When the police arrived, Tian Buyi was curled up in the corner, trembling like a leaf, his face twisted in terror. Beneath him spread a dark, murky stain.
Wen Yiqian stood before him, a kitchen knife dangling loosely from his hand.
At the sight of this scene, no one would ever suspect that the man who had wet himself in fear was the true criminal.
Wen Yiqian, unsurprisingly, was subdued on the spot.
Had he not appeared so unnervingly calm, there was every chance the police might have shot him dead on sight.
Ironically, the real monster—Tian Buyi—received the warmest comfort from the officers.
"Don't worry. The bad guy's been caught. You're safe now."
Hearing this, Tian Buyi burst into tears, weeping like a child.
…
At the Di Tan City Police Department, inside the familiar confines of the interrogation room.
Wen Yiqian sat where he had been not long ago, a fresh bandage wrapped around his arm.
To make two appearances in the same holding room within a single day—some might even call it a twisted talent.
Seated across from him were the same familiar faces: Chief Inspector Li Weiguo and Detective An Zhi.
"How do you plan to explain yourself this time?" Li Weiguo asked, arms crossed, face unreadable but clearly dark with suspicion.
"Well... I suppose I just had a stroke of bad luck," Wen Yiqian replied with an awkward smile.
"Bad luck?" Li Weiguo repeated, nodding, then suddenly slammed the table with a thunderous crack. "You call it bad luck—running into two psychopathic murderers in one day? Are you out of your mind?"
"Have you questioned the others yet?" Wen Yiqian asked cautiously.
"We have," An Zhi replied, stealing a glance at Li Weiguo's stormy face. "We've more or less pieced the story together."
"Then you know I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was just trying to save lives…"
"Save lives?" Li Weiguo's voice boomed, cutting him off. "You call that saving lives? You discover a dangerous individual and instead of calling the police, you impersonate one? You think that's heroic?"
"The situation was urgent. I didn't have any other choice," Wen Yiqian muttered, a trace of grievance in his voice.
Truthfully, even he had been astonished by his own boldness. Marching into that half-ruined building to confront a murderer—he had been running on adrenaline and instinct.
Looking back, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of dread. Had the plan faltered, he might not be sitting here at all.
For all his theatrical flair, Wen Yiqian was no reckless fool. Before he entered that abandoned building alone, he had already devised three contingency plans.
Plan A: ambush Tian Buyi.
Given the poor visibility and informational asymmetry, it was likely Tian was unaware of his presence. A well-timed strike could end things quickly. The odds were in his favor.
Unfortunately, luck betrayed him. He tripped in the darkness just as he prepared to make his move.
The ambush failed. Worse, he exposed himself, placing his own life in jeopardy.
Thus began Plan B: bait the predator.
By luring Tian Buyi away, he could buy time for the old man and child to escape.
Which, in fact, they did—taking the alternate stairwell and going to seek help.
It may have seemed callous, but it was the most rational move. An elderly man and a child would have been dead weight—unable to fight, easy to harm. Their escape was the best outcome.
Plan B now hinged on one crucial element: Wen Yiqian had to run—fast.
If he ran swiftly enough, he could still escape unscathed.
But again, the darkness betrayed him. He stumbled. Fell.
With no options left, Plan C began.
Unlike the others, Plan C relied on a single word: deception.
Writers are liars, after all. From the moment they pen their first word, they're weaving illusions.
The more skilled the writer, the more convincing the lie.
Wen Yiqian wasn't the best liar in the world—but he was a capable one.
And he had one unique strength—performance.
While drafting his stories, he had a habit of mimicking his characters' expressions. If a scene called for a madman's grin, he would practice it in the mirror until it felt real.
In time, this evolved into a kind of mastery. He could shift facial expressions with ease, like a seasoned actor. He even toyed with the idea of joining the theatre—until he decided his face didn't quite match the stage.
Earlier, when confronting Xu Xuanmei, his nerves had made his performance stiff and unnatural.
But that night, facing Tian Buyi, something clicked. His expressions flowed—smooth, effortless.
In fact, he got a little carried away.
After scaring Tian Buyi off, Wen Yiqian should've made a clean exit. After all, his opponent was a dangerous lunatic. Best not to corner a mad dog.
But he was so swept up in the performance, so high on adrenaline, he ended up chasing the man up several flights of stairs—knife in hand.
In the end… he nearly scared the psycho to death.
As a writer, Wen Yiqian's true talent lay not in prose, nor in plot, but in the sheer absurdity of his theatrics.
"We've heard enough," An Zhi finally said, cutting through Wen Yiqian's spiraling thoughts. Her sharp eyes searched his face with eerie calm. "What we really want to know is—how did you know Tian Buyi was a psychopath?"
Wen Yiqian's heart gave a jolt.
Of all the questionable points in this case, this one was the most damning—and the hardest to explain.
How could he have known, upon first glance, that the man was a murderer?
Why did he go so far—impersonating an officer, risking his life—on nothing more than a hunch?
What gave him such unwavering certainty?
He couldn't very well say that this world was something he had written—that Tian Buyi was just one of the monsters he'd invented.
If he said that, he'd be hauled off for psychiatric evaluation—if not dissected for study.
"Those things you told Tian Buyi…" An Zhi's voice was soft, but her eyes pierced through him. "Were they true?"
"That you're a killer too—but one who only hunts other killers?"
"That unlike them, you feel no need to prey on the weak."
"That you've been stalking these psychopaths all along, waiting for the moment to strike?"
"That you're able to eliminate them with cunning and precision—and walk away without a trace?"
Her voice was calm, deliberate, almost gentle—as though reciting facts instead of accusations.
She leaned in, her face expressionless, her gaze unwavering.
"Maybe... you're the real high-IQ criminal."