From the moment I first touched a real gun, I knew there was a chance I’d end up crossing paths with the authorities—and deep down, part of me was actually looking forward to it.

  I just never expected them to show up so soon. And I certainly never imagined reality would mirror the nightmare I’d had so closely.

  That girl—a serial killer? Was it true?

  Fear and exhilaration pounded wildly in my chest at the same time.

  Maybe my control over my facial expression slipped for a second, because the officer in front of me raised an eyebrow and asked, “What’s wrong? Do you recognize this face?”

  “No, it’s just… I mean…”

  “You mean?”

  “A girl this young… being a serial killer?” I let some of the genuine disbelief I’d felt earlier bleed into my voice.

  “Oh, about that…” He nodded as if he’d heard it before. “Other people have asked the same thing. Apparently she picked up a handgun from somewhere. Rebellious teenage phase—kids that age can get extreme ideas, stop valuing their own lives or anyone else’s. She’s got resentment toward adults and society, gets her hands on a real gun, and suddenly the psychological and physical risk of something going wrong skyrockets.”

  “She can really be classified as a murderer for that?” I probed.

  “If the circumstances are especially severe… yeah.” He didn’t seem interested in elaborating further. “You can look it up online yourself later. So—have you seen her or not? Does the face ring any bells? She’s been spotted in this area; she poses a serious threat to the safety of nearby residents. The sooner we catch her, the better. There’s even a cash reward for useful tips.”

  A reward for reporting her; severe criminal liability for harboring her. I understood the stakes perfectly. It might not be life imprisonment like in the dream, but it would still ruin my future beyond repair.

  Last night, during the first half of carrying her, I’d deliberately avoided pedestrians and street cameras. The second half, I’d put her inside a large suitcase. Logically, it shouldn’t have been easy to trace me. But I’m no seasoned criminal mastermind—I couldn’t swear with absolute certainty that I’d dodged every single camera. There might be some blind spot I overlooked that caught me after all. The possibility of the police connecting the dots was real.

  Maybe this officer already had incriminating evidence on me and was giving me one last chance to come clean before it was too late. Maybe I should just admit I’d been foolish for a moment and hand the dangerous girl over right now.

  But after finally stumbling into something so far outside the bounds of ordinary life—after coming this far—did I really want to end this mysterious encounter on such a pathetic, goody-two-shoes note? I hadn’t even heard her story yet!

  There were still so many inexplicable details surrounding her. The explanation “a rebellious teen who somehow got her hands on a real gun” was nowhere near enough to satisfy my curiosity. Once I turned her in, I’d lose any chance of staying involved in this bizarre affair forever.

  I couldn’t hand her over. Not yet—not until I was satisfied.

  Facing the officer’s question, I pretended to think hard for a moment before answering, “I don’t think I’ve seen her.”

  “All right… sorry to take up your time.” He showed no surprise or disappointment—just closed the door for me with practiced courtesy. “If you do spot her later, call the police immediately.”

  “Got it.”

  I replied in a perfectly normal tone, shut the door, and immediately pressed my ear to it to listen.

  The officer’s footsteps moved to the next apartment. Another knock. It seemed he was going door-to-door on this floor—probably planning to canvass the whole building.

  I vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that in the modern era, over ninety percent of solved cases are cracked through old-fashioned legwork like this—talking to people and checking surveillance footage.

  Just to be safe, I didn’t go straight back to the bedroom to talk to the girl. Instead I picked up my phone from beside the sofa, returned to the entryway, and while quietly monitoring the officer’s movements outside, I started searching for recent serial-killer cases in Saltwater City.

  Sure enough, there was one.

  Over the past two or three months, five bodies had been discovered in the city center, each in horrifying condition. All the victims were high-status officials or wealthy individuals.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Media coverage appeared to be tightly controlled; the articles I could find didn’t specify causes of death, and there were no photos or detailed descriptions of the “gruesome states” of the corpses. All that was mentioned was that fibers and skin tissue not belonging to the victims had been recovered from under their fingernails—presumably scratched off the killer during their final struggles. DNA and other evidence confirmed all five murders were committed by the same person.

  The killer’s true identity remained unknown. The upper class was living in terror, afraid of becoming the next victim.

  The story rang a faint bell. I’d seen it last month and briefly considered looking into it myself, but at the time I’d been preoccupied with other ghost stories and urban legends, so I hadn’t paid much attention to this local gore-fest.

  I’d assumed it was just another resentful psycho targeting the rich and that the police would catch them soon enough. Yet months later, there was still no progress.

  Was that mysterious girl the perpetrator?

  Something didn’t add up. If the victims had been shot, it wouldn’t be described as “horrifying condition.”

