Waves of intense neural pain swept over him, and William Ford felt as if he were a lone boat sinking into a roaring sea of agony, as if he could capsize and perish at any moment. The only thing he could do was cling tightly to the tree trunk beside him, his fingernails even bending backward. The pain was faintly discernible, but his exhausted brain was still spinning wildly at high speed, all sorts of complex and chaotic memories involuntarily surfacing in his mind. Yet, just as William Ford was about to break down, a pair of eyes suddenly flashed through his mind!

A pair of fierce, expressive eyes!

That tattoo!

In an instant, the tide-like pain receded. William Ford almost immediately judged, in less than half a second, that existing scientific knowledge could not explain why a tattoo inked on a person’s chest would blink on its own. His nearly shattered mind was instantly and forcibly, yet willingly, redirected entirely to pondering this question.

Even after returning to his place, William Ford still couldn’t come up with any logical or scientific explanation for this matter. Yet he felt extremely fortunate: as long as the mystery of the tattoo remained unsolved, it meant he wouldn’t have to endure that endless torment for another day.

William Ford’s residence was the student dormitory building of Nanchuan University. After planning a murder in his hometown, he hid for a month in a place he had long prepared. Once his appearance had changed significantly due to weight-loss pills and a tooth extraction, he calmly boarded a train and came to this third-rate university. Of course, he wasn’t here to study—he just wanted to hide. In a university thrown into chaos by a sudden enrollment expansion, there were masses of people his age, cheap accommodations, and plenty of free time. William Ford really couldn’t think of anywhere safer.

And just as he expected: the only thing the academic office cared about was whether the student had paid the full tuition. As for everything else, it was all just a formality. The teacher at the new student reception desk clearly only cared about whether the cash was real, running it through the counterfeit detector three times in a row. As for the fake ID William Ford handed over according to procedure, they didn’t even bother to glance at it, and even wrote his name as Linda Ford on his student card.

He certainly wasn’t about to step forward and correct this great mistake.

“Back already, Third?” His roommate Eric Reed called out from the communal washroom, mouth full of foam and a toothbrush jammed in.

William Ford tugged at the corner of his mouth and nodded. Eric Reed was clearly used to his personality; after a smile, he tilted his head back and continued gargling. Although William Ford didn’t talk much, he was good at getting along with people, and all his roommates had a good relationship with him. Though some secretly mocked him as a “dumb goose,” to his face they usually called him Third Son affectionately.

Just like most male college dorms, theirs was inevitably dirty, messy, and cramped. Because the school had expanded enrollment, there weren’t enough dorms, so eight guys were crammed into this tiny room. However, since William Ford was always fond of cleanliness, their dorm was actually brighter and cleaner than most. He pushed open the door, sat by the bed watching others play cards for a while, then climbed into bed to sleep. Yet in his dreams, what appeared most often were still those evil, fierce, ghostly eyes!

The next day after class, William Ford quietly packed up his books and calmly walked out. The goal he had set for himself was to keep a low profile, to appear as ordinary as possible—like a drop of water that could only hide successfully by blending into the sea.

He arrived early at the Qixiangwei shop. By now, the lunchtime rush was over, the floors and tables had been cleaned, and everything was quiet. Even the two hostesses at the front door were lazily dozing on the beige sofa inside. William Ford went into the kitchen, opened the cold storage, and found that the day’s supplies hadn’t been delivered yet. After standing there blankly for a moment, he found a whetstone and carefully sharpened the cleaver, then took the initiative to sprinkle water around and clean up.

Mr. Harris came out and ran into him, praised him a few times, but that was all—hoping for any material reward was wishful thinking.

Perhaps because business had been especially good these past few days, the procurement guy rushed in and out of the shop twice today, dragging loads of supplies. The old electric tricycle was really on its last legs, creaking so badly as it moved that people wondered if it would fall apart the next second. William Ford’s workload increased by more than half. After half a year of practice, he had learned to wrap a strip of cloth around his palm when using the cleaver. The blisters from friction had long since burst, and now, under the intense workload, his hands were rubbed raw and bloody—a gruesome sight.

Yet even though he started chopping ribs nonstop as soon as they arrived, the pace of business outside was getting faster and faster, and he simply couldn’t keep up. Eventually, after watching several groups of disappointed customers leave, the furious boss finally stormed into the kitchen, face dark as iron, to supervise.