: “I could have beaten him.”

“What about the drinking contest?”

“Is downing a bottle or two a big deal?”

Zheng Shuiyu was speechless. She turned and whispered to He Qiang: “Why do I feel so uneasy?”

He Qiang moved around the stove, chiding her: “You have a small-town mindset, always wanting to hire someone who can do everything, but when a really capable person arrives, you get scared. If you’re concerned about her being out front, just have her work in the back kitchen.”

Zheng Shuiyu did consider keeping Mu Dai in the back kitchen, but seeing how timid Zheng Li was, she knew the girl couldn’t handle the dining room.

Near midnight, most customers had gradually left. Only one table of young hooligans remained, all around eighteen or nineteen years old, who had brought their beer.

Zheng Shuiyu despised customers like these. There was little profit to be made—they could sit for two hours with just a dish of peanuts and a plate of shredded potatoes, occupying the table without budging, affecting her table turnover, and they were particularly prone to causing trouble.

Sure enough, they suddenly started banging on the table and shouting.

Zheng Shuiyu had a headache and instructed Mu Dai: “Keep an eye on them, don’t let them break anything.”

Mu Dai dragged a chair over and sat down not far away.

She couldn’t understand why they were arguing, their faces red and necks swollen, issuing an ultimatum to a fat young man: “If you’ve got the guts, then go! If you don’t go, you’re not a man!”

What amazing place was this that not going would make someone less of a man?

The fat young man stammered, the flesh on his cheeks quivering, seemingly caught in a dilemma.

The crew-cut leader delivered a sharp slap to the back of his head, the sound crisp and clear.

“Do you have any courage or not? Will it cost your life to go once?”

The fat young man mumbled: “I heard it’s quite scary…”

“We’ve all been there. What’s so scary about it? Didn’t we all come back just fine?”

The fat young man raised his eyes timidly: “People say…”

He lowered his voice, his face fearful: “At midnight, if you put your ear against the concrete platform and listen, you can hear heartbeats, as if there’s someone inside…”

Mu Dai glanced at him sideways—his tone, expression, and demeanor were all perfect. Not pursuing a career in horror films was truly a loss to the entertainment industry.

The crew-cut man cursed, raising his hand to slap him again.

Mu Dai said, “Hey.”

Her attitude was impatient, her face expressing a desire for them to leave.

The crew-cut man was somewhat intimidated by her. His raised hand changed to a grip, seizing the fat young man’s collar and pushing him toward the exit: “Let’s go, let’s go.”

The group stood up, their footsteps clattering as they walked out. Someone slapped the money for the meal on the table.

Amitabha Buddha, what a long day. Finally, they could close up.

Outside the door, the fat young man hung his head, trembling.

The crew-cut man looked down on him, saying, “You’ve got the courage of a chick…”

The fat young man desperately defended himself: “Really, I also heard…”

He shuddered: “People say that there’s a woman embedded in that concrete platform. When there’s no moon, she wears red high heels…”

The crew-cut man shoved him, making him stumble: “Get lost! If you don’t have the guts to go, then stop following us around all the time.”

…

Mu Dai felt there must be a generation gap between her and Zheng Li.

Finally finished with work, she was exhausted and only wanted to sleep, yet Zheng Li was still energetic, wanting to go to an internet café.

Mu Dai inquired further, and Zheng Li hesitantly replied: “I arranged to chat with someone…”

Her face was flushed with embarrassment. The other person was probably an age-appropriate young man. The internet café was just downstairs next door, so Mu Dai wasn’t concerned about her safety: “Go ahead then, but come back soon.”

Zheng Li agreed, joyful as a little bird released from its cage.

Without Zheng Li, the room was uncomfortably quiet. The old wall clock chimed on the hour, utterly unconcerned about disturbing anyone’s dreams.

After it had struck three times, Zheng Li returned.

She tiptoed, seemingly afraid of waking Mu Dai, yet also appearing to have something to tell her. She paused by her pillow for a moment and whispered: “Sister Mu Mu, are you awake?”

There was no response. Zheng Li thought she must be asleep.

Just as she turned to leave, Mu Dai asked from behind: “Do you need something?”

Zheng Li was so startled she almost tripped.

Looking back, Mu Dai was already sitting up, supporting herself with her arm.

Zheng Li asked cautiously: “Did I wake you?”

Mu Dai said, “I couldn’t sleep anyway. What is it?”

Zheng Li said, “I went online and looked up some information for you. Weren’t you looking for a woman who wears red high heels? I searched for you.”

Mu Dai found it both amusing and frustrating: this wasn’t the right approach.

Indeed, Zheng Li said she had found a horror story about a woman in red high heels.

