As night fell, the wind and rain grew even more violent.
The old Ford sped up, cutting through two streams of water, and screeched to a halt outside the clinic’s entrance. The door was flung open, and the gale, carrying a spray of rain, instantly swept into the warm, quiet interior, knocking over the antler coat rack with a loud thud.
Benson Yang didn’t bother to take off his already soaked raincoat or his shoes; his leather boots made heavy thuds on the wooden floor, and the water dripping from his clothes pooled into winding, dirty puddles. With one hand clutching the medical bag he’d retrieved from the backseat of the car, he roughly dragged Dorian Yun into the clinic with the other.
Dorian Yun didn’t ask any questions; he treated himself like a silent, motionless doll, smiling as he let Benson Yang do as he pleased.
Benson Yang found the light switch by memory. As soon as the lights came on, he flung Dorian Yun onto the sofa.
Dorian Yun let out a cry of “Ouch!” and only then feigned complaint: “Detective Benson Yang, you didn’t read me my Miranda rights, nor did you handcuff me, so that means you haven’t arrested me, right? How can you be so high-handed—stealing my keys, driving my car, and breaking into my home? If this keeps up, I’m going to file a complaint with the police station…”
Benson Yang lit a cigarette, held it between his lips, and fished a thermometer out of his medical kit. Without a word, he shoved it under Dorian Yun’s tongue to silence him. After a few seconds, he pulled it out and frowned as he checked the reading.
“Damn it, 104.9 degrees.” He muttered a curse under his breath, then grumbled as he searched around for a cup and a water bottle.
Dorian Yun called out to him, “Hey, your wound on your back is more of a concern than I am. A stray dog’s claws aren’t clean—you need to treat that wound as soon as possible.”
Benson Yang took a deep drag on his cigarette and cursed at him through a haze of smoke: “Are you kidding me? You’re still running a high fever—just lie down. …104.9 degrees? That’s enough to turn your brain into a cooked tomato, you know that?”
Dorian Yun shrugged as if nothing were wrong: “What’s 104.9 degrees, anyway? When I was a kid, our house caught fire. I ran for my life, with flames spreading through the flower fields right behind me. The heat wave scorched my hair. I finally made it across the river. Standing on the bank and looking back, all I saw was fire, nothing but fire... Hah, that was the hottest, most terrifying hell I’ve ever seen.”
Benson Yang’s previously restless footsteps came to an abrupt halt. He turned his head and, through the swirling smoke, stared intently into Dorian Yun’s bottomless eyes. After a long moment, he stubbed out his cigarette and ground out a single sentence through clenched teeth: “...It’s rare for you to speak the truth.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve always been completely open and honest with you, Detective.”
“Then go ahead and tell me—why are you wandering around the swamp in the dead of night?”
“Detective Benson Yang, you suspect I’m ‘The Nightstalker,’ don’t you?” Dorian Yun spread his hands, adopting an air of submission to the interrogation, yet his tone carried a hint of spoiled defiance. “I was passing by the edge of the swamp when I remembered today was the anniversary of my parents’ death. I went in to pay my respects—who knew I’d get chased by wild dogs? What? If you don’t believe me, go check the old newspapers at the town library.”
Benson Yang was left speechless by his retort. He lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew the smoke forcefully into Dorian Yun’s face. “Look at you—what kind of doctor are you? I think you’re the one who’s seriously ill! You’re always getting into trouble!”
“Stop talking. Come here. I’ll bandage you up.”
Benson Yang muttered a few complaints but eventually relented. Gritting his teeth, he took off his trench coat and shirt, then sat cross-legged in front of the sofa, allowing Dorian Yun to examine the claw wound on his back where the skin had been torn open.
Dorian Yun took out alcohol, bandages, and suture material from the medical kit, rinsed away the grime from the wound, and began to dress it. His movements were firm and unyielding; a wave of stinging pain washed over Benson Yang, yet he merely let out a low, muffled groan, not even flinching.
He inhaled the acrid, choking smoke, turned to watch Dorian Yun stitch the wound, his gaze tinged with complexity, before finally looking away.