  Of course, if all five had their heads blown off by a handgun, that would be different—but in that case, would there really be time for the victims to claw at their attacker during their death throes, and multiple times at that? With a pistol’s range, it wasn’t realistic for victims to get close enough for hand-to-hand contact anyway.

  Still… you couldn’t rule it out completely. Maybe her aim was terrible and she needed to be within arm’s reach to hit anything. Or maybe she killed with her bare hands and feet—just like the joint lock she’d used on me earlier.

  And the officer had explicitly identified her as the killer. Plus, even though she’d been dressed like a victim, she herself had shown no injuries whatsoever.

  If she really was the murderer, then what I was doing right now…

  No—hold on. Too few clues. Jumping to conclusions was premature.

  Better to ask her directly and see how she reacted.

  —

  Once I was sure the officer had finished canvassing the floor, I retrieved the pistol from behind the sofa, disengaged the safety, walked to the bedroom, and pushed the door open.

  The girl was sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms folded, eyes closed in what looked like meditation. She seemed completely unbothered by how little her torn hospital gown covered.

  She appeared to have stayed put the whole time, but I noticed tiny signs that various parts of the room had been disturbed. While I was talking to the police, she must have quietly searched the bedroom, trying to learn more about me.

  At the sound of the door, her lowered head snapped up. She quickly scanned behind me to make sure no one else was there, then fixed her gaze on me, confusion written all over her face.

  “Why are you hiding me?” Her brows knitted tightly, her tone thick with suspicion. “You heard it too, right? I’m supposedly a vicious serial killer. If you’re just an ordinary citizen, shouldn’t the logical thing be to turn me in?”

  “So are you a murderer?” I asked in return.

  “I’m not.” She denied it firmly at first, then hesitated, suddenly unsure of her own answer. “…Am I?”

  “Yes or no. I’d like a clear answer.”

  “It’s both yes and no.” Her wording remained vague, but her tone grew firm. “At the very least, I haven’t killed anyone in this era.”

  “That makes no sense,” I said. “Are you trying to tell me you’re from the future?”

  “Answer my original question first.” Her voice hardened as she tried to seize control of the conversation again. “Why are you hiding me?”

  I had no intention of getting into a power struggle with her. I’d already prepared my response and delivered it smoothly: “Because you’re not the killer.”

  “What makes you say that?” She looked skeptical.

  “The victims weren’t killed by gunshot wounds.” I tossed my phone—still open to the news page—onto the bed for her to see, then continued. “Besides, I don’t think the real killer of this case would end up collapsed in ruins at night, covered in blood like a victim.”

  That was a lie. While I hadn’t seen direct proof she was the murderer, I’d already mentally prepared myself for the possibility—and even, to some extent, for the possibility of quietly disposing of her if necessary.

  She pressed on relentlessly: “Even if you don’t believe I’m the killer, there’s still no reason to hide me. Whether I am or not, the fact remains that I’m illegally possessing a firearm and ammunition in this era. The right thing for you to do is tell the police.”

  “Didn’t I already explain? You told me not to call them.” As I spoke, I walked slowly over to the desk, set the pistol down on it, then turned to face her. “I don’t know what your circumstances are, but since it involves a gun, whatever secret you’re carrying must be life-or-death.

  “To me, you’re just a girl who collapsed in the dark, barely clothed. Wanting to step up and protect you… is that really so strange?”

  Maybe my carefully rehearsed lines came on too strong, because she recoiled to the corner of the bed as if scalded, swallowed hard, and stared at me in disbelief. “J-just… just for that reason?”

  At this point, I had to see the performance through to the end, no matter how forced it felt.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “How is this possible… Do people in this era really…” She faltered unexpectedly, visibly shaken.

  I’d thought I’d need to talk her around more, but somehow she seemed to believe me already.

  But what did she mean by “this era” versus “that era”? Was she just chuunibyou—playing at being a special snowflake—or did she actually have a backstory beyond anything I could imagine?

  Before I could voice my confusion, she steadied herself, studied me for a long moment, then slightly relaxed her guarded posture and introduced herself.

  “My name is Alice. A as in sesame seed, L-I as in breakfast.” (In her language, the characters she used for her name carried those meanings.)

  “I’m Z. Z as in solemn, Cheng as in success.”

  Alice seemed to reach some important internal decision.

  She straightened her posture, sat formally on the bed with her hands resting on her knees.

  “All right, Z… Next, I’m going to tell you who I really am and where I come from. I know you probably won’t believe me, but please—just hear me out first.”

  She was finally going to come clean?

  Wasn’t this happening a little too fast? Was she about to tell the truth, or spin a lie to deceive me?

  Filled with anticipation, I nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Just as you guessed earlier, I don’t belong to this era. I’ve traveled here from the future.” Her opening line hit like a thunderclap. “And in the future, human civilization has already been destroyed. The world has entered the age of the apocalypse.”