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墨書 Inktalez
Struggling, spinning... the camera shakes and intertwines.
In the distance, I see a blurred sky and river, viewed in reverse; in close-up, a pair of oversized pajama pants flutters wildly on a balcony as I fall past. In slow motion, the pants seem to come alive, their legs shaking up and down, trembling.
I stand excitedly on one of those ugly protrusions on the rooftop, watching as the scene before me suddenly turns into an empty frame. Unable to contain myself, I burst into laughter. Then, I woke up with a strange sound—out of a Surreal dream.
Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I opened the wardrobe, and he froze in shock, his swollen red eyes looking at me pleadingly. Of course, my cold gaze was fixed on the nylon rope that had been pulled from his tightly bound wrists to his purple, swollen hands. A 1.7-meter tall Stainless Steel Rod hung from the arm of a 1.7-meter man; it did seem a bit short.
I imagined he must regret renting a place in such a dilapidated neighborhood. He didn’t need to say it; I already knew. Here, adults hit children, children hit even smaller children, men hit women, wives hit husbands, and neighbors brawl while shouting insults—it was all commonplace.
No one even bothered to watch the commotion. While he screamed “Help!” at the top of his lungs, perhaps the neighbors were enjoying their meals accompanied by his cries, laughing derisively. People like me who would seriously investigate were rare, weren’t they?
He was poor—so poor that I couldn’t find anything besides knives and ropes that could kill him instantly. I could only calmly boil water in a battered iron kettle and eat instant noodles that cost seventy cents a bag from a chipped enamel bowl while flipping through the job listings in the daily newspaper... Ah, yes, wearing thin rubber gloves that would immediately go on when I entered these spaces.
Hair? There’s something called a Silicone Head Cover that I wear under my hat. Saliva? Skin flakes? Urine? Don’t worry; I’m very professional. Handling people is as professional as cleaning.
There really wasn’t much to record. Besides “Help!” and “Don’t kill me,” he had nothing worthwhile to say. After consuming everything edible, I still couldn’t think of what to do next; I had no choice but to tie plastic bags tightly around his neck one by one. Again came the repetition: struggling, stillness, coldness, rigidity. That process didn’t bring me the excitement I felt in my dream.
After thinking for a moment and cleaning everything up, I left with the bed sheets, pillowcases, and enamel bowl that could never be completely cleaned.
...
The light before me dimmed quickly for a moment, accompanied by a faint scent of Gardenia.
Zhao Lang looked up, and Shui Yu smiled brightly as she said, "Good morning."
It was exactly 9:30 AM when another report from the Evidence Department arrived. The page containing the suicide note was confirmed to be in Li Yuecheng's handwriting, seemingly written a long time ago. Analysis of the ink composition revealed that this type of ink had long been unavailable on the market, yet the jagged tear at the top of the paper was recent.
Zhao Lang furrowed his brow, his sharply defined face displaying a fluctuating expression. "What are you back for?"
Shui Yu sat in the chair opposite his desk, lighting a cigarette. "You used 'back' instead of 'come.' Do I still need to explain?"
Zhao Lang's shoulders twitched slightly as he abruptly stood up, turning his back to her. After steadying his emotions, he asked, "You already know? What are the doubts?"
Shui Yu replied, "Well, there are many, but they aren't the kind of doubts you think indicate Li Yuecheng was murdered. For instance, there’s no other tin foil in Li Yuecheng's bedroom, the source of the cyanide is unknown, the suicide note was written long ago, and if Li Yuecheng wanted to commit suicide, he wouldn’t have waited for the police to break in. These were originally doubts you considered, right?"
Zhao Lang wasn’t surprised that she had learned everything so quickly despite not being at the scene. He didn’t turn around. "How do you explain it?"
Shui Yu said, "Li Yuecheng was a person who pursued perfection to an extreme. Otherwise, a seasoned artist who has weathered many storms wouldn’t collapse instantly when their image was damaged. Just that one sentence explains everything."
Zhao Lang tried to focus his gaze through the glass window but found it difficult to control his eyes from occasionally glancing at the blurred silhouette in the glass reflection. "I want a detailed explanation; otherwise, I’ll conclude it was murder." There seemed to be more behind his words.
Shui Yu continued, "A person who pursues perfection knows when they’ve made mistakes and will definitely be more cautious and low-key than others, experiencing greater mental pressure. His long-term use of antidepressants is a clear indication of this. Of course, such a person would also plan more for an uncertain future. So the suicide note and cyanide might have been prepared long ago—five years? Ten years? Maybe even longer. Trust me, don’t investigate; the time span is too vast to uncover anything.
In fact, if the police hadn’t broken in, perhaps Li Yuecheng would have had a peaceful sleep, taken a fragrant bath, put on some makeup—he could have waited until later to die. The process didn’t need to be perfect; at least he could end it perfectly. As for the tin foil, that’s because Li Yuecheng was trying to gradually control his dosage of antidepressants and had made many different dosage containers out of tin foil, organized by date—taking one home each day while others were found in his office." She had her own sources of information.
She remained as convincing and irrefutable as ever.
Just as Zhao Lang was about to speak, the phone suddenly rang.
A hurried voice came through as Zhao Lang picked up the receiver: "Zhao, the Li Yuecheng company reported that a screenwriter went missing yesterday. They suspect it might be related to Li Yuecheng." Zhao Lang's brow furrowed tightly.
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