“Dr. Yun, having heard the stories of your childhood and getting to know you over this time, I’ve always felt that you’re sometimes surprisingly…naive.”
Dorian Yun’s fingers paused briefly before he smiled, finished tying the knot, and began wrapping the bandage. “I just can’t bear to see living beings hurt or suffer, or beautiful things destroyed. That kind of chaotic disorder makes me feel physically and mentally uneasy. That includes animals, and it includes people.”
“Is that so?” Benson Yang asked, furrowing his brow.
“Yes,” Dorian Yun replied with utter naturalness, tying the bandage into a perfect flat knot. “I’ve always tried my best to save everyone who’s sick, to heal them and make them better. But… there are just so many sick people. So many. Why is it so hard?”
Benson Yang stared silently at Dorian Yun for a moment, trying to understand the vague, ethereal glimmer in his eyes, but he simply couldn’t figure it out—what exactly was there to be sad about? He could only look away and reply stiffly, “It is difficult. That’s why I’ve never thought of becoming a savior.”
The two fell into an eerie silence. Rain pounded against the window, and the wall clock repeated its monotonous “tick-tock.”
“Some say only the closest of friends can sit in silence together without feeling awkward,” Dorian Yun broke the dead silence. He paused, looked at Benson Yang, and added jokingly, “Otherwise, they’d have to be corpses. Come to think of it, Yang, what was it like the first time you saw a corpse or witnessed the passing of a life?”
Benson Yang opened his mouth, but found himself momentarily speechless.
What does it feel like to see a dead body for the first time? He asked himself this, searching his memory, but his mind was a parched wasteland, devoid of any trace of moisture. He couldn’t find an answer.
To hide his embarrassment, he turned his gaze toward the heavy rain outside the window, his eyes appearing somewhat dazed.
He realized that every time he spoke with Dorian Yun, the latter would pose some tricky questions—questions no one had ever discussed with him before, and which he himself rarely pondered. The moment he heard them, he always felt as if his soul were being X-rayed and scrutinized, leaving him with nowhere to hide.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’ve never felt anything about death or corpses. People are rotten to the core to begin with; dying and turning into a corpse is just becoming a pile of flesh that’s even more thoroughly rotten.”
The smile on Dorian Yun’s face froze, and a look of bewilderment and helplessness flashed in his eyes. “Is… is that it? Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Really, that’s it.”
“How is that possible? In that instant when motion turns to eternal stillness, don’t you ever ponder what this is all about? Don’t you ever wonder if there’s another order beyond death—one that’s more beautiful, more powerful, more sublime, and never-failing?”
“No.” Benson Yang replied coldly, his voice without a trace of wavering. “Dead is dead—gone without a trace. Death is the least worthy thing in this world to ponder. If I have the spare time to daydream like that, I’d rather smoke a few more cigarettes.”
In that instant, a crack seemed to appear in the subtle understanding between them. Without a word, they turned their faces away, their gazes fixed on two parallel yet never-intersecting points. A faint sense of estrangement rippled through the air like ripples on water, yet it carried no hint of tension.
Benson Yang fell silent for a moment, lit another cigarette, puffed on it for a while, then stood up. “The bathroom’s on the second floor, right? I’m going to wash the blood off me.”
Dorian Yun led the way, his gaze drifting lightly to the crook of Yang’s elbow—where more bruises and needle marks had appeared. Seeing this, Dorian Yun narrowed his eyes.
“Promise me, next time your cravings hit, come find me, okay? I’ll help you deal with it.”
“Ugh, mind your own business.”
“Give me that trench coat. Should I wash it? Or just throw it away? To be honest, it smells awful after soaking in that muddy water. If I don’t do something about it, it’s torture for my nose.”
“I told you to mind your own business. I don’t like people touching my stuff. Go on, go back to your room, change into some clean clothes, and get some rest.”
“Oh, right, I’m really sorry—I live here alone, so there’s no guest room…”
“It’s fine, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
The sound of running water soon filled the bathroom. Dorian Yun’s eyes flickered as he glanced at the trench coat hanging on the bathroom door.