Red high heels, embroidered shoes, and the like had always been overused tropes in horror stories. Mu Dai had no interest in even listening.

She lay back down and commanded, “Go to sleep.”

Zheng Li had no choice but to hastily wash up and crawl into bed.

The second hand of the wall clock ticked away. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were the scenes from the story she had read online.

Initially, she had indeed gone to chat, but after the man called “Wind Chasing Knight” sent a selfie, she lost all interest.

There’s an old saying that fits perfectly: if you’re ugly, don’t come out and scare people.

But since she had paid for two hours, what should she do with the remaining time?

Suddenly, she thought: Sister Mu Mu is looking for someone, isn’t she?

So she opened a search engine and typed: Nantian, red high heels.

Surprisingly, there were many search results, all with the same title, indicating the same content had been repeatedly reposted.

Like all girls her age, Zheng Li was both frightened and curious about such horror topics.

In the end, curiosity won out. After hovering the mouse back and forth, she still clicked on the link.

It mentioned a sculpture built in Nantian County nearly twenty years ago.

According to the plans at that time, this sculpture would connect three newly constructed roads, symbolizing the city’s takeoff and progress. Thus, it depicted a horse with its head held high, seemingly leaping into the air, mounted on a heavy concrete platform.

But plans couldn’t keep up with changes. After the sculpture was completed, the leadership had new ideas for urban planning. The city center shifted south, and other roads were connected to the provincial highway. This area, along with its surroundings, completely declined, becoming the urban-rural fringe, just as Mu Dai had seen earlier, with rice growing on the field ridges and the occasional leisurely strolling white goose.

Imagining the scene, it was desolate and eerie: a dilapidated suburban area, sparsely populated, yet standing there was a sculpture completely out of place with its surroundings.

Unmanaged and unmaintained, it became a hangout for hooligans and ne’er-do-wells. Some came to fight, others to indulge in passion. The concrete platform was covered with various painted words and images—all curse words and abstract art. In short, it was best not to try to understand.

No one knew which year or during which fierce brawl the horse’s head was partially broken off.

Then, that eerie story began to spread.

It was said that in the dead of night, if a person went to the leaping horse sculpture, placed their ear against the concrete platform, and listened carefully, they would hear the sound of a heartbeat.

As if there was a living person buried inside the concrete platform.

It was also said that when you listened intently, a cold wind would suddenly blow against the back of your neck. If you hurriedly turned around, of course, there would be no one there. But if you looked down, you would find a pair of red high heels behind you…

Zheng Li’s scalp tingled with fear.

Many replies to the post revealed, incredibly, that in Nantian County, where cultural and spiritual life was impoverished, this had become a recreational destination. Many people used it for bets and tests of courage, especially going on dark, windy nights and boastfully writing “xxx was here” with correction fluid on the platform.

When the matter was at its most fervent, the original construction team came forward to refute the rumors. The foreman’s exact words were: “Bullshit! We didn’t use large excavators at that time. The concrete platform was poured by us, one shovelful at a time. If there had been a living person, how could we not have known?”

But rumors always spread faster than they could be dispelled. Or perhaps, deep down, people secretly yearned for such thrilling horror, with truth being secondary.

Luo Ren was sleeping hazily when he was awakened by Shen Gun’s call.

In the middle of the night, it was unlikely to be a casual conversation. Luo Ren sat up in the darkness and asked: “Have you reached Hangu Pass?”

Shen Gun said, “Not yet.”

There was a rare excitement in his voice.

Luo Ren noticed it: “Is something wrong?”

Shen Gun said, “Although I haven’t paid much attention to your affairs with the Ferocious Slips, that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I’ve always felt that the Ferocious Slips are a topic worth studying…”

Luo Ren smiled wryly: In this world, probably only Shen Gun would label such a pursuit as “studying” or a “topic.”

“After the second Ferocious Slip, I asked Little Wanwan to keep an eye on some things. Since I wasn’t very certain, I didn’t mention it to you all. I just hoped to discover something from a new perspective…”

Little Wanwan was, of course, Wan Fenghuo.

Wan Fenghuo was quite obliging to Shen Gun. Shen Gun was probably the only person who could ask him for information without paying, because he had firmly stated: he had no money to give, only his life.

Luo Ren felt a bit tense. He reached out, touched the bedside lamp switch, then slowly withdrew his hand.

As if darkness could provide a greater sense of security.

He asked: “What were you investigating?”

“Those paintings—the illustration of the Fishing Line Puppet, the giant painting on the seabed at Hepu—whether they had appeared elsewhere, in other forms.”

“Did they?”

Shen Gun paused for a moment. During this interval, Luo Ren could hear his heavy breathing.

Then he said: “Yes.”