Within just five minutes, William Carter had already revealed a new problem—not because of anything he said (in fact, he really had nothing much to say), but because the officer finally noticed the bloodstains under the dirty clothes covering William Carter's body.

　　"You'd better come clean about everything. Being stubborn won't do you any good. Speak! Whose blood is this, exactly?"

　　"Uh... actually, it's my own. Look, on my forehead, beside my neck, on my body, and even my calf—there are wounds everywhere..."

　　"Hmm..." The officer nodded after hearing this. William Carter breathed a sigh of relief, but the next sentence nearly made him faint: "Looks like you're not being honest."

Chapter Four: Prison Break

　　It was already eleven at night. After several hours of interrogation, William Carter was left alone in a temporary holding room. The bloodstains on him had been tested and confirmed to be his own, but the police didn't tell him this. They also checked his other records. There was only one person in the entire city named William Carter, so even though he had no identification on him, his identity was quickly confirmed through photos and computer records. But, strangely, there was very little information about him.

　　"William Carter, male, nineteen years old, graduated from high school two months ago. His only relatives were his parents, who passed away three years ago. Current address is..." A young officer in his early twenties was reporting to the officer who had just interrogated William Carter. That officer had thought William Carter might be involved in some major murder or escape case and had mobilized a lot of resources to investigate—almost enough to set up a special task force.

　　"Oh, and we found out that around five o'clock this afternoon, there was an explosion at his residence. The initial investigation suggests it was caused by a gas leak. We also learned that during this time, William Carter was involved in a car accident on a road near his home. Witnesses said he seemed a bit crazy, running toward the city despite his injuries."

　　The officer frowned deeply. It seemed he had misunderstood. This guy probably inhaled too much carbon monoxide, got a bit confused, escaped from home, and then got hit by a car—maybe even got knocked silly.

　　"Keep him here for the night. If he keeps acting crazy tomorrow, send him to a psychiatric hospital. If he seems normal, just let him go. Looks like this guy really is just unlucky..." Actually, the officer overlooked one thing: William Carter had been living alone for three years. How did a sixteen-year-old with no relatives manage to survive on his own?

　　At this moment, although William Carter didn't know what was happening outside, he was well aware that his own situation was dire. This room couldn't really be called a cell; it only had a set of table and chairs and a desk lamp. His handcuffs had been removed, and no one was guarding him. But he still couldn't get out—the window had iron bars, and the door was locked from the outside. The bamboo scroll had been tossed onto a police officer's desk outside as a personal belonging. To others, it was just junk, but to him, it was his only lifeline. He still clearly remembered what Mr. Cat had said... If he couldn't make it to that shabby agency today, he would die!

　　This was absolutely no joke! Once it hit midnight, today would be over. Last time, that guy had hinted for him to be careful, saying he was already half-dead. This time, he had clearly said he would "die," so it was definitely game over.

　　William Carter was so anxious that cold sweat poured down his back, terrified that a dozen or so ghastly white arms might suddenly reach out from the walls. Because of his nerves, his breathing grew heavier, and suddenly he noticed that his breath was turning into white mist. It was August in the south—summer heat hadn't even fully passed! The chill in his heart grew like he'd just been pummeled by a Diamond Dust Fist. He immediately shouted, "Guard! Officer! Anyone! Somebody, come! I need to use the bathroom!"

　　As he shouted, he could already sense something approaching. It was the first time he'd felt this way—William Carter figured it must be the so-called "spiritual sense" at work.

　　The familiar face of the ghost woman with the twisted features gradually appeared behind William Carter. William Carter had long known that this one was very different from the minions at the graveyard, and he had guessed that this ghost woman wasn't from that graveyard at all, which meant she could hunt him down. The ghostly maze he'd encountered was probably her doing, too. But now, with no weapon to protect himself, all he could do was desperately call for help and try to get out of there.

　　"What are you yelling for! Can't you hold it in for a bit?" an impatient voice came from outside the door, followed by the sound of keys turning.

　　"Not much longer, man! I'm really not far from dying!" William Carter shouted hoarsely. The person outside thought he was about to wet himself and hurried up. The ghost woman drew closer and closer, her hand already resting on William Carter's shoulder. Just then, the door opened. William Carter scrambled out, nearly tripping over himself, startling the officer. But since he'd already heard that this guy was a bit crazy, he wasn't too alarmed.

　　William Carter thought that with a police officer nearby, he'd be safe for the moment. But as soon as he turned around, he saw that twisted face right in front of him, the ghost's terrifying fangs bared. William Carter's eyes widened in despair: "You actually dare to commit murder right in the police station—you're ruthless..."