He quickly rummaged through the two side pockets. The pockets were larger than he’d expected, containing a new tactical flashlight, some loose change, a few cigarettes, a lighter, a cheap mini-bottle of whiskey, and a police badge. The standard kit of a down-and-out detective.
Still not giving up, his long fingers dug into the inner pocket. He felt around and pulled out a clear, sealed bag containing a copy of his ID and business cards, along with a small, portable notebook issued by the police department.
Dorian Yun’s expression darkened as he immediately flipped open the notebook. Its pages were densely packed with text and photographs; countless victim records and witness statements came into view.
Benson Yang wasn’t neglecting his duties at all—he was clearly conducting a private investigation!
Flipping through another dozen or so pages, he was startled to find photographs of the interior of Yang’s clinic and residence. A Ford parked in the background had been circled in red, with a small note reading: “Suspect vehicle. Fits profile for body disposal.” There was also a floor plan of the examination room, with crosses marked over the entrance and bookshelf locations, accompanied by the note: “Solid walls, no hidden mechanisms. But I believe there is a secret room upstairs or in the basement.”
The final few pages recorded some of Dorian Yun’s remarks; the handwriting was far more messy than before, littered with hesitant strokes and smudged ink.
“He buried the dead parrot in the sunflower field at night. Is this a fact, or is it hinting at something?”
“The sunflower field was set ablaze by a drunken passerby. The dead were all regulars who drowned their sorrows at the bar… Is he seeking revenge? But Dorian Yun himself said he was estranged from his parents as a child—it doesn’t seem like he’s lying. So the motive for revenge doesn’t hold up.”
“As things stand, Dorian Yun remains the prime suspect. He must have an inseparable connection to ‘The Nightstalker’… I need a piece of decisive evidence. Either I find the execution site, or I build deeper trust with him to get him to spill the beans.”
“Damn it, is he really ‘The Nightstalker’? Or maybe just some poser playing a sick game? No, could he actually be a good doctor, and I’m just being overly suspicious? I always sleep soundly during our sessions, but as soon as they end, my insomnia gets worse—my head’s filled with all that nonsense he spouts. Fucking psychiatrist.”
At first, Dorian Yun appeared relatively composed, but as he read on, his expression gradually twisted, and he eventually let out a low chuckle.
“I thought you were just a stray dog, but it turns out you’re more capable than I expected. You’ve had your eye on me all along, waiting for the chance to take a bite. Still, I suppose I should say you’re not exactly innocent… Or are you laughably naive? You’ve been conducting a private investigation all along, yet you still foolishly cling to pointless legal procedures, dragging things out time and again? Hah, actually, it’s about time to close the net. I’m looking forward to it…”
He placed the notebook back where it belonged, walked slowly back into the bedroom, changed his clothes at a leisurely pace, poured a glass of water to take his fever-reducing medicine, and then fiddled with the vinyl record player sitting on the bedside table. Once the needle was set, the music began to play: Tchaikovsky’s symphonic overture *The Tempest*, Op. 18.
The wind grew fiercer, like countless demons shrieking, driving pea-sized raindrops against the glass windows, then seeping in from every crack and crevice in the doors and windows. The temperature inside dropped several degrees in an instant.
Occasional silver flashes pierced the depths of the long-gathering dark clouds. Muffled thunder rumbled in the downpour, wave after wave, not rushing to erupt but coalescing into an unending tremor that seeped bit by bit into one’s pores, then into the deepest recesses of the soul.
Everything trembled in the muffled thunder—the air trembled, the window frames trembled, and even the rhythm of his heart trembled. Dorian Yun could hear his own heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump—its frequency grew faster and faster, matching the approaching thunder outside, almost making it hard for him to breathe, yet he thoroughly relished the sensation.
He stood at the window, slid open the latch, listened to the rousing music from the record player, spread his arms to embrace the wind and rain lashing in, and took a deep breath of the bone-chilling cold air.
At that moment, a bolt of lightning finally broke free from the shackles of the dark clouds, tearing through the night sky like a gigantic sword of light and striking not far from the apartment. The blinding white light instantly filled the entire bedroom, instantly illuminating Dorian Yun’s face, twisted into a mask of ecstatic, demonic fervor.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuj3tfsdesr
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