The Perfect Crime

At our Mid-Autumn family reunion, all our relatives gathered on a private island.

The banquet was lively, with everyone raising glasses and trading toasts.

My younger cousin brought out a bottle of vintage Moutai and insisted we play a drinking game.

I have never been good with alcohol, so I quietly slipped away to a room to rest.

I had been in the bathtub for less than ten minutes when I heard screams from downstairs.

"They're really going wild. They'll have a headache tomorrow morning for sure!"

"Good thing I was smart and sneaked off early."

I stumbled to the bed, half-asleep, pulled the covers over my head, and passed out.

The next day, a tremendous crash jolted me awake.

The door burst open.

Several criminal investigators entered, accompanied by a strong smell of blood.

Staring at the shattered remains of bodies scattered across the floor, I finally understood:

A psychopath had broken into the island last night.

Of the seventeen people in my family, I was the only survivor.