Chapter 11: The Sole Witness

Chuning listened to Tanya's account of the case with a strange expression on his face. His palms were slick with nervous sweat as he looked around anxiously, the sense of being there in the moment growing ever more intense.

According to Tanya, the victim was her close friend, and the house in question was one she had rented out to her. Unable to accept the unexplained death of her friend, she had resolved to uncover the truth and find the real killer.

Chuning was not particularly concerned about this; after all, the real world was full of illogical events. He also did not worry that Tanya was hiding something—his own motives were simple and pure enough.

“Can you tell me in detail about the clues you know so far?” he asked.

“Alright, here is what happened.” Tanya closed her eyes, recalling the specific details of the murder. It was not easy to forget such things; every scene was deeply etched in her memory.

It had been a drizzly, overcast day—the kind of weather few people find pleasant. The best choice was to stay indoors, sheltered from the rain. Outside, the only sound was the ceaseless pattering of raindrops; even those who had to work rarely showed themselves.

But the girl had always liked rainy days, and she had a stubborn little habit she could never break: she loved to walk in the rain, letting herself be drenched as if the water might wash away all her impurities.

After walking in the rain, she would always stop at the supermarket near her front door to buy ingredients, then make herself a steaming hot pot to drive away the chill.

Chuning silently thought to himself that their relationship must have been very close—such an unusual quirk, and Tanya knew it.

The killer had clearly been familiar with the girl's habit, trailing her to her door. Then, as expected, the attack came. Darkness fell across her vision.

Luckily, the girl had sensed someone following her that day. She walked faster than usual, glancing back from time to time, hoping to shake her pursuer.

These wary actions did nothing to deter the killer, and with no one nearby to help, she could not escape her fate.

Tanya’s voice grew tinged with regret as she let out a faint laugh, then continued to describe the killer’s general appearance.

He was about six feet tall, burly, with a faint scar at the corner of his right eye. His hands were rough and calloused, like someone used to heavy labor.

He wore a cheap black hoodie, his face hidden behind a mask, and a red baseball cap perched on his head. Most chillingly, his hands were icy cold—utterly devoid of human warmth. When they touched skin, it felt like a snake winding around, cold and suffocating.

Tanya shuddered involuntarily, shot Chuning an apologetic glance, and went on with the story.

After the attack at the door, when the girl next opened her eyes, she found herself sprawled across the pure white floor.

She had not an ounce of strength left; her vision flickered. Only by catching her reflection in a mirror did she see the blood pooling on the floor, and the dark figure lurking behind her.

Silent blood seeped across the cold floor, soaking her white dress. The light in her eyes dimmed, and she waited quietly for time to pass. The raucous celebration in the next room drowned out her faint cries for help.

In the end, she faded into unconsciousness.

Afterward, yellow police tape sealed off the area. Flashbulbs glared down on the girl’s body, and then strangers zipped her into a body bag. The only proof she had ever existed was the bloodstained floor.

Something was wrong—very wrong. Chuning racked his brains, trying to pinpoint the source of the discord.

Then, to his horror, he realized that Tanya was using the first person, recounting the crime as though she herself had experienced it.

He took a deep breath, struggling to calm his turbulent emotions. The depths of this case far exceeded what he had imagined. Judging by the clues Tanya had given, she must be lying—and the killer was likely right in front of him.

His mind raced, conjuring up a scene of murder for profit: the same surname, hiring an outsider to investigate, splitting half the property—so many suspicious points. Who ever forgets the approximate sum of their own money?

These deductions did not prove Chuning’s logic was especially keen; rather, it was simply easier to reason backward from the result. In life, after all, there is always some excuse for shirking responsibility.

Chuning pretended to listen calmly to the chilling story. It was a strange experience, to sit across from a killer and hear her describe the murder in detail. Some eccentric murderers, he’d heard, found satisfaction in sharing their crimes.

Such behavior was understandable, in a way; the long night is dull, and people are social creatures, longing for some way to affirm their existence.

“You’ve provided plenty of clues,” Chuning finally said. “I have a good grasp of the case now. Let’s go investigate the scene together—perhaps we’ll find something hidden. Let’s set out now!”

Chuning stood up in haste, eager to escape the villa so far from the city. If he didn’t act fast, he might become the protagonist of some ghost story circulating online—and this place would truly become a haunted house.

But Tanya stopped him. The person who should have been most anxious was instead moving sluggishly, as if she didn’t care in the least about finding the real killer.

“How about we go in three days?” Tanya suggested tentatively. Surviving safely for those three days was her main priority; she had little hope of actually finding the culprit.

Chuning accepted her suggestion in despair. He had hoped to use the investigation as an excuse to escape, for the experience of sharing a room with the murderer was unbearable—and he had no means of resisting her.

By agreeing to wait three days, he at least knew Tanya would not kill him immediately, and that brought some small relief.

“Ahem, I’ll go back to my room and rest for a bit. I didn’t sleep well last night,” Chuning said, covering his mouth as he coughed—a perfect excuse to get away from danger for now.

He hurried up the stairs to the second floor, shut the bedroom door tightly, and locked it with care. Then, as if remembering something, he sighed and unlocked the door again, burying himself in the soft bedding.

“Who describes clues by narrating the murder in the first person, in such detail? Isn’t that just admitting to being the killer?”

In a case with no witnesses, only the killer and the victim know exactly what happened. Since the dead cannot rise to tell the truth, the only one who knows it must be the murderer.