Volume One

Chapter One: Terror Radio

Crimson lips, a hazy night;

Tonight,

Belongs to indulgence.

In the center of the dance floor, men and women shake their bodies with abandon, moving to the rhythm of the music—snow-white thighs, sweat-drenched chests, feminine allure, masculine hormones—all weaving together into a dizzying, intoxicating whirlpool.

In one corner of the dance floor, a man dressed in Nike sportswear sat there. In front of him were cigarettes and alcohol. The heat and noise around him seemed to have no effect on him at all. He simply, almost subconsciously, kept his face hidden in the shadowy corner where the lights didn’t reach.

It wasn’t that the sultry dancers hadn’t tried to invite him to dance, but his icy demeanor automatically turned them all away. He really didn’t fit in here at all.

A woman in business attire covered her mouth and rushed out of the dance floor, heading for the restroom.

At this moment, the man picked up the cigarettes from the table, put them in his pocket, stood up, and also walked toward the restroom—like a hunter who has been waiting for his prey, now beginning to track it.

After bursting into the restroom, the woman immediately started vomiting into the sink. A sour stench quickly filled the air. She turned on the faucet, rinsed away the filth in the sink, and scooped up a handful of water to splash on her face.

The cold water on her face brought a moment of clarity to the emotions that had been ignited in the dance floor. However, when she opened her eyes again, she was startled by the reflection of a figure standing behind her in the mirror.

"You..."

The woman tried to speak, but couldn’t. Two of the man’s fingers had already locked around her throat, making it impossible for her to make a sound. His movements were so practiced, so natural, as if he’d done this countless times before—no need for effort, just pure instinct.

At the same time, his other hand rose, holding a knife.

"Although I really don’t like talking nonsense, this is the club’s rule, so I have to say: your sins escaped worldly punishment, but you cannot escape our judgment."

"Splurt..."

Without any further prelude, the blade quickly plunged into the woman’s chest and twisted clockwise.

The man pressed his palm against the wound to prevent blood from spurting out.

After trembling twice, the woman’s body collapsed to the floor as the man let go.

The man began to wash his knife and hands in the sink, then straightened his clothes in the mirror.

He did all of this with great care, methodically.

A young yet pale face appeared in the mirror—handsome, but with a strange excitement in his expression. It must be because he had just killed someone. Killing always brought him this kind of pleasure.

He was addicted to the feeling of killing, almost as if he were hooked on a drug, unable to extricate himself.

The woman’s corpse on the floor still stared with open eyes, unable to rest in peace.

The man took a small bag out of his pocket—inside, all heroin.

He didn’t use it himself, because the thrill from drugs was nothing compared to the intense stimulation that killing brought him.

"Snap..."

He tore open the small bag and scattered the heroin around the corpse.

Then, he tossed the empty bag next to the body.

This nightclub was far from clean. The man was certain that when the owner found a corpse surrounded by drugs, he definitely wouldn’t think to protect the scene and call 110 first.

Finally, after taking a deep breath and savoring the lingering aftertaste of the kill, the man’s expression finally returned to normal. He smiled at himself in the mirror, making sure his smile looked natural and not forced. Then he pushed open the women’s restroom door, moved the cleaning sign aside, and walked out.

From start to finish, he was sure he had avoided all the security cameras and hadn’t attracted any attention from those around him. Of course, he must have left plenty of traces during the murder, but he believed the nightclub owner, worried about being implicated, would help him clean up. At the very least, the body would be disposed of, so he could rest easy.

Stepping out of the nightclub, the cold wind hit him, and he shivered, as if he had just returned from heaven to earth. Yes, that nightclub, that restroom, that corpse—for him, it was heaven, because only there could he feel that kind of warmth and comfort.

"Life is beautiful."

He muttered to himself, his voice a little hoarse.

Taking out his phone, he opened the ride-hailing app and called a car.

Soon, a driver accepted the order and quickly called him.

"Hello, is this Mr. William Clark? Is your location correct? You’re by the roadside behind the side entrance of Passion Nightclub, right?"