The weather in the small town deteriorated far more rapidly than the conservative estimates in the weather forecast had predicted.
Thunder and lightning erupted like tons of bombs being dropped from the sky, each explosion illuminating the pitch-black streets with a blinding white light before they were swallowed up by an even deeper darkness. The gale, carrying a cold, torrential downpour, piled up into wave after wave on the empty streets, roaring as it swept through.
More than a dozen trees lining both sides of Central Street had already buckled under the strain and fallen; the remaining ones leaned precariously in every direction, their branches lashing wildly against the window frames of the houses along the street, producing a series of jarring, bone-chilling thuds.
Benson Yang’s face was ashen when he burst through Dorian Yun’s door. His eyes, already bloodshot, were now a terrifying crimson, radiating the frantic desperation of a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. He gasped for breath, grabbing Dorian Yun—who lay on the bed—and shaking him violently, his voice hoarse as sandpaper.
“Dr. Yun! Get up! Dorian Yun! Get up now!” he roared, on the verge of breaking down, slamming his palm down on the bedside table so hard that the decorative ornaments on top shook violently.
Dorian Yun was a light sleeper and woke up immediately. He sat up, looking sickly, and glanced at the alarm clock; the hands pointed to 3:47 a.m.
“Sigh… Detective Yang, it’s the middle of the night. Are you going to let me get any rest?” His eyes glowed faintly in the darkness as he remarked with a seemingly casual, mocking tone, “Earlier tonight, you only came up to check on me once, left a cup of warm water by my bed, and then didn’t make a peep. That’s quite rare. “Aren’t you suspicious that I’m ‘The Nightstalker’? Yet you didn’t keep an eye on me or take the opportunity to search my place…”
“What does the ‘The Nightstalker’ have to do with it? You’re the one who said that next time my craving hits, I should come to you, and you’d help me deal with it!”
Without another word, Benson Yang dragged Dorian Yun downstairs, shoved him into an office chair, and plopped himself heavily into the leather examination chair. He slumped forward, his hands trembling violently. He frantically reached into his pocket for a cigarette, but his fingers wouldn’t obey him, and he dropped the entire pack on the floor.
He cursed under his breath, grabbed his hair violently, and squeezed the words out through clenched teeth: “Sorry for waking you up, but I can’t help it… I really can’t take it anymore, Dr. Yun.”
Dorian Yun pressed down on his arm, guiding it back onto the armrest of the examination chair, and soothed him: “Take your time, I’m listening. I’ll help you. What happened? Where does it hurt?”
“I finally managed to doze off for a bit, but I dreamed of him again… Blood spurting from his body, dripping from the ceiling, gushing out like groundwater—it was everywhere… It clung to me like a ghost, and I couldn’t wash it off, no matter how hard I tried!”
He sprang to his feet, grabbing Dorian Yun’s slender arm, his fingernails digging almost into his flesh.
“Give me the shot! Just like the last few times—double the dose! I just want to sleep soundly, without any more dreams, and without smelling that damn blood again!”
Dorian Yun didn’t immediately pull away; he simply lifted his gaze to meet Benson Yang’s, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze flickered.
“I understand how you feel, Benson.” Dorian Yun softened his voice, soothing Benson Yang as if hypnotizing him, then gently patted the back of his hand. “I’ll help you. Let go of my hand first; I’ll go to the pharmacy to get the sleeping pills and a syringe. This time I’ll increase the dosage slightly to ensure you enter a deep, dreamless sleep. Quieter than diving into the deep sea…”
Benson Yang couldn’t wait to lie down, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a muscular arm covered in purple needle marks.
As the syringe slowly entered his vein with the liquid, Benson Yang let out a long sigh. Lying on the examination bed, his tense muscles relaxed considerably.
“Yun, you’re truly exceptional. The medicine is good, and so are you. I can only sleep here with you.”
“It’s also thanks to your cooperation with the treatment, Yang, and your regular follow-up visits. Just lie there and don’t get up; you’ll fall asleep shortly. I’ll go wash my hands and head upstairs to rest.”
Dorian Yun set down the syringe and turned toward the medication storage room. However, just as he passed the thick Persian rug in the center of the examination room, his foot suddenly stumbled. He tripped over the rug and fell forward awkwardly, bracing himself with his hands against the floor with a thud.
“Damn it…” Dorian Yun muttered under his breath. Feeling a bit flustered, he crouched down to smooth out the wrinkled carpet, then hurriedly stood back up. At the same time, he glanced toward the examination chair, his gaze dark and inscrutable.
Benson Yang had been keeping his eyes half-closed, but when his gaze met Dorian Yun’s wandering eyes, his previously relaxed brow furrowed deeply once more. He braced himself on the edge of the chair, trying to sit up.
