Working late, pulling an all-nighter for a project, a message suddenly popped up in the “Future Millionairesses Club” chat. “Girls, I snagged four tickets to a ‘Mystery Bachelor Speed Dating’ party! Let’s go!” No sooner had Scarlett sent the message than Melody and Audrey quickly responded: “Count us in! Scarlett’s picks are always top-tier – handsome, rich CEOs, lives of luxury, here we come!” The group chat erupted in cheers. I sighed, glancing at the half-finished project. “My client needs this proposal by noon tomorrow. I’m only halfway done…” The chat fell silent for a moment, then, with unspoken agreement, they changed the subject. By the time I finished the proposal, it was 3:30 AM. I grabbed a quick bite downstairs and collapsed into bed, falling into a deep sleep. My next conscious moment was being jolted awake by a banging on my door. It was the police. “Ms. Huxley, you’re suspected of murder. Please come with us.” 1 My phone vibrated incessantly. I’d set it to do not disturb, then went back to revising the proposal. A few minutes later, Scarlett messaged me privately: “Hazel, the guys at tonight’s party are all incredibly handsome, young, and loaded – absolute bachelors. This is our one shot at a life of luxury! I worked so hard to get these tickets, are you really not coming?” I looked at the proposal, then at the message my boss had sent minutes earlier: “If I don’t get a satisfactory proposal by noon tomorrow, you’re fired.” Sighing, I replied to Scarlett: “I really can’t make it. I can’t gamble my job on something so uncertain.” I finished with two pleading, sad emojis. A life of luxury sounded nice, but I didn't think I was cut out for it. I was meant to be a diligent worker bee, pouring my sweat and blood into my job, shining for the company. Scarlett’s chat bubble showed “typing…” for a while. Three minutes later, she finally sent just one word: “Okay.” I finally finished the proposal at 3:30 AM. Their last messages in the group chat were from 2:30 AM. I scrolled up through the 99+ notifications, seeing them, clad in their party outfits, getting into taxis headed for a “private luxury yacht” at the harbor. I bought some bread and milk from the convenience store downstairs. After eating, I passed out completely. I was in a deep, dreamless sleep when a loud banging on my door roused me. “What’s going on? An earthquake?” I scrambled out of bed, my mind still foggy, when a stern voice from outside the door spoke. “Is Ms. Huxley home? This is the Elm Street Precinct. We need your cooperation with an investigation.” I slipped on my slippers, my hair a mess, and opened the door to find three or four officers standing outside my apartment. The lead officer was a lean, middle-aged man. Seeing me, he held up his badge. “Ms. Huxley, good morning. I’m from the Elm Street Precinct. My name is Detective Prescott. You are suspected of homicide. Please come with us.” Other residents in the hallway, alerted by the commotion, opened their doors and peered out. “Can you believe it? Ms. Huxley, who looks so harmless, is a murderer?” “Right? You never know! Good thing the police caught her. Living next to a killer, that’s terrifying.” “…” Listening to my neighbors, my brows furrowed deeply. My sleep, interrupted after an all-nighter, left me inexplicably irritable. “Detective Prescott, even the police need evidence to make an arrest, don’t they? Without proof, how can you say I’ve committed murder?” Hearing my words, Detective Prescott gestured to a younger officer behind him. The officer immediately pulled out his phone and displayed several photos. My lingering irritation from being woken up vanished the moment I saw those pictures. A sharp ringing erupted in my ears. The officers kept talking, but I couldn’t hear a word, my gaze fixed on the screen, my eyes welling up with tears. In the photos, Scarlett lay naked, her body covered in countless shattered mirror fragments, amidst a pool of blood. Each fragment reflected her distorted, painful, and despairing face. 2 “Hazel Huxley, please come with us.” Detective Prescott’ expression was grim as he stared at me. The officers behind him watched me warily, as if I might try to flee. But I was fixated on that photograph, tears silently streaming down my face. She was alive and well last night. Why was she a cold corpse today? At the precinct, Detective Prescott sat across from me, his face impassive. “According to our investigation, the deceased’s last phone call was to you. Her last transaction was a transfer to you. And the button clutched in her hand? We found