Deep Sea Enigma

Endless, thick fog rolled outside the window, so dense that it seemed as though the entire world had vanished beyond the fog, with only a chaotic, dim light penetrating through the mist into the room, casting a half-lit, half-dark ambiance within the quiet space.

In the slightly disheveled single apartment, Zhou Ming was hunched over his desk, pushing aside the clutter on the table roughly, as he wrote with a weary expression:

"Day Seven: There has been no change. The thick fog still covers everything outside the window, which has been sealed by an unknown force... The entire room seems to have been 'cast' into some sort of abnormal space...

"There is no way to contact the outside world, no water or electricity, yet the lights remain on, and the computer still works—even though I have unplugged its power cord..."

As if a faint sound of wind suddenly came from the direction of the window, Zhou Ming, who had been engrossed in his diary, abruptly looked up. His weary eyes momentarily lit up, but the next moment he realized it was just an illusion; outside the window, there was still only the pervasive, pale fog, and a lifeless world coldly enveloped his tiny abode.

His gaze swept over the windowsill, where he saw wrenches and hammers carelessly thrown about—evidence of his attempts to escape the room over the past few days. Now, these hard, rough tools merely lay there, as if mocking his desperate situation.

After a few seconds, Zhou Ming's expression returned to calmness. With this unusual tranquility, he lowered his head again and continued writing:

"I am trapped, with no clue on how to get out. Over the past few days, I have even tried dismantling the roof, walls, and floor, but despite all my efforts, I couldn't leave a single mark on the walls. The room has become like... like a box 'cast' into the space, with no way out...

"Except for that door.

"But the situation beyond that door... is even more unsettling."

Zhou Ming paused again, slowly reviewing what he had just written, and absently flipped through his diary, looking at the entries from the past few days—oppressed words, meaningless ramblings, anxious doodles, and cold jokes written while trying to relax his mind.

He didn't know the purpose of writing all this, or who would ever read these nonsensical scribbles. In fact, he wasn't even someone who was accustomed to keeping a diary—being a high school teacher with very limited leisure time, he had little energy to spend on this.

But now, whether he wanted it or not, he had plenty of free time.

After waking up one day, he found himself trapped in his own room.

Outside the window was the unending fog, so dense that nothing beyond the fog was visible. The whole world seemed to have lost the alternation of day and night, with a constant, dim light filling the room 24/7. The window was locked, the water and electricity were cut off, and there was no signal on the phone. No matter how much noise he made, it wouldn't attract any rescue from the outside.

It felt like an absurd nightmare, where everything operated against the laws of nature. But Zhou Ming had exhausted all methods to confirm one thing: this was neither an illusion nor a dream; it was just a world that was no longer normal and a temporarily still normal self.

He took a deep breath, his gaze finally settling on the only door at the end of the room.

An ordinary, cheap white wooden door, still adorned with a calendar he had forgotten to replace since last year. The doorknob was polished to a shine, and the doormat was placed a bit crookedly.

That door could be opened.

If this enclosed, distorted room was like a prison, then the most malicious aspect of this prison was that it kept a door that could be pushed open at any time, constantly tempting the prisoner to leave—yet the other side of that door was not the "outside" Zhou Ming wanted.

There was no familiar corridor or sunny street filled with vibrant crowds.

There was only an unfamiliar and unsettling foreign land, and "over there" was also an inescapable predicament.

But Zhou Ming knew that there was not much time left for hesitation, and the so-called "choice" had never existed from the beginning.

His food supplies were limited, and only a quarter of a few bottles of mineral water remained. He had tried all possible means to escape or seek help in this enclosed room. Now, the only path before him was to prepare himself and seek a slim chance of survival on the other side of the "door."

Perhaps there would still be an opportunity to investigate the cause of this bizarre and difficult supernatural situation.

Zhou Ming took a deep breath and wrote the final lines in his diary: "...But in any case, the only choice left now is to go to the other side of the door. At least on that strange ship, there might be some food, and the exploration and preparations I have made over the past few days should be enough to help me survive on that ship... though the preparations I can make there are indeed very limited.

"Finally, to any future readers, if I do not return, and if someday someone opens this room and finds this diary, please do not dismiss what I have written as an absurd story—it really happened. Despite being eerie, there really was a person named Zhou Ming trapped in a mad and bizarre space-time anomaly.

"I have described all the abnormal phenomena I have witnessed and recorded all my efforts to escape in this diary. If there is indeed a 'future reader,' please remember my name at the very least, and remember that all of this really happened."

Zhou Ming closed the diary, tossed the pen into the nearby pen holder, and slowly stood up from behind the desk.

It was time to leave, before he fell into complete passivity and desperation.

But after a brief moment of thought, he did not directly head towards the only door that led to the "outside." Instead, he walked straight to his bed.

He needed to be in the best possible condition to face the "foreign land" on the other side of the door—and his current state, especially his mental state, was not yet good enough.

Zhou Ming didn't know if he could fall asleep, but even forcing himself to lie in bed and clear his mind was better than going to the "other side" in a state of extreme exhaustion.

Eight hours later, Zhou Ming opened his eyes.

The view outside the window was still a chaotic fog, with oppressive dim light that made it hard to discern day from night.

Zhou Ming ignored the situation outside the window. He took out food from his dwindling supplies, ate until he was eight-tenths full, and then went to the dressing mirror in the corner of the room.

The man in the mirror still had disheveled hair and looked rather unkempt, lacking any notable grace. But Zhou Ming stared intently at his reflection, as if to imprint this appearance in his memory permanently.

He stared at the mirror for several minutes, then whispered to himself, as if speaking to the person in the mirror: "Your name is Zhou Ming. At least here, you are Zhou Ming. Always remember that."

After that, he turned and left.

Standing before the familiar door, Zhou Ming took a deep breath and placed his hand on the doorknob.

Aside from his clothes, he was carrying no extra items—no food, no protective equipment. This was from the experience of previous "explorations"—aside from himself, he couldn't bring anything through that door.

In fact, he even questioned if the "self" was valid, because...

Zhou Ming turned the knob and pushed open the door. A swirling mass of gray-black fog appeared like some sort of curtain, and amidst the shifting fog, he seemed to hear the sound of waves.

Stepping through the fog, a slightly salty sea breeze greeted him. The illusory sound of waves became real, and he felt a slight rocking under his feet. After a brief moment of dizziness, Zhou Ming opened his eyes to see a broad, open wooden deck, towering masts under dark, overcast clouds, and the endlessly undulating sea beyond the ship's railing.

Zhou Ming looked down and saw a stronger body than he remembered, wearing a finely crafted yet unfamiliar captain's uniform, with large, bony hands, and holding a classical, elegant black flintlock pistol.

Yes, even the "self" had to be questioned.

(Motherfucker! I'm back!)