“No, no, Detective, don’t get up. Don’t worry about me—it’s just a minor accident!” Dorian Yun hurriedly stopped him, his voice rising slightly. “I’m fine. Just stay lying down and don’t move…”
Dorian Yun looked as though he were fleeing in panic as he rushed upstairs. At the same moment, Benson Yang suddenly opened his eyes, rolled out of bed, and yanked aside the thick woolen rug.
As the rug was pulled back, a hidden door, its color nearly indistinguishable from the wooden floor, suddenly came into view.
Without hesitation, Benson Yang hooked his fingertips into the latch and yanked it open. A wave of air, mingled with the scent of disinfectant and dampness, washed over him, carrying with it a faint, yet unmistakably familiar odor.
It was blood.
He hurried down the stairs. When he reached the bottom and took in the full view of the basement, his pupils suddenly contracted.
The space was dim and cramped—neither a storage room nor a wine cellar. There wasn’t much here: just a cold iron chair, a large metal box in the corner, a rubber hose lying on the floor, and, right in the center, a torture rack that resembled an altar.
A naked man was bound and suspended from the rack, barely clinging to life, his head hanging limply over his chest. Most chilling of all were his arms—covered in a dense, symmetrical pattern of incisions. Each wound had been meticulously measured; the edges were slightly everted, and in the dim light, they resembled the feather patterns on a bird specimen.
The scene before him instantly overlapped with the story Dorian Yun had recounted.
That parrot that had been “treated” yet ultimately died; that field of sunflowers, blooming brilliantly only to be engulfed in flames; that child who paid devout silent tribute at the grave, then nonchalantly went on to raise another parrot…
“Healing and killing, suffering and rest, beauty and ugliness, good and evil… Many boundaries are actually quite blurred. You’ll find that taking that step isn’t as difficult as you imagine, and your heart will find an unprecedented peace.”
A soft, gentle voice came from behind him. Benson Yang immediately turned his head. Sure enough, less than two meters behind him, Dorian Yun was already standing silently at the entrance to the basement. Though the pallor of illness still lingered on his face, he stood firmly, a Glock pistol gripped steadily in his hand, its muzzle glinting with a sinister, dark light.
Benson Yang stared at him, exhaled heavily, and, with a trembling hand, pulled a syringe from his coat and jabbed it into the crook of his elbow.
“‘The Nightstalker,’ you’re nothing but a sick lunatic.”
Hearing this, Dorian Yun’s expression darkened. His delicate features took on a menacing look, and his thin lips pressed tightly together, forming a cold, straight line.
“Benson Yang, your words are quite troubling to me,” Dorian Yun said slowly, his voice so calm it sent shivers down one’s spine. “But it doesn’t matter. The sleeping pills should be taking effect by now. Stabbing yourself won’t keep you awake for long. Welcome to my Examination Room No. 2.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than Benson Yang’s body swayed, like a drunken vagrant; his steps began to stagger, and his balance grew increasingly unstable. He tried to lunge at Dorian Yun, but after taking two steps, his legs gave out. His knees slammed hard against the cold, hard concrete floor. He let out a few faint, resentful growls before gradually closing his eyes.
Dorian Yun watched the scene unfold with satisfaction, yet remained vigilant. Holding his gun, he slowly closed in, the muzzle pressed firmly against the back of Benson Yang’s head, disarming him piece by piece.
He was extremely cautious, searching Benson Yang’s entire body and retrieving the switchblade he had just returned to its owner. A lighter, a flat metal flask filled with cheap whiskey, a few loose coins, and other items were also seized one by one and tossed into a corner.
Finally, Dorian Yun pulled a pair of police handcuffs from Benson Yang’s lower back and clamped one of his hands tightly to the armrest of the metal chair. Only after completing all this did he step back, gun in hand, watching Benson Yang slump motionless against the chair like a lump of mud. He finally let out a long sigh, holstered his pistol, and tucked it back into his waistband.
“Alright, let’s start with the ‘appetizer’ and give you some desensitization therapy.”
Dorian Yun picked up the garden hose at his feet, turned on the faucet, and a jet of icy water sprayed out, mercilessly dousing Benson Yang’s face and chest until he forced his eyes open.
Dorian Yun opened the box in the corner, nonchalantly slipped on a white lab coat, threw a transparent plastic raincoat over it, and then put on medical latex gloves. He picked through a row of cold, gleaming instruments as if selecting paintbrushes, finally settling on a dagger.
The blade of that dagger was longer than an adult’s outstretched hand, and it glinted with a chilling, intimidating light beneath Dorian Yun’s slender, delicate fingers.
Dorian Yun examined the dagger repeatedly, then stared at it nervously for a moment. A smile suddenly curled his crimson lips, and he walked toward the torture rack. Moments later, the wretched man on the rack was jolted awake, letting out a piercing wail as he sobbed uncontrollably and begged for mercy.
“I’m sorry, I was wrong. Spare me, spare me…”
“I admit to every mistake I’ve made in my life… stealing money from my mother… not being able to find a job… drinking… beating my wife and son a few days ago… Is that enough? Is that enough? No… ahhh…”
“It hurts so much… I want to die… I beg you, I’ve had enough… please…”
Agonized moans and the muffled thuds of the blade tearing through flesh echoed through the basement, the sounds amplified to the extreme, forming a twisted symphony.
