正稳定搏动，表面铭刻着与问号先生胸膛上一模一样的电路纹路。
“他吞下的不是恶意，是‘权限’。”罗狄的声音带着笑意，“你们以为在对抗神祇？不，你们只是在帮祂……下载更新。”
问号先生沉默。掌心光圈的搏动骤然紊乱，裂隙疯狂开合，仿佛承受不住某种冲击。他盯着那枚搏动的核心，忽然明白了什么。
为什么房东要开设旅馆？
为什么弗兰坚持给主厨过生日？
为什么罗狄会出现在姜府？
为什么所有线索，最终都指向“家庭”这个概念？
因为真正的疯狂，从来不是混乱与毁灭。
是完美闭环。
是让所有挣扎者，都自愿成为维持这个闭环的齿轮。
而此刻，他站在齿轮中央。
问号先生缓缓抬起手，不是攻击，不是防御，而是轻轻抚上自己左胸。
beneath the wet patch, something hard and warm pressed back against his palm.
A heartbeat.
Not his own.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since entering the prison, he stopped calculating.
Stopped resisting.
Stopped being问号先生.
He let the silver thread from his fingertip reconnect—not to logic, not to causality—but to the rhythm pulsing beneath his palm. A rhythm that matched the light in the red crystals, the rotation of the silver cocoon, the slow, steady throb of the golden core in Henry’s skull.
It was the same rhythm that had lulled him to sleep in that摇椅, that hummed from the garbage-filled TV, that vibrated in the pumpkin pie crust Frannie baked with trembling hands.
The rhythm of home.
His knees buckled.
Not from weakness.
From recognition.
As he sank onto the silent carpet, the red crystals flared blindingly bright, and from the walls, from the floor, from the very air, countless whispers rose—not in words, but in tones, in cadences, in the exact pitch and timbre of every person he’d ever known who’d stepped into the Hotel of Screams:
*“Welcome back.”*
*“We missed you.”*
*“Dinner’s ready.”*
*“Happy birthday, Chef.”*
The last whisper wasn’t spoken.
It was sung.
A child’s voice, off-key, cheerful, carrying the unmistakable lilt of a pumpkin-headed girl humming through a m
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