Prologue: Deep-seated Illness

— Hello? Officer Liang?

The high-frequency light flickered repeatedly, casting over the simply decorated room. One table, one lamp; two chairs, two people. The dazzlingly bright desk lamp placed on the table created an intersection of light and shadow in the vast space, forming a strange state of balance.

The ceiling fan overhead spun with difficulty, emitting prolonged creaking sounds—like the failing breath of a dying old man. Every time Officer Liang entered this place, he worried that the old thing would fall along with the peeling wall plaster, creating a rather unpleasant scene. Turning on the fan in the middle of winter was baffling, but strangely, no one voiced any objection. Perhaps the two people sitting opposite each other were merely trying to maintain their composure, unwilling to show weakness by speaking first.

The free promotional paper cup from the shopping mall stood quietly on the table, its colorful exterior contrasting with the cheap instant coffee inside. A strong smell of essential oils filled the room, making it impossible to ignore. In the winter chill, warm steam slowly rose from the paper cup, serving as proof that time was still flowing in this quiet room.

The silence was broken by a gentle blow from the young man in prison uniform. The thin, rising mist instantly scattered.

— Looking for me for something?

The young man tilted his head, his expression innocent. He wore a prison uniform that was strangely clean, every fold exuding a spirited look. He did not look like a prisoner, but rather like an amateur actor trying to escape the tense atmosphere. His handcuffed hands began to move under the table, making clinking metallic sounds, completely lacking the self-awareness of someone serving a sentence. He seemed to enjoy this very much, even though the sound was quite unpleasant.

Officer Liang watched in silence. The young man's hair was cut short according to regulations, revealing fine strands of hair reflecting under the light. This simple hairstyle did not look out of place on his face, even adding a few hints of untamable arrogance. Perhaps he was the type of person people called "handsome but poorly reformed"—good-looking but lacking awareness.

Officer Liang searched through his briefcase for a while, took out a piece of white paper that had been folded multiple times, and slowly flattened it on the table. The young man curiously poked his head over to look, causing the handcuffs to screech sharply again.

— A blank sheet of paper? — He slumped back in his chair in disappointment. — Still playing mysterious, how embarrassing.

Officer Liang did not reply, taking out a recording pen and tossing it onto the table, sliding it toward the young man.

— I came to tell you a story...

Before Officer Liang could finish, the young man gasped, slapped the table, and stood straight up, his pupils contracting as if performing in a dramatic play.

— I was just thinking, what a wonderful story — His voice suddenly turned sorrowful, dragging out the last syllable in a spoiled manner. — It's funny, tragic, and heartwarming... honestly, I'm about to cry from listening, oh.

He pretended to sniffle, furrowing his brows to play the role of "weak and pitiful." Officer Liang remained motionless, crossing his arms as he looked at him:

— For example, the stupid things you used to do? Do you need me to enthusiastically help you review them from beginning to end?

His voice was calm but carried clear sarcasm. The young man blinked innocently:

— Procedurally speaking, disclosing case details like that is improper.

— I'm glad you still know about procedures — Officer Liang was not amused by his performance. — You've been here for two years. Why do you think I chose this moment to find you?

— Because the prison is too old, and as an old friend, you want to make a donation to help improve our living conditions? — The young man cheerfully played the role of public interest advocate again.

Officer Liang sighed. — It seems you and your new cellmates are getting along very well. As for calling me an old friend, I wouldn't dare accept.

The young man pretended to be innocent again, turning his head to whistle. But he noticed Officer Liang making another move. He tapped the tabletop, then quickly drew a few strokes on it with his finger. The writing was very simple, but the moment he saw it, the young man's expression froze instantly. He stared intently at the wooden tabletop that left no trace, as if wanting to engrave those words into his very bones.

The young man slowly sat up straight, his expression changing repeatedly, at one moment like a vulture coveting its prey, and at another like a white rabbit encountering a gray wolf.

— Why... — He lowered his head, his pale lips trembling. Only now was it clear that his face was deathly pale, as if he had suffered some injuries in prison, not entirely "like a fish in water" as he appeared on the surface.

A few minutes later, he seemed to recover, resting his hand on his forehead and beginning to laugh hoarsely. The laughter gradually spiraled out of control, causing his shoulders to shake violently. But then abruptly, he stopped, and all the bizarre emotions vanished. Without a trace of laughter left, he looked at the world like an outsider, empty and silent.

But that emptiness was also fleeting. He transformed into another "him."

— Giving me such a big benefit, what do you want? — He placed his hand on the table, tapping gently. — For you, it certainly won't be simple.

— This matter must start with how we caught you.

The young man put on a show again, banging his head on the table with a dull thud, then covering his ears as if unwilling to hear about his dark past. After a period of making a fuss, he looked up again with a deeply aggrieved gaze:

— Digging up someone else's dark history when you can't solve a problem, officer, isn't that a bit too much?

— Don't want to hear it? That is not for you to decide.