At midnight, Chen Mo received a scam text. He didn't think much of it, but it nearly cost him his life.
The next afternoon, he was supposed to ride his bike along the Binjiang Road stretch. Halfway there, an inexplicable thought made him turn into an old street nearby. That turn saved him from a crash: a truck smashed through the guardrail and plunged straight into the river. One person died and three were injured. The spot where it happened was exactly where he would have been standing.
If he hadn't turned, he would be the one lying in the river now.
From that day on, texts arrived right on time every midnight. Every one came true, with such chilling accuracy that it sent a shiver down his spine.
He searched every channel he could think of, but couldn't trace the number. In the end, he reached a conclusion he himself didn't want to believe: the sender was already dead.
The future me died yesterday trying to save me.
But the later texts grew increasingly strange. The exact same message, "Something will happen tomorrow," sometimes pulled him back from death's door, and sometimes led him step by step toward ruin.
Someone was desperately pulling him ashore, while someone else was secretly pushing him underwater. They were all called Chen Mo.
He didn't dare believe every word, but he couldn't afford not to. One wrong bet would cost him his life.
That night, he decided he wouldn't wait for another text. He would find the person writing them and ask face-to-face: Do you want to save me, or do you want me dead?
