Real Killer

The door crashed against the wall with a thunderous bang, shuddering like a beast roused from slumber, as Chen Ge bolted inside. He lunged for the window, wrenching it open with a frantic heave—wood groaning, hinges squealing like a banshee's wail. Bloody hell—it's high! Peering out, the drop yawned below—three, four meters of sheer plunge to the earth. Footsteps pounded closer, a relentless drumbeat—landlord and tattooed thug bearing down like hounds on a hare.

No time to dither. Chen Ge hurled himself out, fingers clawing the sill, dangling as one boot snagged the first-floor's anti-theft netting—a cruel web of steel. "He saw us shift the corpse!" the landlord bellowed, his snarling face looming in the doorway, cleaver glinting like a Death Eater's curse. "Think you'll slip us, you rat!"

Chen Ge let go—reckless, raw. The netting raked his arms, shredding cloth and skin as he slid, a jagged descent down the wall's rough hide. He hit the ground, rolling to blunt the jolt—mud and grass smearing his battered frame. Snatching the mallet from the dirt, he bolted for the gate, legs pumping like a charmed broom gone wild.

"Grab him, quick!" the landlord roared, hurling the cleaver with a vicious flick. It whizzed past Chen Ge's ear—a lethal whisper—burying deep in the sod with a thunk. He shuddered, glimpsing its glint. Caught by them, I'm dead—carved up like a hog!

The front door burst wide then, vomiting the fat man and the woman onto the scene—hedge clippers gleaming in their fists, eyes mad with hunter's zeal. "Pack of nutters!" Chen Ge spat, sprinting full-tilt, an arrow loosed toward the gate. He scrambled up, boots scraping the rusted bars, using the shiny new lock as a foothold—a mocking detail in his flight.

Beyond sprawled a forest—dense, untamed, a labyrinth of shadows under night's cloak. No light pierced its depths; direction drowned in the black. But with those murderous fiends on his heels, Chen Ge plunged in—no choice but to gamble against the wild unknown. Branches clawed his clothes, tore at his flesh; mud caked him, leaves clung like specters. Flashlight beams stabbed through the dark—erratic, slashing—while the landlord's curses and the tattooed man's growls hounded him. He didn't glance back—escape, escape, escape!—the word a mantra pounding in his skull.

Fifteen minutes of blind, breathless flight stretched eternal—lungs burning, legs screaming—until the pursuit's clamor faded. He crouched low in a thicket, half-sunk in brambles, spying a faint glow flickering far off. Fingers dug into the cool, wet soil, anchoring him as he gulped air, ravenous and ragged. Too damn close! Trapped in that hellhole, one misstep would've been his grave—snuffed out by cleavers and clippers in a mad butcher's dance.

Merlin's bloody beard—this Trial Mission's a nightmare! Chen Ge's mind reeled, the black phone's cruel whims a puppeteer yanking his life's strings. And it's real—too damn real. Outpacing the landlord's rabble offered no safety—just a fleeting gasp in this deadly game. He shrank deeper into the bush, thorns snagging his torn sleeves, dread whispering that a glance back might reveal cleavers and clippers glinting at his throat.

His pulse steadied—ragged breaths slowing—as he untangled himself from the bramble's grasp. The forest lay hushed, a tomb of silence; no bird dared trill, no wind stirred the leaves. Flashlight beams had vanished, swallowed by the dark. Which way's out? Lost—utterly adrift in this shadowed maze. Hole up 'til dawn?

Fishing out his phone, he saw the livestream still hummed—screen black for over an hour, chat a flood of frantic question marks. Even seasoned watchers floundered, blind to his plight. No time for tales—he flicked to the clock, thumb hovering over He San's message, when—crunch—leaves snapped behind him.

He shoved the phone into his pocket, snuffing its glow—can't let it betray me!—and gripped the mallet, palms slick with sweat, eyes boring into the gloom where the sound crept. A faint beam sliced the dark, and Chen Ge tensed, mallet poised—until a voice rasped, "Someone there? Who's it?"

Wang Qi? Chen Ge's gut twisted. Didn't he scarper ages back? What's he prowling here for, dead of night? Curiosity gnawed, but he choked it down—that cat's long dead. He stayed rooted, a shadow among shadows.

"Mistook it, did I?" Wang Qi muttered, flashlight sweeping like a restless specter. No chance—I'm not wrong. The man paced, probing the night. Can't let him clock me—his mess dwarfs those tenants' lunacy. Chen Ge edged back, silent as a ghost, retreating from the light's reach.

The terrain steepened—hill rising underfoot. Wrong turn—other side now. Emerging from a dense thicket, he froze. Nestled among looming trees stood a humble wooden shack, its weathered planks glowing faintly in the murk. A sign dangled on the door, swaying like a hanged man's warning. Closer, he squinted: "Fire's a fiend in these woods—mind your flames. Guard the wild, ditch no trash."

Ranger's rest stop, eh? He nudged the door—unlocked, it creaked open like a coffin lid, unleashing a queer, sour whiff. What's that stench? Too wary for the torch, he tilted his phone, screen's dim gleam his only guide. The cabin was a cramped den, brimming with clutter—pots, rags, tools—a junkyard masquerading as shelter, every corner whispering neglect.

Chen Ge's nose wrinkled as he tracked the sour reek, a stench that curled through the air like a potion gone rancid. It lured him to a bed—a rickety frame of warped wood, its mattress sagging like a hag's belly. He gripped the edge and flipped it up, revealing a trove beneath: clothes, crumpled and moldering, festering in the dark. A hoarder's lair? The find twisted stranger than he'd braced for—all women's garb, worn thin, unwashed, steeped in grime.

He tugged out a few pieces—skirts, blouses, their hems caked with mud still damp to the touch. Not even dry—worn fresh, then? His Mortician's Make-up skill kicked in, a grim gift from the black phone, sharpening his eye for flesh and form. Fingers traced the fabric's span—waist, shoulders, length—and a vision flickered: the woman cemented in the wall, her rigid silhouette. Bloody hell—the sizes match. Hers, dead-on.

Why's a corpse's wardrobe stashed here—and worn days ago? His heart thudded, a drumbeat of dread. He spilled the clothes onto the floor, and papers fluttered free—crumpled notes clinging to the damp threads. Scooping them up, he squinted in the phone's faint glow. Scrawled across each: "I love you"—sickly sweet declarations, smeared and faded.

This script… He fished the doll-notes from his pocket, holding them side by side. In the dim light, the strokes aligned—ninety percent kin, a ghostly echo across years. Dolls from five summers past, clothes dumped weeks ago—same hand, same sap? The gap yawned wide, yet the likeness screamed one culprit stitching both horrors.

He stooped to shove the clothes back—conceal the mess—when a glint tumbled from a pocket: a phone, cased in chipped pink. A phone? He snatched it, thumb brushing the screen awake. It glowed on a half-typed message: "Save me"—unfinished, stark. Ice slithered down his spine. He swiped back—rows of sent texts, all identical, two words carved in digital despair: "Save me! Save me! Save me!"—a litany stretching endless into the night.