Chapter 1: The Johnson Farmstead

The dim hallway light cast a shadow on a figure that appeared young but staggered as if inebriated, nearly tripping over as he fumbled for a set of keys from his backpack.

Click.

The sound of the door unlocking brought the darkness of the room out into the hallway, enveloping the silent figure by the door. A slender, well-defined hand slowly reached out to the wall, searching for a few seconds before finding the switch - and with the flick of the switch, the living room chandelier burst to life, brightening the room devoid of any human warmth.

The young man who had turned on the light went straight to the couch. His body almost sank into the cushions, and he quickly fell into a deep sleep, despite the awkward sitting position.

During his restless sleep, probably due to the excessive alcohol, his breaths became rapid, and the veins in his neck pulsed visibly.

A few minutes later, he gasped for breath as if someone was choking him, his right hand tugging at his collar in a fierce struggle against the demon in his nightmare.

"Admit it, you are like me."

"Admit it, we are of the same kind."

A voice in the dream, repetitious and seeming to come from the depths of hell, beckoned.

"No...not the same," he mumbled to himself.

The dim yellow light in the living room cast an ethereal glow on his face, which was alarmingly pale, lacking the flush that usually accompanies drunkenness.

The voice in his dream seemed more insistent:

"Why do you get to live under the sun while I exist in the darkness that no one sees?"

"Come here, help me..."

"You always want to play the hero, right? Claim to save everyone?"

"Then, save me. Or are you afraid I will rip off your mask of hypocrisy for all to see our true nature?"

The man abruptly shivered awake from the nightmare. Wide-eyed, his reflection in the dark depths of his eyes contrasted the kaleidoscope of lights outside his window - the typical scenery of the waking world.

He sat up slowly from the couch and prepared to make himself a sobering pot of tea.

Ring.

The sudden ring of the mobile phone pierced through the working day's early hours, shattering the silence of the night.

"Hello?"

He answered the call. His voice was deep and calm, as if the one who had just woken from the nightmare was another self, detached from his physique.

"I..."

The caller uttered just one syllable before falling into a prolonged silence.

"Hello? You were saying?" Baffled, he glanced at the caller ID - an unknown number. He repeated, "Hello? Go on."

"Thank you, Dr. Johnson, for being such a good person! Not just a good doctor, but the kindest soul I've ever met..."

The voice sounded remote and fuzzy, as if speaking from a distance far from the phone microphone.

His mind raced, attempting to recognize the caller's identity, "Is that you, Evan?"

When there was no response, he spoke more gently, "Take your time, don't rush. Can you tell me what's happening?"

"I've made my decision, I owe nothing to this world... I just suddenly thought of you. You've comforted me this past month but I... I'm sorry I still..."

"Don't be rash, and put those thoughts aside. Tell me where you are and I'll come to find you," he said, with newfound sobriety, quickly standing up and grabbing his coat.

"No...sorry!"

The voice on the other end interrupted abruptly.

The line went dead with a beep.

"Wait..." His plea was swallowed by the coldness of the night.

His hands, still trembling from the alcohol, tapped heavily on the screen until finally hitting the redial button.

"Sorry, the subscriber you dialed is power off..." the automated response looped in the deathly quiet of the night, echoing the futility amidst it all.

2:30 AM at the Sunrise Residential Complex.

The world should have been shrouded in solemn darkness, but here, the wails of police sirens and the flashing lights illuminated half of the city's nighttime.

The old complex awaiting demolition lay still amid the city's center, standing out obtrusively, aged and decaying - a relic of urban machinery outstaying its welcome in a world of modern hubbub.

"Did someone die in building thirteen?"

"What?! That's horrendous!"

"Yes, I saw the ambulances and police. They took out several stretchers!"

"Should we think about moving?"

"Move? With what money?"

"Listen, you young folks scare too easily. It was a gas suicide, not murder. This neighborhood has the best public order in South City, topping the list every year."

The night owls, restless workaholics, and gossip-loving elderly huddled outside the police cordon, chattering away in the still of the night which seemed to grow louder.

"No photos! Hey, you there, with the phone!" A young police officer shouted, pointing to a girl taking pictures with her mobile phone beyond the cordon.

"Why so mean..." The girl was clearly startled by the outburst, almost dropping her phone.

As the crowd murmured, a black SUV rolled discretely through the masses and stopped three meters from the police tape. A tall man in a black shirt and jeans emerged from the car. His attire was creased, and his hair slightly unkempt, suggesting he'd been roused from sleep, yet he moved with a straight back and an intensity in his eyes that stood out among the drowsy onlookers.

He strode purposefully toward the scene, lifting the police tape with one hand, revealing muscular forearms beneath a tight shirt.

"Captain Harper," the young officer who had been arguing with the girl called out respectfully.

The man was in fact Joe Harper, Captain of South City's Homicide Division. He nodded in acknowledgment and said to the young cop, "Chen, be nicer to the people, alright?"

