After holding someone's hand for three minutes, Shen Yan could hear the dirtiest thoughts in his heart. On the twelfth lunar month six years ago, he signed a piece of paper. From then on, he became a non-staff consultant to the police - he knew who was lying when he touched it. He already knew the price: every time he read someone, a layer of malice would be left on him. He told himself that holding chopsticks with his left hand was just a matter of sleeping position. Two people died in a row in Linjiang Old Town, and there were marks on the inside of their wrists where they had been held and then wiped away. The third deceased was an old neighbor he had met once in the rain. There is a photo under the glass plate of the old neighbor's house: a girl in a blue cotton-padded jacket, with four crooked white lines on her left sleeve - those are the stitches he sewed with his own hands. In the photo is his daughter who has been missing for six years. The more he checked the list, the more it looked like a mirror: No. 04, With his own handwriting in the name column. He could only read on. Until one day, he heard his own voice in someone's heart.
