Pitter-patter!
Raindrops the size of beans drummed sharply against the shelter of the bus stop, producing a crisp, rhythmic sound.
Beneath the canopy, Wen Yiqian stared vacantly into the curtain of rain, his mind tirelessly working to devise a solution.
The protagonist in his novel was a depraved genius, entirely devoid of moral compass. Whenever he needed money, he simply "took some" from others—be it from passersby or directly from shops and banks.
But Wen Yiqian in reality—if he saw someone drop a wallet, he'd immediately pick it up and return it, the very picture of an upstanding citizen.
To extort money from others? He simply couldn't bring himself to do it.
He glanced around. Because of the rain, the people waiting for the bus had mostly dispersed. Besides him, only an elderly woman and a little girl remained.
The girl carried a small schoolbag, her hair tied into twin ponytails. Her skin was pale and delicate, her face adorably sweet.
The elderly woman beside her looked gaunt and ashen, her expression hollow—as though she had just suffered a blow too great to bear. Her eyes were devoid of light.
"Grandma, why did the police take Mommy away? Is Mommy a bad person?" the little girl looked up and asked, "And where did Daddy go?"
The grandmother's eyes turned red. She gently stroked the child's head but said nothing.
Not far away, Wen Yiqian was taken aback.
Could they be… Xu Xuanmei's mother and daughter?
They likely had just come from the police station as well, waiting here for a bus.
He remembered now—in the novel, Xu Xuanmei indeed had a daughter. After killing her husband, she had called her own mother to fetch the child from kindergarten.
These two characters didn't even have names in his book. Mere background figures.
Yet here they were—alive, real, heartbreaking in their humanity.
Wen Yiqian looked at the frail old woman and felt a pang of sorrow.
"To lose a son-in-law at the hands of your own daughter... anyone would be broken by such a blow."
But then he chuckled bitterly to himself.
"You've got enough on your own plate. Maybe try pitying yourself first?"
He shook his head in self-mockery.
He wasn't doing much better—exhausted, hungry, his right hand wrapped in bandages, without a cent to his name. Not even enough to pay for a ride home.
Due to the character's backstory, the protagonist was an orphan. In this world, Wen Yiqian had no relatives. He didn't even know how he'd make it through tomorrow.
His nose stung. His eyes grew misty.
Others who crossed into novels became gods among men. But on day one, he'd nearly died, and now he was reduced to this wretched state.
And the future could easily grow even darker.
The more he thought, the more wronged he felt. He tilted his head toward the sky, trying to hold back tears—only to finally break down.
"Grandma, that big brother is crying!" the little girl tugged on her grandmother's sleeve. "So old and still crying—shame on him!"
"Mind your own business!" Wen Yiqian completely gave up and burst into loud sobs.
"Bleh!" the little girl stuck out her tongue at him defiantly.
"Xiangxiang, behave."
Even the old woman couldn't bear to watch him like this. After a pause, she gently asked, "Young man, what's wrong? Are you in trouble? Tell me—maybe I can help."
Her warm, maternal tone only made Wen Yiqian cry harder. He crouched down, weeping uncontrollably.
Nothing breaks a person crying from sorrow quite like unexpected kindness. It's like an emotional dam has burst—unstoppable.
"You're still young. There's no hardship you can't overcome. Unlike me… these old bones might not survive this time." The old woman, clearly touched by grief herself, began sobbing as well.
And so, under the dim glow of the bus shelter, a surreal scene unfolded.
An old woman and a young man took turns crying, as if competing over whose sorrow was deeper.
Only the little girl stood beside them, confused and helpless against the storm of adult emotion.
Who am I? Where am I? What on earth is going on?
…
Inside a fast food restaurant, Wen Yiqian gnawed every last morsel of meat from a chicken drumstick. He wiped his mouth and gave a contented burp.
"Had enough, young man? Would you like to order more?" the elderly woman across from him asked with gentle concern.
"No, thank you. I'm already deeply grateful for this meal." Wen Yiqian shook his head sincerely.
Xiangxiang, seated beside her grandmother, made a dramatic imitation of someone crying, dragging her fingers down her cheeks.
Wen Yiqian flushed with embarrassment as he recalled his earlier breakdown.
For a protagonist to disgrace himself so thoroughly—perhaps that too was a kind of talent.
"It's alright. I should be thanking you," the old woman chuckled kindly. "If I hadn't cried my heart out with you, I might not have made it through this day."
She glanced out the window. "It's getting late, and the rain's stopped. Time we headed home."
As they stepped out of the restaurant, Wen Yiqian looked up and saw that the rain had indeed ceased. A breath of relief escaped his lips.
Perhaps, even in the world he'd created, not every rainstorm heralded the arrival of a serial killer.
"Young man," the old woman said, patting his shoulder, "I don't know what hardship you're facing, but you're still young—stay hopeful." She then pressed a hundred-yuan bill into his hand. "I know you've no money. Take this to get home."
Wen Yiqian felt a warmth bloom in his chest. He wanted to offer heartfelt thanks, but words failed him. He simply replied with conviction, "Please consider this a loan. May I have your phone number? I'll pay you back."
"No need." The old woman waved him off with a smile, hailing a cab and guiding Xiangxiang toward the open door. "Xiangxiang, aren't you going to say goodbye to big brother?"
"Fine," Xiangxiang sighed, exasperated. "Goodbye, crybaby big brother."
She stuck out her tongue at him again before hopping into the backseat.
"Manners," the old woman murmured, shaking her head. She gave Wen Yiqian a final wave before getting in herself.
The taxi pulled away. Wen Yiqian turned, ready to leave.
Then, his entire body froze.
His head snapped back toward the receding vehicle, eyes widening in disbelief.
Just a glance—pure instinct—at the taxi driver had made his blood run cold.
A red mask. A tattoo creeping up the neck. A cartoon smiley sticker on the back of his right hand gripping the wheel.
These details struck him as painfully familiar.
Had they been described in words, he would've recognized them instantly.
But seen on a living person, it took a moment to click.
And now—too late—those traits aligned perfectly in his mind with a figure from the novel.
A killer.
A true, irredeemable, deranged killer.
Staring after the shrinking taxi, Wen Yiqian stood motionless, as a chill gripped his soul.
Whoosh—
The rain began to fall again.