Finally, all the chaotic sounds fell silent. Dorian Yun turned around, clutching a blood-soaked section of intestine in his hand. His medical gloves were caked in thick, viscous blood, which dripped incessantly onto the rough, unfinished concrete floor.
“Drip, drip…”
The pale yellow glow of the light bulb bathed the dust suspended in the air, falling directly onto a few strands of Dorian Yun’s dark hair. His gaze shifted between the torture rack and Benson Yang. His eyes were strangely moist, as if brimming with tears of compassion, yet his bright red lips curled upward, the corners twitching slightly, his expression eerily ferocious.
Benson Yang had seen his fair share of vicious criminals—those who killed for profit or out of rage. But this killer before him… his motive for murder was clearly unlike that of any ordinary person.
He had never encountered such a monster—one wearing the mask of a pure, harmless human, yet with the blood of a demon coursing through his veins, the two fused together so completely.
“Fucking psychopath,” Benson Yang retched dryly, turning his face toward the shadows as he muttered a curse, “Your mother should've choked you in the crib, you freak.”
Dorian Yun was deeply dissatisfied with Benson Yang’s reaction. He casually tossed aside the still-warm mass of entrails, stepped back in front of Benson Yang, pressed a dagger against him with one hand, and reached out with the other to forcefully grip his chin, twisting the face—which looked far more mature than his own—toward him.
“Are you afraid of me, Benson Yang?”
Dorian Yun whispered softly, running his long, pale fingers over Benson Yang’s face. At the same time, he lowered the dagger he was holding, pressing the blade—still stained with another man’s blood and body heat—against Benson Yang’s dry lips, rubbing it back and forth before making a deft, swift cut.
The pungent, metallic scent of rust instantly filled Benson Yang’s nostrils. A sharp pain shot through him as blood gushed from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.
Dorian Yun finally got his wish: he watched as Benson Yang, unable to contain himself, let out a howl and struggled frantically, his handcuffed wrists slamming against the metal chair.
“Get the hell away from me! Don’t touch me! Those filthy, blood-stained hands of yours… don’t touch me!”
“I’m going to touch you anyway.” Ignoring his struggles, Dorian Yun’s finger gently traced the cut at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t be afraid of me. I promise you’ll get better. By then, you’ll be begging me—thanking me for ending your suffering with my own hands. It’ll be over soon…”
As Dorian Yun spoke, his impatience grew.
He had to admit that the urge to kill he felt when facing Benson Yang was slightly different from what he felt toward others. Usually, he believed that destruction brought peace, but with Benson Yang, he wasn’t content to stop there. He wanted to tear out this man’s shattered soul, cradle it in his hands, and feel the similar yet distinct tremors within them both.
What a pity. If Benson Yang weren’t a detective, perhaps the two of them could have become close friends, engaging in a deep exchange of their respective codes of killing.
He casually set the dagger down at his feet, preparing to unlock the handcuffs and move this “main course” to the rack.
No sooner said than done.
Before the lock mechanism had even clicked open, Benson Yang—who had been “under the influence of the drug”—suddenly flashed a gleam in his eyes that was even more blinding than the lightning outside!
Like a ferocious beast lurking in the darkness that had finally unleashed a fatal strike, he erupted with all his muscular strength without warning. He lunged forward, seizing the iron chair still chained to the handcuffs and using it as a weapon to sweep across the room.
That strike, channeling all his strength, struck Dorian Yun squarely on the shoulder and the side of his face.
Dorian Yun couldn’t even manage a scream. His head was buzzing—he couldn’t tell if it was the thunder outside or the ringing in his ears—but he knew that in an instant, a metallic, sweet taste filled his nose and mouth, and the world before him collapsed as everything spun.
The immense force sent him crashing to the ground. He rolled twice, landing in a heap on the floor, one hand clamped tightly over his face as blood gushed through his fingers. Enduring the excruciating pain, his other hand frantically groped the cold, hard concrete, trying to retrieve the dagger he had set down himself.
But Benson Yang didn’t give him even a second to catch his breath. He kicked the dagger away with one foot, then twisted Dorian Yun’s injured arm with his other hand, flipping him over and pinning him down hard on the concrete.
Immediately afterward, Dorian Yun felt a searing pain in his throat. Benson Yang’s rough, calloused, scarred hand—using just one hand—clamped down on his neck like a massive iron vise.
Dorian Yun opened his mouth, but could only manage a whistling sound as air leaked through. His brain was plunging into chaos from the lack of oxygen.
How could this be? How could this be?
“‘It’ll be over soon’? You’re mistaken, Dr. Yun,” Benson Yang said, breathing slightly heavily, yet his tone was surprisingly calm. “It’s not over yet.”79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLHOkqEBRQl
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