Dear readers, please step inside; I have an important announcement to make.

"Because I am a dead man."

Hearing this sentence from the little girl's mouth again sent a chill through my entire body. The shock I felt was even more profound than the first time. When she said it before, I assumed she was warning me of danger, implying I might be about to die. But days had passed, and for her to repeat those words now suggested a different meaning entirely.

I asked her, "What do you mean? What do you mean by saying I am a dead man?"

She continued to look at me, but after speaking, the terror vanished from her eyes. She reverted to her usual indifference, staring at me with a vacant gaze. Seeing her remain silent for several minutes, I grew impatient. I slammed my hand on the table and stood up, trying to look as menacing as possible. Lowering my voice, I said, "Little girl, you’d better start being honest. Don't think I won't hit you just because you're a child. I'll ask you one more time: why do you say I'm a dead man?"

She still gazed at me blankly, saying nothing. Frustration boiled over; this girl was more unsettling than any adult, and I could no longer afford to treat her with the pity one might show a child. I lunged forward, grabbed her hair, and pressed her head against the table.

Even then, she didn't flinch. Instead, she glared at me, her young face filled with stubbornness, as if to say that the harder I hit her, the less she would tell me. I pressed down harder, but she kept her mouth shut, lips tightly sealed.

For some reason, seeing her defiance struck a chord within me. In that instant, I couldn't bring myself to bully her any further and released my grip. Only then did I realize that I had been thinking of the photograph of us together. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, I still felt a connection to her, like a friend, and couldn't bring myself to harm her.

The door to the interrogation room swung open. Jin Ze entered and called me out. It turned out Fang Qinghe wanted to see me. He led me to another room, where he had summoned Miaomiao, and to my surprise, asked her to apply makeup on me.

Fang Qinghe’s intent was for Miaomiao to create a gruesome effect, making it look as though I had been shot to death, with a bullet hole through my forehead and blood staining my face. At first, I didn't understand why, but it soon became clear: he wanted to play along with the little girl. Since she insisted I was dead, Fang would make me look the part to see if it would elicit a reaction.

The only thing I couldn't fathom was why Fang chose a bullet wound to the head. It seemed to me that a decapitation or a slit throat would be far more terrifying. Perhaps a gunshot wound was simply easier to replicate. As Miaomiao’s slender, porcelain-like fingers worked on my face, a sudden thought struck me: did Fang choose this makeup because he knew something about my past? Had I suffered a head injury that caused my amnesia?

I didn't dare pursue that line of thought. I shook my head to clear it, fearing that dwelling on it would only drive me closer to a mental breakdown. As I shook my head, I splattered blood onto Miaomiao, who glared at me coldly and snapped, "What are you doing?"

I didn't have the nerve to tell her. Instead, I looked at her and asked, "Miaomiao, do you trust me? You said you saw the killer's build and that it looked like mine. In your heart, do you still suspect that I am the one who kidnapped you?"

Miaomiao stared at my face for a moment before replying, "You aren't him."

My heart tightened. Did she trust me just because I had saved her once? But then she added, "I've seen many psychopathic killers. You don't have that temperament."

I was speechless. Once she finished the makeup, I returned to the interrogation room. When the little girl saw me covered in blood, her body stiffened. She gasped, curled up in her chair, and began to tremble violently.

Seeing her reaction, I felt a spark of hope. I leaned in and asked in a low voice, "What is your name, and why do you say I am a dead man?"

She looked at me sideways, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and terror, showing mostly whites. "My name is Xia Tian," she replied. "And it's because you are already dead."

I paused, then pressed further, "How did I die?"

"I don't know," she said. "I only know that you are already dead, Brother."

I didn't want to waste the opportunity. "Did you harm He Ping? Were you responsible for the other murders?"

She shook her head. I asked, "Then who was it?"

She kept her eyes fixed on me, the whites showing, and whispered, "It was... you..."

My body went rigid. My first instinct was to shut off the surveillance cameras and the voice recorder, but I knew it was too late; Fang Qinghe would have already seen it. I forced myself to continue, "Don't talk nonsense. Who is the killer?"

She looked directly at me then, her voice urgent. "Brother, please, try to remember! You have to remember, or you will die again."

*Die again?* The concept felt contradictory. If death was final, how could one die a second time? I asked her directly, "Who wants to kill me?"

She replied, "You want to kill you."

*I want to kill me.*

For reasons I couldn't explain, those words left me feeling deeply uneasy. A sensation of suffocation washed over me, as if an invisible hand were tightening around my throat, cutting off my air. I wanted to ask more, but Xia Tian began to shake uncontrollably, curling into a ball as if she had suffered some divine punishment for revealing a secret.

I knew she wouldn't answer any more questions, and I was nearing my own breaking point. I bolted from the interrogation room and rushed to the restroom, plunging my head under the faucet to splash cold water on my face until I regained some clarity.

When I emerged, Fang Qinghe and Jin Ze were waiting at the door. They seemed concerned, but I knew they were also likely keeping watch to ensure I didn't run, as the interrogation had cast me in a very incriminating light.

Though I struggled to accept it, the dialogue with the girl clearly implied that my other personality was the killer. If I couldn't remember that persona, was it trying to kill me? But that defied logic—if that personality killed me, wouldn't it cease to exist as well? It was impossible to fathom, but who could understand the mind of a mentally ill person?

Fang Qinghe stepped up and patted my shoulder. "Chen Mu, stay calm. Don't let the interrogation sway your emotions. The girl’s words might be a calculated script provided by the killer to cause a mental collapse. It's possible she was captured on purpose."

His words were like rain in a drought, and I finally managed to steady my nerves. But as I calmed down, another thought emerged: if I truly had amnesia and stressful situations were the key to recovering those memories, did Fang Qinghe actually *want* me to remember?

Just then, Jin Ze’s phone rang. As he listened, his brow furrowed. He hung up and turned to Fang Qinghe. "Team Leader, the hospital called. He Ping didn't make it. He's dead."

Fang Qinghe stiffened. "Did he say anything before he died?"

Jin Ze replied, "Yes. He kept repeating one sentence: 'Chen Mu is not Chen Mu.'"