It's All the Takeout's Fault.

I was just a delivery boy, but I was chosen as the scapegoat. Fingerprints, call records, transfer records - all the evidence points to me. The police identified me as the mastermind, and the death penalty was looming. In order to prove my innocence, I could only piece together memory fragments in custody: the strange order late at night three months ago, the fear in the eyes of a strange girl, the "L" notch in the corner of the bathroom... When daily details became the only bargaining chip, I had to change from a framed prey to a hunter chasing the murderer within 72 hours.