Ye Weibai’s guilt sat like a stone in his chest, and it had reason.

On [Day One], he treated Shaohan with frostbitten calm, like winter on bare skin.

He believed she hadn’t reached her limit, that only at the breaking point could she shatter her self-forged cage, like iron bars cracking under heat.

Because unless a person is battered to the bone, they never learn to scream, like wind over a cliff that finally howls.

But… what if she’d already hit her limit, like a taut string ready to snap?

A lone figure runs toward a cliff, and you shove her hard so she eats dirt, the sting meant to breed fear, like brine in a fresh cut.

Yet if she’s already at the edge, one step from the abyss, then a gentle nudge is murder, like tipping a lantern into dry grass.

By that measure, what Ye Weibai did on [Day One] was a killer’s move, a blade hidden in a calm sleeve.

Those ice-cold words and near-cruel acts could slit the spirit of someone toeing the brink, like frost wilting a late blossom.

Only—

“Only, the strange thing is…” He narrowed his eyes, replaying the girl’s face and movements, like frames flickering on wet film. “Shaohan didn’t seem as despairing as she should. Why? Was it…”

…was it some [Unknown] holding her up, like an unseen hand beneath water?

What was it?

What could it be?

The [Someone] who stopped me from opening the door, the [Someone] who erased a [Someone] from my mind, the [Someone] that braced Shaohan—who are they, like masks among lanterns?

Or rather… what are they, like shapes half-carved from fog?

And the [Someone] behind the serial molestation of young girls—what kind of thing is that, like rot in a sealed jar?

How do they connect? Are they parallel, or crossing, or even… the same line folded over, like rivers meeting in mist?

“The clues are still thin,” Ye Weibai murmured, his voice low as rain on eaves. “An unknown stage… all the players are in place, but every face wears a mask, like painted fans in a dim hall. Each role hides behind deep fog, showing only half a trailing sleeve. Their true expressions are covered, and their ties are a web I can’t see. What’s the main thread of this story?

Is it Shaohan? Xixi? Muling? Or…”

I already failed once, and even now I haven’t found [Day One]’s killer, like a hunter losing the track in wet snow.

Could it be the culprit from the molestation case? But he never kills… unless… I’m the one who was killed?!

Or else it wasn’t that person. Then who broke into my home just to murder a little girl, like a shadow slipping through paper screens?

As always, before he truly thought, he laid the logic bare, like leaves spread on a table. He listed every leaf on the logic tree, then pondered how they grew onto the branches, until they formed a towering trunk.

It was a fine way to think, like mapping constellations before plotting a voyage.

Only, this time—here in this [World]—he kept forgetting certain questions, like threads dropped in the loom.

And those were questions he would never have forgotten before, like names etched into bone.

He’d said it himself: no matter the problem or the scene, the first thing to consider shouldn’t be the environment—not just the environment—but rather…

…

…

“Senior, where are we going now?” The voice was light as a bell in fog.

“Back to the detective agency,” he said, like a lantern turning in the rain.

“To check the files?” she asked, hope bright as a cat’s eyes.

“No. To sleep,” he said, flat as a closed fan.

At the apartment building’s lobby, Ye Weibai looked up at a sky so heavy it seemed ready to fall, noon dim as dusk, like soot brushed over the sun. He raised his palm into the fine drizzle, silk threads pooling in his hand, and opened his umbrella like a black flower.

The girl slipped in under it like a little fox, tail-hidden and bright-eyed.

Ye Weibai glanced down; she clasped her hands behind her back and tipped her chin up, a sly, dazzling grin blooming like a sudden sunburst. It looked like she’d shaken off her gloom, like dew shaken from grass.

“Grinning like a fool,” he said, dry as winter wood.

“You’re the fool, Senior—” Little Bell wrinkled her nose. “And so lazy! Since you got what you wanted, the next step should be spurring the horse and taking it in one go, like drums pushing troops!”

“Nice idioms,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting like a blade’s edge.

“Of course. I’m a college student. Hey! Wait! You still haven’t answered me!”

“The first surge is strongest; the second wanes; the third runs dry,” Ye Weibai said, voice like calm water. “Feels like my MP’s almost tapped. Gotta go home and refill my mana.”

“Huh? What even is that?” She tilted her head, puzzled, like a sparrow considering a pebble. Then she noticed the deep fatigue steeped in his clear eyes, weariness like dusk pooling in a well, and she understood.

For him… this morning’s round, everything he saw and felt… must have been draining, like wind and grit scouring skin.

She bit her lip, a small bloom of red, like a petal in snow.

It must hurt, seeing his little niece treated like that, like a blossom bruised under boots. He looked sloppy on the outside, in need of tidying, but he’d always been gentle within, soft as warm bread.

She reached out, her hand hovering in midair like a leaf that didn’t dare fall. After a long hesitation, she only tugged lightly at Ye Weibai’s coat hem, like a lonely, powerless girl trying to comfort a wounded adult and not knowing where to begin.

He felt it and paused, then saw her cautious, don’t-touch posture, like a cat inching toward a saucer, and he smiled. “Like a little dog,” he said, teasing as a flick.

“W-what is that supposed to mean!” Muling fluffed up like a cat with its tail stepped on, almost hopping.

She glared up at him, cheeks hot and eyes bright, shame and fury braided like fire and rain. “Senior! Are you stupid!”

“Daring to insult your boss? I’ll flick your forehead till it pops,” Ye Weibai said, mock-grim, like a judge tapping a wooden block.

“Ugh… I—I quit! I’m quitting right now!” she cried, voice wobbling like a reed.

Her complaint, of course, only earned more shameless laughter from the incorrigible Ye Weibai, like a breeze fanning a small fire.

…

…

Muling probably didn’t know.

What her Senior meant by “I got what I wanted” wasn’t only his little niece Shaohan’s pain, grief heavy as wet cloth.

That mattered, yes, but Ye Weibai also wanted to see what was inside Muling, like lifting the lid on a music box.

This girl had been at his side from the moment he opened his eyes, like a shadow keeping pace.

Cute looks, sunny temper, frank and real—she fit Ye Weibai’s taste like tea to a cool morning. Just being together felt natural, like an old path under familiar feet. Even if they didn’t talk and worked in silence, he felt no awkwardness at all—that’s what it’s like when mutual favor hits max.

Only… was it a little too perfect, like silk without a snag?

It wasn’t that Ye Weibai was paranoid. He’s already rewound once, and how many [X] are left, he doesn’t know, like grains in a hidden hourglass. Maybe this time is the last, so he can’t risk loosened steps.

Along the way, he’s met several eerie things, each offering a few threads, yet each a tangled skein, like weeds choking a pond.

At bottom, Ye Weibai doesn’t even know what he is, like a mirror fogged from within.

What is he?

A [Detective]? Then why is there no file for him at the Detective Association, like a name missing from the registry?

Shaohan’s uncle? Then why does something in their bond feel cut, like a ribbon snipped and uneven?

So don’t be fooled by his easy air. Inside, he’s strung tight, like a tightrope over thin ice—steps light and natural, heart iron and steady.

Muling hadn’t misread everything; this occasionally airheaded girl is sharper and more tender than she shows, like a blade in a velvet sheath.

But she did guess wrong about one thing. Ye Weibai’s weariness didn’t come only from Shaohan’s ordeal. It also came from the pressure of [Death] drawing near, slow as a tide and just as relentless, like a shadow lengthening toward his heels.

…

…