(Single heroine, urban imagination, urban martial arts, group portrait, not traditional urban martial arts)
"Congratulations, the operation went well." The handwriting is exactly the same as mine. I never had surgery and no one admitted to writing this note. It was pressed against the head of my bed, and the edge of the paper was damp, as if it had just been taken from someone. The medical record states that I lost my memory for three days. No one remembers that I was discharged from the hospital. I remember: I crossed a river that night, and the fishy smell on my cuffs lingered for three days. The new scabs between my nails have not grown up to this day. The murderous hand, with its scarred jaw, was exactly the same as the one in my dream. I spent ten years in a mental hospital. Everyone believed I was crazy. This is what I arranged: no one believes the madman when he tells the truth, and no one investigates when the madman does strange things. Dreams are the only thing that works for me. I dream every night that ten years from now, someone will have an accident, which building will completely disappear from everyone's memory, and I will know in advance who the bill collector will move next. The whole world is living today, but I am the only one living in a tomorrow that has not happened yet. But every time I wake up from the dream, the me who is standing at the end of the world and destroying the world takes a step closer to the waking me. He didn't kill me, he was just waiting for me to finish what he couldn't do for him before taking over this body. Everyone in the hospital is pretending to be crazy, and everyone has their own agenda. Even I am not sure: I used him as a pawn to save my life - but to this day, I can no longer tell whether I am using him to get away, or whether he has woken up early and is borrowing my dreams to come to me step by step.
