My name is Lin Xu, a third-rate suspense writer who is on the verge of starving to death.
In order to vent my resentment about being pushed for a manuscript, I wrote out the forensic heroine named "Jiang Yue" in the novel.
The next day, a cold and beautiful neighbor moved in across the door. She knocked on my door and took the screenshot of the death in my novel. There were two words printed on the forensic certificate: Jiang Yue.
I was so frightened that I thought I was going to be dissected.
But she gave me an "opportunity" I couldn't refuse: to write the most realistic crime-solving story based on her.
I nodded ecstatically, feeling like I was finally hugging the golden thigh.
Until the news popped up on my phone - a broken body was found in the trash can downstairs, and the deceased was my press editor.
She looked at me calmly, as if examining a specimen:
"You can follow the case. Remember, all the 'plots' you write must be completely consistent with reality."
"Including yourself, when you become a suspect, or... A victim."
The boundary between reality and fiction has collapsed.
I held the keyboard and recorded every bloody truth she uncovered, and watched helplessly as her past, along with the entire world around me, fell into a bottomless vortex of mystery.
And the first page starts with myself.
Purpose: This is a story about reverence for the truth, guarding the glimmer of light in the darkness, and ultimately understanding that some stories must be recorded as they are, because the truth itself is the sharpest weapon.