"Yes, sir," the young trainee officer took a breath and adjusted his tone, "Ma'am, could you please delete those photos and cooperate with our work? Thank you."

Joe patted the young officer's shoulder and headed for the apartment complex within the cordon.

Meanwhile, several plainclothes officers approached, "Captain Harper, our subdivision suspects homicide, so we notified your division right away."

"Right, who are the people inside, what's the situation?" Joe inquired as he walked.

"Three individuals were inside; two confirmed dead, and one was sent to the hospital. The survivor is the prime suspect in the case."

"The suspect?" Joe furrowed his brows, "What's their relation to the victims?"

"Family. The deceased are the suspect's father and grandfather. The suspect, named Michael Stevenson, male, 22 years old, a senior at South City University, local resident."

"Alright, send me the background info on the suspect and victims later. Let's proceed with the scene investigation first," Joe responded, practically jogging up the stairs to don disposable gloves and shoe covers, leading a group of city detectives into the apartment.

The place was a small two-bedroom unit with a north-south orientation, seldom graced by sunlight, thus perpetually damp and musty. The cramped space was packed with various appliances, barely accommodating a family of three or four, especially with a young adult in their prime.

By the entrance, a carefully trimmed family photo stood on a shoe cabinet, the young man in the picture beaming with joy as he flanked his parents under the bright sun.

Joe's gaze, surveying the room, paused for a moment on the photo. Then he closed his eyes and sighed softly.

Sunrise Heights was an older residential area, still using propane instead of municipal natural gas. When the emergency services arrived, the propane stove's metal valve was wide open, filling the apartment with the strong smell of ethyl mercaptan. Forensic inspectors reported their immediate findings.

Captain Joe Harper quickly looked through the forensic report. "No signs of forced entry, the door was locked from the inside, everything appears orderly, ruling out the possibility of an outsider committing the crime. There's a suicide note signed by Mike Evanston outlining how he drugged two people before turning on the gas. We'll need to verify the handwriting. Is the note with the forensics team? I'd like to take a look."

"Sure, just give me a moment to get it."

As Harper continued to scrutinize the detailed forensic report, he directed questions at the arriving medical examiner, Dr. Liu, who entered with the fatigue of the night visibly weighing on him. The doctor, without a flicker of emotion, rattled off his preliminary findings like rapid gunfire.

"The younger victim was alive when transported to the hospital. I have examined the two deceased. They show signs of asphyxia—their lividity and muscular tone are of a bright red color, consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning. Their eyelids and conjunctivae are congested and petechiae are present; nasal cavities contain bloody secretions, and foam was seen around the mouth, indicating oxygen deprivation."

While Harper was not a medical professional, his years of experience gave him an understanding of the medical jargon. He nodded and then asked, "I observed in the report that there was a box of Zolpidem, known commercially as Sonoril, on the dining table - a controlled prescription sedative. Can you tell if the deceased had ingested it?"

Dr. Liu, with tired indignance, acknowledged the implication, "Are you rushing me for the autopsy report? I assure you I'm working through the night to complete it."

Harper, containing his frustration, commanded drily, "You'll get it done for who?"

"For our hardworking captain," Dr. Liu replied with deliberate emphasis.

Focusing back on his task, Harper ordered the room to be cleared. The material evidence needed to be examined: "Wrap up here, everyone. Yüe, get these to the lab for analysis."

Under the moonlight coming through the windows, the team packed up, their shadows busy against the cheap wood flooring.

Harper, sitting in the backseat of the patrol car with Deputy Captain Cao Zhiping, exchanged documents and information about the suspect's mobile phone.

Harper then learned of an emergency call made at 1:55 am from a phone belonging to Lin Walker, a 27-year-old male, local resident, and psychiatrist at South City's Second Hospital. A connection to the suspect was likely.

"This Lin Walker, was he Mike Evanston's psychiatrist?" Harper asked, an edge of urgency to his voice.

"We need to confirm that. If he was, there are no issues, we'll just take a statement from Dr. Walker to learn more about Evanston's psychiatric history," Harper decided.

Sitting in the dim light of the moving patrol car, Harper rubbed his tired brow, his profile etched with lines of rigor and command. They would have to wait till the break of dawn to contact the hospital.

On the other side of the city, Lin Walker answered a call at 3 am, having stayed awake through the night. He learned the worst about Mike Evanston from a hospital intern.

"I'm sorry to trouble you so late, Lin," the intern's voice said through the line.

Lin, his hands trembling uncontrollably, barely managed to open his safe. Inside lay syringes and vials of medicine, which under the pallid moonlight reflected a chilling, devouring gleam.

Despite his shaky hands, Lin administered a precise injection into his arm, aiming straight for the vein. As the cold liquid rushed into his bloodstream, a moment of lucidity struck his muddled brain.

He glanced at a calendar on the wall, where March 25th circled in red loomed, a date of irrevocable significance.