Chapter 2: The Game Begins

3:30 a.m.

Inside the emergency wing of First Central Hospital, the sterile scent of disinfectant mingled uneasily with the coppery tinge of blood. The hallways were quiet, save for the occasional beep of machines and the soft squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. Detective Lin Zhe stood at the observation window, his eyes fixed on the man inside the trauma room—the fifth "victim."

"Has he regained consciousness yet?" Li Chen approached quietly, balancing two cups of steaming coffee.

"Not yet," Lin replied, accepting a cup without taking a sip. His gaze never left the figure on the gurney. "The doctors say he lost a lot of blood. The brain may have entered a brief dissociative state—temporary trauma-induced amnesia is likely."

"But this wasn’t self-inflicted, right?” Li asked, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “No wounds, no signs of poisoning?”

“None,” Lin said with a slow nod. "Whatever happened to him… it wasn’t by his own hand."

And that made this man different.

He was still alive.

The first and only one among the so-called victims who might have answers. Who might, if he woke up, tell them something that could shift the entire shape of this case.

“Any luck with the surveillance footage?” Lin asked, eyes still locked on the unconscious man.

Li shook his head, frustration flickering in his features. “The entire block around the salon? Dead. Power to all street cameras was cut—deliberately. Three days ago.”

“Three days?” Lin frowned.

“And the one camera covering the alley behind the salon? Lens smashed. Smashed, Lin. Not disabled. Not hacked. Just plain old smashed with something heavy. There’s nothing. No shadows. No footsteps. It’s like whoever did this… knew exactly how to disappear.”

Lin was quiet for a long time.

Then, almost reluctantly, he spoke.

“We're not chasing a serial killer.”

Li blinked. “What?”

“This isn’t about murder. Not exactly.” Lin’s voice dropped. “It feels more like… a performance.”

Li stared at him. “You’re saying these people were chosen? For a show?”

“More than chosen.” Lin’s gaze drifted to the table where five playing cards lay inside plastic evidence sleeves. “They were cast. Staged like characters in a tightly scripted drama. Victims, maybe—but also spectators. Actors.”

He held up one card between two fingers—the familiar, mocking King of Spades.

“In a standard deck, there are only four of these,” Lin said slowly. “And yet we’ve found five.”

Li's eyes widened. “You think… there’s more than one perpetrator?”

“Or,” Lin said, his voice sharpening, “we’re not dealing with a person at all. At least, not in the way we’ve been imagining.”

Before Li could respond, Lin’s phone rang sharply, cutting through the silence like a blade.

He picked up—and immediately, his face changed.

“What?” he said. Then again, quieter: “He’s dead?”

Li straightened. “Who?”

Lin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The man in the hospital. He’s dead. Hung himself.”

Li stared at him, stunned. “What are you talking about? He was unconscious! Under surveillance! In a holding cell!”

The call ended. Lin grabbed his coat. “He was moved to our station’s medical unit for monitoring. Just now—he strangled himself.”

“That’s impossible!” Li followed him out the door. “He couldn't have stood up by himself, let alone hanged himself!”

“Then we check the security feed.”

The security room was a tight, windowless space lit by the sterile glow of dozens of monitors. A pair of jittery technicians were already pulling up the relevant footage.

“Watch this,” one said, fingers flying across the keyboard.

The timestamp on the screen read 03:15:02.

Suddenly, the footage glitched. For five full seconds, the image dissolved into static snow.

When it returned, the man was standing in the corner of the holding cell. Silent. Still. His eyes vacant, staring through the wall.

At 03:17:14, he reached for his blanket and began tearing it with precise, mechanical movements. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

At 03:18:06, he stepped onto the bed frame and looped the torn fabric over the air vent’s support bar.

At 03:19:03, he closed his eyes.

And smiled.

By 03:20, he was gone.

The room fell silent.

“Did… did anyone go in or out?” Lin asked.

The technician’s face had gone pale. He shook his head. “No, sir. The doors stayed locked the whole time.”

“This wasn’t a suicide,” Lin muttered.

Li clenched his fists. “Then what was it?”

Lin didn’t answer immediately.

“It looked like he was… controlled,” Li added.

“Possessed?” Lin’s tone was dry, but the thought wasn’t entirely sarcastic.

“Hypnosis, maybe,” Li said. “Or some kind of psychological programming.”

“No,” Lin said firmly, tapping his fingers on the desk. “We’re not dealing with a single killer. We’re dealing with a system. A framework. Maybe even a design.”

And that design had already claimed five lives.

He turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Li asked, hurrying after him.

“To meet someone.”

“Who?”

“The only person,” Lin said grimly, “who predicted the fifth body before it happened.”

It had taken two days to trace the source of that anonymous call.

The signal had bounced through a maze of public routers and old networks, but eventually they’d tracked its point of origin: a long-dead signal booster embedded inside the ruins of an abandoned cinema in the city’s southern district.

Lin and Li drove through the night. As the city gave way to crumbling buildings and overgrown lots, the atmosphere thickened. The old quarter of the city felt like something forgotten by time—decayed, sleeping, and full of secrets that didn’t want to be uncovered.

The abandoned cinema sat like a half-rotted carcass. The marquee had collapsed, leaving only rusted beams and vines in its place. Dead leaves gathered around the entrance like fallen memories.

They pushed the door open.

The air inside was heavy with mold and dust, thick with age. Every surface was warped by damp. At the center of the lobby stood a rusting film projector, silent and ghostly beneath a collapsed chandelier.

“There’s no one here,” Li said, flashlight beam sweeping over peeling wallpaper and torn theater posters.

“Wait,” Lin pointed at the floor. “Footprints. Fresh.”

They followed them through the damp corridors until they reached the projection room.

There, on the wall, a single sentence had been scrawled in dark red paint:

“The next act is coming soon.”

Beneath the writing, embedded into the wall like a morbid calling card, was a playing card.

The King of Spades.

The air in the room dropped several degrees.

Lin turned slowly, his skin prickling.

He didn’t know how he knew.

But he was certain.

Someone was watching them from the darkness.