It wasn't until morning that Damon Vale finally fell into a deep sleep, his mind a chaotic storm of thoughts. Only now did he realize that the nerves he once took pride in were far more fragile than he believed.
He had several dreams. In them, the female white-collar worker sneered at him with a knife buried in her chest, and mixed within those scenes was the deep, resonant voice from the Terror Broadcast.
It was noon when Damon finally opened his eyes with a splitting headache. He lifted the laptop off his chest and pulled open the curtain around his bunk—only to see a man in a police uniform sitting on the lower bunk across from him.
Damon's arms stiffened. His heartbeat surged. His breath hitched in his throat.
The policeman looked up with a youthful grin.
"Looks like I scared our precious baby."
Alex Chu looked extremely pleased with himself.
Damon inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to punch him, then gathered his things and climbed down with his phone in hand.
"Come on, let's eat. I ordered takeout for you," Alex said, pointing at the bag on the desk.
"I don't have an appetite," Damon replied.
Alex raised a brow. "This isn't your first time. Why does it feel like you're more shaken now than the first time you did it?"
Damon licked his lips. He didn't know whether he should tell Alex about the Terror Broadcast.
Murder and corpses weren't taboo words between the two of them—or within their small club—but this broadcast… this thing beyond normal human understanding… If he spoke about it, would they think he'd lost his mind?
There were only four members in the club. Barely a year old. Young, inexperienced, reckless—but bold enough to create a stage for killing.
If even one member broke apart, the others would be dragged down too. And if they believed he was mentally unstable—hallucinating, even—how would they treat him?
Sometimes even Damon felt the whole thing was absurd. Four young people, burning with excitement, building a murder club. More than ten people had died because of them, yet the club remained simple and loosely held together.
"That woman's death was ruled accidental," Alex said. "So stop stressing. You didn't even do any follow-up investigation. And even though you pissed all over the nightclub alleyway like an old stray dog and left traces everywhere, they still won't find you."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
Damon shook his head, grabbed his towel and wash basin.
"Sit for a bit. I'll wash up."
Alex nodded.
In the public restroom, Damon brushed his teeth, then plunged his entire face into a basin of ice-cold water.
He jerked up with a splash, wiped his face… and walked out—only to collide with a short student who crashed straight into his chest.
Damon staggered back, and the student landed on the floor, his clothes soaked.
The student scrambled up and apologized repeatedly. Damon merely nodded and walked away.
When he returned to the dorm, Alex was still leaning beside the balcony, reading a book on psychological crimes from Damon's desk with great interest.
"You seem awfully relaxed today," Damon said. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"
"I am. I've got a mission."
"Campus visits?"
"Yeah. Visiting students."
"And you're doing that from my dorm?"
Alex shrugged. "There's nothing to visit. Three teachers' corpses went missing from the lab. I can't just walk up to random students like, 'Hey, have you seen any dead bodies lately?'"
While changing clothes, Damon walked to the window. Behind the old dormitory building was the large sports field. From there he saw two uniformed officers questioning students.
"Everyone else is working, and you're here relaxing. Society really is dark," Damon said.
"Come on, big bro Damon," Alex replied. "Can't the eldest brother tease his second brother a little? You know my dad forced all this on me. When I was a kid, every time I messed up, he'd come home still in uniform, didn't even take off his belt—just whipped me with it. I've hated the police ever since. Then he forced me into the police academy too. You know how that feels?"
"Sounds like being forced to have sex with a female corpse from a car crash," Damon said casually.
"…Your metaphor is disgusting," Alex said after a moment. "But accurate."
He closed the book. "Anyway—three teachers went missing. What do you think is behind it?"
"I'm not a cop. I'm just a student."
"If you were just a normal student, I wouldn't be here," Alex said, offering him a cigarette. He leaned on the balcony, exhaling. "By the way, Xun'er said she wants to quit. Her family wants her to work at the British Embassy. And you know Gavin Fan only joined the club because he wanted to chase her. Now that she's planning to leave, he says he wants out too."
A murder club founded on thrill-seeking youth… now falling apart.
Damon took a drag of the cigarette—and unexpectedly choked.
"Cough—hah—cough!"
Alex patted his back.
Damon wiped his lips with a tissue. "Maybe it's a good ending. We've carried over ten lives on our hands. Everything looks clean now, but… if you walk by the river long enough, your feet will eventually get wet."
"Tsk tsk. That doesn't sound like you at all," Alex said. "Besides, the people we killed weren't innocent saints. Killing them doesn't bother me. As for you—wasn't this habit carved into your bones? If the club dissolves, where will you find fun again?"
Then Alex's officer instincts seemed to flare.
"Wait… did you find something even more exciting?"
Damon smiled faintly. "Maybe…"
Before he could continue, Alex's phone rang.
"Hey, Captain. Yeah, I'm checking the dorms. Okay—got it. I'll return now."
Alex lifted his phone to Damon.
"I'm heading out. The four of us will talk about the club in a couple days. See you."
⸻
That evening, Damon studied alone in a classroom, working on a research paper.
He preferred empty study rooms to busy libraries. A quiet room with only a few people felt strangely heavy—almost suffocating.
After finalizing his draft, he went outside to buy a drink from the vending machine, smoke a cigarette, then return to revise the paper one last time.
There were two other students in the classroom—a boy in the front-left row, a girl in the front-right. Damon sat near the back.
Outside, he lit a cigarette, pulled a few bills from his wallet, and fed them into the vending machine.
Ding.
He bent down and retrieved a hot canned coffee.
A sweet fragrance drifted by.
"Brother Damon, buy me a drink? I don't have any money."
"I just emptied my change," Damon replied. "Grab some coins and buy it yourself."
He walked away.
The girl's expression tightened with embarrassment.
Back in the classroom, Damon sat down to revise his paper. Moments later, the girl walked in with her bag. She clearly hadn't liked his earlier response. She didn't greet him, didn't sit near him—she dropped into a seat in the front-middle row.
Then came the noises.
Bag rustling.
Headphones dropped.
Snacks unpacked.
Makeup mirror open.
Books dragged across the table.
The other two students frowned. Many came here just to read for a few hours, and all this noise was unbearable.
Then—
A piercing scream split the room.
"AHHHH!!!!!!!!"
Damon shot to his feet.
The girl stood trembling, staring at her hands—
clutching a bloody piece of human skin.