Chapter Two The First Victim

Night had already fallen. Samuel Grant finally arrived home, but his father was not back yet—probably still hanging out at the izakaya.

He took a quick snack from the fridge, crawled into the kotatsu, and turned on the TV. This was Samuel Grant’s most cherished time, apart from sleeping: sitting in front of the television, eating the kind of junk food only the poorest families would keep, while finishing his homework.

From a very young age, the TV had almost become Samuel Grant’s father. In his own book, there was even a line like this: “The TV doesn’t come home drunk, the TV doesn’t forget me at the zoo, the TV doesn’t hit or scold me—the TV is the one who teaches me how to be a person.”

He had fantasized more than once that he could be like the protagonists in those fictional stories—one day suddenly encountering aliens, or meeting a mysterious girl, or being recruited by a secret government agency, or even being struck by lightning and sent to another world, thus changing his life. He wished even more that he could be relied upon like the heroes in those movies, instead of being despised and bullied.

But every morning when he opened his eyes, Samuel Grant had to face a harsh reality.

Life was already so painful for a seventeen-year-old boy.

The deepest fear does not come from what’s in front of you, but from the future; the most complete despair is not that you don’t know what the future holds, but that even while still young, you can already foresee your own pitiful life.

At some point, Samuel Grant’s pen had stopped moving. He glanced at the clock on the wall—10:20. His father still hadn’t come home.

Samuel Grant climbed out from the kotatsu, went to the front door, put on his shoes, and quickly walked out into the night.

On the quiet street, the boy wore an expression of seriousness he’d never shown before. The look in his eyes behind his glasses was even a bit frightening and fierce.

Ethan’s bookstore was already closed. Samuel Grant had wanted to go in and check one more time as he passed by, but it was obvious that knocking would get no response.

“Since I’ve already come out, I absolutely won’t turn back!” Samuel Grant told himself.

He walked for over an hour, and by the time he reached the school, it was nearly midnight. The campus was pitch black, with only a faint light coming from the guard’s small hut.

At this hour, the security guard on duty should have already been asleep, because the school required night-shift guards to patrol once between midnight and five a.m. These guys usually went to bed early, got up around four, and after patrolling, went out to buy breakfast or something.

The school gate wasn’t very high, with a horizontally folding, extendable design. Samuel Grant climbed over it without much effort and walked all the way to the front of the classroom building, where he finally stopped.

He had come all this way in one go, only to find that the door to the classroom building was locked with a ring-shaped lock at night. Maybe for fictional heroes this wouldn’t be a problem, but Samuel Grant was at a loss.

“What am I even thinking…” Samuel Grant gave a bitter smile.

He turned to leave, muttering to himself, “Nothing I can do… Not only am I empty-handed, even if I’d anticipated this and brought pliers, damaging school property is a pretty serious offense, right?”

Samuel Grant really hated himself. He knew saying this kind of useless stuff was pointless. The fact was, even if he was determined to do something, he would easily give up because of any small unexpected situation.

“Am I really just a loser… No wonder people call me ‘wet mosquito coil’…” Samuel Grant began to torment himself internally. Unwilling to accept it, he turned back for one last look at the classroom building, as if doing so might give him a sliver of hope.

“That’s it!” Samuel Grant’s eyes suddenly widened. Hope had really appeared—his miserable life was actually having a stroke of luck.

The closer he got, the clearer Samuel Grant could see: there was a window in the first-floor corridor that hadn’t been closed properly, leaving a small gap. At first glance it wasn’t obvious, but he’d spotted it when he turned back.

He walked up to the window, took a deep breath, and let the cold night air clear his mind. He reached out and slid the window open. A few seconds later, he had successfully climbed into the corridor.

Samuel Grant couldn’t contain his excitement—his whole body was trembling. Just a few hours ago, Ethan’s words still echoed in his ears: “Sneak into Henry Clark’s office at midnight and take anything of his. Then I’ll let you read Walter Reed’s book.”

He didn’t know why the other person would make such a request, nor why they knew Henry Clark and Walter Reed, but with those strange books full of people’s inner voices as a prelude, this kind of thing didn’t seem all that bizarre anymore.

Even as he stood in front of the teachers’ office door, Samuel Grant couldn’t say he was truly determined. After all, he was Samuel Grant—the one who didn’t even dare fight back when beaten. He himself could hardly believe he was doing something so outrageous, but this unprecedented experience also made him feel a thrill he’d never known before. His adrenaline was probably pumping way too much, and his hand shook violently as he reached out to open the door.

The door opened. In the clear moonlight, the first thing Samuel Grant saw was a pair of feet.

A pair of feet hanging in the air, toes pointing inward, swaying unsteadily.