Seven Days and Nights with the Werewolf

Night 1·03

The night on the island was eerily quiet. For people who’d spent their lives in the noisy bustle of the city, this stark stillness was jarring—especially for Fang Daichuan. His job demanded he work round the clock, 365 days a year; when he was busy, day and night blurred into one. On the rare lazy days, he’d gather friends for drinks and karaoke, or play card and video games together—socializing was just part of the job.

Ordinarily, a sudden trip to an island with no work in sight would have Fang Daichuan holed up in a room sleeping for seven straight days. But this was no tropical resort; it was a death trap that feasted on human lives.

Tonight was destined to be a sleepless one.

The long conference table in the first-floor hall was packed once more.

Li Sinian sat in a corner, legs crossed, twirling his identity magnetic card between his fingers and tapping one corner of it repeatedly against the tabletop. Yang Song claimed the seat at the head, filing her nails nervously—her mango-colored polish was chipped and scratched to bits from her constant picking. The young couple sat huddled together as always.

Fang Daichuan held a cardboard box while Ding Zihui passed out the clothes and rations to those seated. The supplies looked abundant at first glance, but they were actually scarce. Fang Daichuan only got three bottles of mineral water and two packs of compressed biscuits; the girls received a little more, but not nearly enough to last seven days and nights.

Four or five people hadn’t come down yet, so Fang Daichuan set their water on the empty seats in front of them.

A middle-aged man on one side picked up the T-shirt assigned to him, glanced down at his own frame, and forced a cold smile. “This is pretty shoddy hospitality, isn’t it? No large sizes available?”

He was the type who exuded success—crisp shirt and slacks, a stern, imposing air, not a hint of a smile. He must have been handsome in his youth, and he’d kept his figure fairly well, but he was still too old and broad to squeeze into the tight one-size-fits-all T-shirt. Fang Daichuan remembered him; he’d stayed eerily calm during the day, never panicking like the others, and he seemed like a man not to be trifled with.

“No large sizes—all one-size-fits-all,” Li Sinian lifted his eyes for a split second, giving the man a cool glance. “Make do with it.”

This wealthy businessman had barely moved all day. His white dress shirt was spotless—not a single drop of blood or even a sweat stain on it, so he hardly needed a change of clothes anyway. He scanned the room, his gaze settling on Yang Song at the head of the table. “What’s your name, miss?”

Yang Song’s face was devoid of emotion. She looked up and spat out two words: “Yang Song.”

“Ah, right. I’m Du Chaosheng.” Du smiled, a shrewd glint in his eyes. “Look, miss—we’re stuck on this island for seven days, no ifs, ands, or buts. You can’t wear the same clothes for a whole week, can you? I can’t even fit into this T-shirt, so I’ll trade it for a bottle of your water. Deal?”

The young couple had been clinging to each other, but the boy looked up at Du Chaosheng when he heard the offer. Fang Daichuan sat directly across from him and caught the look in his eye—a strange, intense focus, like he was calculating something. Earlier, when they’d found the crate, this boy had squatted down and joked with him, easygoing and casual, not the type to take an instant dislike to someone. Could he have figured out Du Chaosheng’s role card from just those few words? A chilling thought crossed Fang Daichuan’s mind. He replayed Du’s words in his head, but found no clues at all.

As a girl, Yang Song had been given one extra bottle of water and one extra pack of biscuits than the men. She glanced at the white T-shirt, scoffed, and said to Du, “I’m not sure I’ll even live seven days. This deal’s hardly a good one for me.”

Du was about to argue, but the young couple exchanged a look. The girl turned to him and said, “We’ll trade with you.” They’d combined their rations and water, an unspoken vow to face life and death together.

So they just needed the clothes. Fang Daichuan let out a quiet breath of relief. If everyone here was a genius operating on a whole different level, this game would be impossible to play.

Du froze for a moment, then didn’t ask any questions. He pushed the T-shirt toward them and smiled. “What are your names?”

The boy stuffed a bottle of water into Du’s hand, his face still downcast, his voice cold. “Du Wei. This is Chen Hui.”

An awkward silence fell over the hall.

Yang Song’s mood soured for no apparent reason. She let out a quiet huff and muttered, “Needing an extra set of clothes for seven days? What exactly are you planning to do that’s so hard on clothes?”

Chen Hui’s face flushed bright red, as if she’d thought of something embarrassing. She looked up at Yang Song and retorted hastily, “That’s not it! Li Sinian’s idea was good—we want to explore the whole island. We weren’t sure we’d make it back by morning, so we just wanted an extra set of clothes, that’s all!”

Yang Song curled her lips into a dismissive smile. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”

Chen Hui was about to say more, but Du Wei tugged her arm, silencing her.

On the other side of the table sat another middle-aged man, in his fifties, huddled in his seat and slouching forward. He was shorter than Du Chaosheng, but his figure had gone to pot. He’d rushed down in a hurry, his shirt unbuttoned, his beer belly spilling over the table edge—an awkward, pitiful sight.

“I can’t fit into mine either,” he said, forcing a nervous smile and mopping his shiny forehead with a handkerchief. “Do any of you want to trade with me?”

No one paid him any attention.

