I hit a man in black who broke into the house with an ashtray. He ran away. But eleven minutes later, it was another person who died in the living room. Everyone thinks I killed someone.
I remember that back view. He climbed up from the floor, pushed over his chair, rushed out the front door, and disappeared around the corner of the second floor. The surveillance camera was broken and the neighbor was deaf. I was the only one who saw him run away. And I have entered the detention center.
The prosecutor said I had a motive: I had a fight with the deceased over a parking space seventeen days ago, and I said harsh words. My fingerprints were on the murder weapon and the wound matched the ashtray. Even I doubted it: Is that figure from behind an hallucination caused by fear?
But I am a game map designer. In prison, I repeatedly painted my grandmother's living room. Dining table, two doors, fallen chair, charging cable. I asked a person to complete the "escape and return" route, and he was killed halfway every time. Until one night, I wrote about the second person. The map was cleared for the first time.
This is not the story of a police investigation, but the story of a locked-up man digging himself out of a dead end with a pencil and a piece of paper. You will think you understand it in the first fifty pages, and then you will find that the mistakes you made are exactly the same as mine.
It took me eleven years to come out. And you just have to turn to the last page.
The truth is not hidden, it is simply overshadowed by another story that is easier to believe.
