“Ah, it’s Owen Brooks himself. Here to pick up the autopsy report in person, huh? Haha, everyone’s been running around like headless chickens lately.” Edwin John Carter—to put it simply, he’s a cheerful guy. He always keeps his hair cropped short, wears a pair of old-fashioned, thick black-rimmed glasses, and greets everyone with a big grin, as if there’s always something to be happy about. At first glance, you’d never guess that his job involves dealing with the dead all day.

“You’ve worked hard too, Edwin Carter-kun,” Owen Brooks replied.

“Well… I’m actually doing fine. Doing autopsies isn’t really that stressful. If I had nothing to do, I’d actually feel uncomfortable,” Edwin Carter replied with a cheerful smile.

“So, what’s the confirmed cause of death?” Owen Brooks cut to the chase.

Edwin Carter answered, “Insufficient oxygen to the brain, airway obstruction—either one could be fatal, and if they happen together…” He didn’t finish the sentence; after all, the result was already clear.

Casually picking up a scalpel from the cart, Edwin Carter pointed at Henry Clark’s face and said, “It’s worth mentioning this black cross mark.”

Owen Brooks’s expression changed slightly. “What about it?”

“Mr. Owen Brooks, you probably don’t know yet,” Edwin Carter pushed up his glasses. “This isn’t the only deceased with a cross on their face.”

“Oh?” Owen Brooks put on a questioning look, but in truth, he’d already guessed the answer.

Edwin Carter said, “The one brought in yesterday evening…” He glanced uneasily at the drawers not far away where the bodies were kept. “The high school student who was cut into many pieces—he had one too.”

Owen Brooks mused, “Just as I thought… The teacher and the student were killed one day apart, and both had that mark on their faces…”

Edwin Carter added, “Actually, it’s not just these two.”

This sudden statement genuinely surprised Owen Brooks. “What?”

Edwin Carter said, “The Third Precinct next to our jurisdiction also found a similar black cross, also on the face of a deceased. The horizontal line seals the mouth like a strip, and the vertical line runs from the forehead down to the chin.”

“How many victims like this are there?” Owen Brooks asked quickly.

Edwin Carter replied, “I only heard the rumor yesterday. On December 7th, they found the first deceased with a black cross on the face. As of yesterday morning, there were three in total.”

Owen Brooks turned and left, muttering, “Damn it… At least five people now… I see, I can’t wait any longer…”

“Mr. Owen Brooks, your autopsy report!” Edwin Carter called after him, but Owen Brooks didn’t come back.

Ever.

…………

December 8th, 3:15 p.m.

“Damn, living in a dump like this where only a few buses pass by each day, now I have to walk so far.” Henry Clark was wearing an absurdly thick down coat, walking in the cold wind.

“I can’t take it anymore, I really can’t stand it. I need to find somewhere to rest.” Henry Clark looked around. In such a remote area, there wasn’t even a decent shop by the roadside—just residential houses and those vegetable stalls without even a door.

He finally spotted a bookstore and dashed inside as if escaping.

“Phew… Thank goodness there’s heating in here.” Henry Clark let out a long sigh after closing the door.

“It’s not easy, having to do home visits to poor students’ houses in this freezing weather.” Ethan was holding a book wrapped in a black cover, lazily sitting behind the desk, not even bothering to look up at Henry Clark.

“Huh?” Henry Clark was taken aback. “Um… are you talking to me?”

Ethan ignored him and continued muttering to himself, “Guys like that are such eyesores in my class.”

Suddenly, Henry Clark sensed something, and his expression changed.

“The girls in class are getting prettier and prettier these days, hehehe…” Ethan snickered lewdly.

But Henry Clark didn’t find it funny at all. He strode up to the desk. “Bastard! What the hell are you talking about!”

Ethan placed the book flat on the desk, opened it to the first page, turned it around, and pushed it in front of Henry Clark.

White paper, purple ink, an unsettling color and font, with a person’s name written on it—or rather, the title of the book—Henry James Clark.

Henry Clark glared at Ethan and shouted, “Hey! What’s the meaning of this! Who are you? Who told you to do this!”

Ethan’s indifferent gaze turned chillingly cold and deadly in an instant. He locked eyes with Henry Clark for just a second, and the latter couldn’t utter another word.

“Mr. Henry Clark, you can read this book for free first.” Ethan leaned back in the armchair, stretched, and yawned. “Later, we’ll talk about a deal.”

Ten minutes passed.

Henry Clark just stood there, reading the confessions of his forty-some years with a complicated expression.

At that moment, Ethan decided it was enough. He suddenly reached out and took the book back from Henry Clark’s hands. “Alright, there’s nothing more worth reading.”

Henry Clark was at a loss, nervously asking, “You… who exactly are you…”