Jiang Hansheng pulled into a parking space, told Wang Pengzhe to wait in the car, and stepped out and walked inside.
He had long, refined brows and dark, bright eyes. His shoulders and back were broad and cleanly defined, and there was something about his bearing — composed and scholarly — that gave him an air of exceptional cleanliness.
When the shop assistant saw him, her eyes lit up, and she stepped forward eagerly to ask how she could help.
He said he wanted to buy a suit.
As she led Jiang Hansheng over to the men’s section, she asked: “Do you have a color preference, sir?”
Jiang Hansheng narrowed his sharp eyes slightly, a hint of amusement lurking in them.
He said: “Red.”
---
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A small green ball, roughly the size of a palm, hit the floor and bounced back into the hand waiting for it — steady, rhythmic, unhurried.
The man caught the ball and held it firmly, sprawled back across a black leather sofa.
The lights in the room were off. Black curtains sealed out every trace of light from outside. The only illumination came from a projection thrown against the large white wall — a pale, diffused glow that fell across the man’s body and washed his face into something cold and bloodless.
Piano music filled the room — surging, turbulent, the notes dense and heavy, crashing against the chest like something being driven in with force.
And yet on the screen, a recorded interview was playing.
It was a news programme. In the studio, a female anchor was posing her questions.
The man being interviewed wore a faint, unhurried smile throughout. His answers came in an easy, almost indolent manner.
The quiet, measured voice on screen formed a sharp contrast with the turbulent piano behind it.
“He believed himself to be an artist…”
The words came in fragments, pressed down and half-swallowed beneath the weight of the music.
“…using the appearance of art to conceal his crimes.”
“Each of the victims was simply another substitute. The killer was searching for self-gratification in those he harmed…”
“Evidence of profound psychological trauma…”
“The cause?”
“An absent father figure in the family home…”
“Extreme internal inferiority. A desperate hunger for attention and love…”
“Abandoned by his mother.”
Bang—!
A single, violent impact.
The ball had been hurled at the wall with full force. It ricocheted off and fell to the floor, rolling and rolling until it came to rest in the corner.
The music had gone completely silent.
No sound remained in the room. Nothing remained in his field of vision but stark, vivid color.
From the black, a white beam of light reached across the space. Black and white converged and focused on a single point of red.
A vivid red. A red like blood. The red he despised most in all the world.
The man pressed his palm hard against his forehead. A scream tore out of him — hysterical, raw — the sound of it ringing through his own eardrums in sharp, jagged waves that shredded at his nerves.
At last, he clamped his hand over his own trembling wrist, forced himself to breathe, and dragged his face up from the dense shadow around him. His eyes had gone red — something savage in them.
He bit down on the words, and let them fall, cold and quiet:
“Go to hell.”