Recap
Recalling the night’s ordeal, Shen Ji realized that any misstep, any moment of false hope, would have cost him his life.
The thought that he had been only a few steps away from the killer filled him with dread. And that red raincoat…was it a coincidence?
Why was the killer also wearing a red raincoat? Why… had the killer appeared in reality?
Shen Ji’s heart sank. The words “killer” branded themselves deep into his mind, carrying indelible weight, becoming a forbidden presence within him.
From dusk till dawn, Shen Ji sat awake, sleepless through the night.
Forcing himself up, he drained a glass of water, then collapsed in the living room, finally able to surrender to sleep.
His dream was bizarre. When Shen Ji woke up, he found himself drenched in sweat, and once again, heard that knocking.
Thud, thud, thud.
The relentless knocking seemed to use the dream as a stepping stone, trying to break into his subconscious state.
In the dream, Shen Ji showed no panic, only impatience. “He” freed a hand, looked at Shen Ji weeping on the side, lips moving as if speaking but no sound came.
Shen Ji instinctively asked, “What are you saying? I can’t hear you.”
“He” replied: “Thud, thud, thud.” His face was expressionless and solemn.
Shen Ji jolted awake. At his ears came the pounding of fists on the door, as though it might burst open at any moment.
Along with the pounding, it returned all the noise of the world, it thundered and jolted him awake.
Shen Ji had no time to think. Scrambling up, he heard someone outside shout the word “police.” After a moment’s hesitation, he went to the door.
The door opened. A young policeman, flushed and ready to break in, shrank back silently behind the older officer under Shen Ji’s probing gaze.
Shen Ji lowered his eyes, saying nothing.
The older policeman’s face remained calm. “Police. Routine questioning. Name?”
“Shen Ji.”
“Age?”
“…I don’t remember.”
“Occupation?”
“Unemployed.”
“Neighbors say you’re a novelist?”
Shen Ji’s lashes trembled. “Sort of.”
“Where were you last night?”
“At home.”
The older policeman glanced at his filthy hands and feet, but didn’t press, moving on: “When did you last see the landlord?”
Shen Ji searched his memory, found nothing, and shook his head lightly.
“He’s dead,” the officer said suddenly.
Shen Ji’s head snapped up, then quickly turned away. An itch rose in his palm at the worst moment. His voice rasped: “How did he die?”
“At present, the cause is uncertain. We can’t disclose.”
Shen Ji said: “May I see your IDs?”
The two exchanged a look. The older officer showed his badge first, the younger followed. Seeing Shen Ji’s tension, the older officer reassured him: “Don’t be afraid. This is just a simple inquiry. We may need your cooperation later.”
Shen Ji relaxed, nodded. Yet he knew he had relaxed too soon. Even if these two weren’t killers in disguise, there was still a murderer in the building. It was no longer safe.
He had not told them the truth: that he had encountered the killer last night.
The questioning ended. As the officers left, the younger one muttered: “Senior, that man clearly didn’t tell the truth…”
The older one interrupted: “Wait for the autopsy. Don’t rush. Everyone has secrets.”
“You suspect that neighbor… the sole heir… and with the landlord dead, the house…”
Too far away, Shen Ji couldn’t hear the rest. He shut the door tight, his mind racing, refusing to acknowledge the neighbor they spoke of.
The police had exposed his identity as a novelist, an information they obtained from the neighbors. And yesterday, the uninvited guest had called him “Teacher” before leaving. The form of address was too common; Shen Ji preferred to believe it was mere courtesy, not something with hidden intent.
The dull pain in his palm screamed belatedly. His nails had dug into flesh again. He opened his hands, staring at the wound, blood and soil seeping into the cracks, his eyes indifferent.
The bandages from yesterday were gone. He had left the outskirts with heavy steps, but something had stayed there forever.
Whatever price he must bear, at least there would be no more burdens.
He showered. Hunger made him dizzy until he ate a little. Sitting at his desk, his mind drifted back to that red raincoat.
In the story he was writing, the killer wore a red raincoat.
Looking at the scattered manuscript pages, Shen Ji struggled long before picking up the pen. Better to believe in coincidence than to think the killer had stepped out of fiction.
Now, whether it was the neighbor with his boyfriend’s face, or the murderer in the red raincoat, Shen Ji had to believe it was a coincidence. Otherwise, he could not calm himself down.
Immersed in the story, he lost track of time. The stabbing pain in his palm dragged him back. His handwriting sprawled wildly across the page, blood dripping from his fingers, staining the paper with dark brown blotches.
Unwrapping the bandage, he found the wound festering, pus oozing yellow, soaking the cloth, blood flowing across his palm.
He had dismissed the cut at first, waiting for it to heal on its own. Now the worsening injury was his punishment.
He washed away the clotted filth, but the stains on the manuscript could not be erased. These papers existed for stories, yet the words were trapped within. And the characters…were they trapped too?
Searching a drawer, he found the medicine box empty. He had no memory of using it. So who had?
In his own home, Shen Ji suddenly felt a chill, as though he had stepped into a beast’s lair, unseen eyes watching from the dark.
His safe haven had become a den of terror. His first instinct was to flee. But as he opened the door, greater horror confronted him.
His boyfriend’s face blocked the way. So close. It was as if he had been listening outside all along.
Shen Ji recoiled, gripping the handle tighter. This time, he would not let him in.
He stared at that face, searching for differences from his memory, proof that this was not a resurrection. But he failed. The face was identical, even the black high-collared shirt matched.
His gaze slid down the jaw, about to reach the neck when the man spoke: “Teacher, long time no see.”
Shen Ji frowned, shifting his eyes away. He didn’t understand why this man who had claimed himself to be the new neighbour who moved in less than 24 hours ago would say that.
Thinking it through, the man’s behavior was strange. Shen Ji demanded: “What are you doing?”
The neighbor smiled, lifting a tray. To Shen Ji, the smile was unbearably false. “I came to bring medicine. I saw that Teacher’s hand was hurt. Is it better today?”
His face paired with that smile seemed harmless. Shen Ji realized he looked unexpectedly young, nothing like a cunning killer.
Yes. Ever since the police left, Shen Ji had begun to suspect him.
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