Yang Song let out a sharp snort, twisted around, and unscrewed a bottle of water for a sip. The young couple were being affectionate again; Chen Hui rested her head on Du Wei’s shoulder, nibbling his earlobe and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

The man with the beer belly put the T-shirt down awkwardly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Afraid someone might trade for her supplies, Ding Zihui gathered hers into her arms and smiled. “I’ll put these in my room first. Fang Daichuan, aren’t you going upstairs to sleep?” She was clearly scared and wanted him to come with her for company.

Fang Daichuan glanced at Li Sinian.

Li Sinian let out a soft chuckle. “She’s asking if you’re going to sleep, and you’re staring at me? You gonna sleep with me tonight?”

Fang Daichuan’s face burst into bright red.

It had been a harmless joke, but it hit a nerve—Ding Zihui’s face turned red too, and she realized how her words must have sounded, like an invitation to share a room. She spun around and fled up the stairs in a hurry.

Li Sinian sat in his corner, his chin propped in his right hand, staring off into space.

Fang Daichuan watched the girl’s retreating figure, then plopped down next to Li Sinian, resting his chin on the tabletop.

“The blood’s still not wiped off up there, y’know,” Li Sinian shot him a sidelong glance, teasing him.

Fang Daichuan jolted upright, his back straight, a weird mix of disgust and alarm on his face.

Li Sinian burst out laughing. “I’m messing with you. None of it splashed here at all.”

Fang Daichuan glared at him, annoyed.

“So what exactly is everyone waiting for here?” Fang Daichuan frowned, more confused by the minute at how things were unfolding.

Li Sinian glanced up the stairs and smiled faintly. “Waiting for the inevitable.”

“???” Fang Daichuan stared at him with a dumbfounded expression, like he was speaking in riddles.

As if in answer, a bloodcurdling scream rang out from upstairs.

It was a girl’s voice. Fang Daichuan leaped to his feet and bounded up the stairs in three long strides.

At the end of the second-floor corridor, he crashed into Ding Zihui full-on, wrapping his arms around her waist in the collision. The girl shrieked in terror, flailing her arms wildly in the air. Seeing Fang Daichuan’s face didn’t calm her down—she struggled desperately, trying to scramble past him and bolt downstairs.

“Calm down!” Fang Daichuan winced as she hit him several times, wrapping an arm loosely around her to hold her still. “Take it easy! What’s wrong? What are you running from?!”

Ding Zihui stared at him blankly for two seconds, then glanced back at the empty corridor. The large floor-to-ceiling window was wide open, the curtains billowing in the wind, their tassels fluttering in the dark. Her water and biscuits were scattered all over the floor, and her white T-shirt lay crumpled there, its shape eerily like a person crouched on the ground.

A violent shiver racked her body, and her muscles went limp. Fang Daichuan could feel her relaxing against him, and he quickly slipped an arm under her shoulders, half-carrying her to the wall and propping her up.

“Should we… go downstairs?” he asked. “There’s light down there, it’ll be safer.”

Ding Zihui shook her head, pulling free of his grip. She clung to the brass handrail of the stairs with one hand, the other braced on her thigh, her eyes fixed warily on his face.

Fang Daichuan let out a long sigh and held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. What did you see?”

As he spoke, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed on the stairs. Du Wei and Chen Hui ran up from downstairs, and a moment later, Yang Song followed—she’d probably decided staying downstairs with three untrustworthy men was more dangerous than facing whatever was upstairs. The girls gathered around Ding Zihui, supporting her.

With more people around, Ding Zihui finally calmed down a little.

Yang Song looked thoroughly impatient, but she still pressed a bottle of water into Ding Zihui’s hand and unscrewed the cap for her. “Have some backbone! What did you see that scared you this bad?”

Fang Daichuan hadn’t noticed it before, but Ding Zihui’s hands were shaking violently. Now, as she clutched the water bottle, he saw her fingers trembling so hard that water sloshed out, making Yang Song wince in frustration.

Her eyes were glassy, staring at the empty corridor as she rambled nervously, taking a couple of sips of water and breathing deeply to steady herself before she spoke. “Just now… when I came up here, someone was hiding behind the curtains…” She pointed at the billowing fabric, her face contorted in fear, and shivered at the memory. “I felt something was wrong, and then a needle pricked my arm.”

She turned her arm over, and everyone saw it—a bright red scratch on the outer side of her upper arm.

Silence fell at once. The only sounds were their ragged, uneven breaths. Someone swallowed hard, a loud *gulp* cutting through the stillness.

Yang Song shivered. “Did you see who it was?”

Ding Zihui shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “No! I was so scared, I pulled my arm away and ran. Am I gonna die? Is this it for me?! Who’s the Witch?! Does anyone have the antidote?! Please, someone give me the shot!”

Fang Daichuan’s heart clenched tight.

Li Sinian’s voice came from downstairs. “Don’t panic. Let me see.”

He walked up the stairs, followed by Du Chaosheng and the sweaty man with the beer belly. All of them wore tense, anxious expressions.

Ding Zihui latched onto him like a lifeline, holding out her arm for him to inspect. Li Sinian leaned in, turning her arm gently with his fingers to get a better look.

The scratch was long, but shallow—only the top layer of skin had been broken, a few tiny beads of blood welling up from the wound.

“You’re fine,” Li Sinian said, studying it carefully. His fingers were cold against her skin, and Ding Zihui shivered involuntarily. “It didn’t pierce deep enough—no venom was injected. You’ll be okay.”

As he spoke, he subtly pressed his hand over Fang Daichuan’s, which had already slipped into the pocket at his waist, his fingers closing around the vials hidden inside.