your fingerprints on it. All the evidence at the scene points to you, Hazel Huxley. Do you have anything to explain? For instance, where were you, and what were you doing, between 3 AM and 6 AM?” This was the eighth time Detective Prescott had asked me. I placed my phone on the table, displaying my chat history in the “Future Millionairesses” group. “Detective Prescott, I’ve already told you. Last night, they invited me to a ‘Mystery Bachelor Speed Dating’ party. I declined because I had to finish a proposal at home. Look, at 3:30 AM, I even sent the proposal to my boss.” I switched my phone to my conversation with my boss. The timestamp showed I had indeed sent a version of the proposal at 3:30 AM. “As for after 3:30 AM, once I finished the proposal, I felt a bit hungry, so I went downstairs to the convenience store to grab something to eat. After eating, I was so tired I just went to sleep. I must have fallen asleep around 4 AM. If you don’t believe me, the convenience store downstairs should have surveillance footage. Failing that, you can ask the store owner to testify.” Detective Prescott glanced at my phone. “Half an hour ago, we already checked. The store owner did see you, but he can’t remember what time he saw you last night. And most importantly, the store owner’s surveillance equipment is quite old. The timestamp on his footage from last night shows November 28th, 3:31 PM, but today is only November 23rd. In other words, his equipment can’t prove anything for you.” My only alibi was useless due to incorrect timestamps. A wave of despair washed over me, and I simply gave up. “Since you’ve already decided I’m the killer, why ask so many questions? Just arrest me.” A tense silence fell over the interrogation room. Just as I expected Detective Prescott to make the arrest, he sighed. “It’s precisely because the evidence at the scene is so overwhelmingly conclusive that we don’t believe you’re the killer.” “Then why am I here…?” I didn’t finish my sentence as Detective Prescott’ phone rang urgently. He answered, and whatever he heard caused his face to change dramatically. He suddenly stood up. His chair scraped back, clattering to the floor. “What… what happened?” Seeing Detective Prescott’ uncharacteristic agitation, a premonition of dread settled in my stomach. After hanging up, Detective Prescott looked at me with a complex expression. “Hazel Huxley, I hear you publish a novel on a certain writing website? Are you the author?” “Yes,” I nodded, feeling a pang of anxiety. How could this case be connected to my novel? Just as that thought crossed my mind, Detective Prescott spoke slowly. “Scarlett Price’s autopsy report is back. She died around 4 AM on the 23rd, from massive blood loss and emotional collapse. The wounds on her body were peculiar – shattered glass fragments meticulously embedded in a radial pattern. Doesn’t that passage sound familiar?” He spoke the last sentence softly. As his words hung in the air, he placed his phone in front of me. “Countless shattered mirror fragments embedded in her skin like diamonds, transforming her into a walking kaleidoscope, a vanity dying by her own reflection.” I stared blankly at the line of text, suddenly realizing it was a sentence from my ongoing mystery novel, serialized on that website. The chapter was published at 3 AM on the 23rd. While the content was newly released, I had designed this particular scene three months ago. “Hazel Huxley, think again. Is there anything you’ve overlooked? While we believe you, all current evidence points to you as the killer.” “Right now, only you can save yourself.” 3 Anything I’d overlooked? I stared blankly at the content on Detective Prescott’ phone. I used to be so proud of such a brilliant idea… But now, a single sentence from my novel had seemingly led to the death of my best friend. Slumping in the chair, feeling utterly lost, Scarlett’s horrific death played over and over in my mind, along with her message from last night: “Hazel, the guys at this party are all incredible – handsome, rich, absolute bachelors…” She was still thinking of me, even in her last moments, and yet I had, in some way, caused her death. Guilt and self-reproach washed over me, a dull ache in my chest. I clutched my head with both hands, but nothing came to mind. After finishing work last night, I’d seen them, dressed in their party outfits, heading to the luxury yacht… Right, the luxury yacht… With that thought, I abruptly looked up at Detective Prescott. “They said last night they were going to a luxurious private yacht at the harbor. Maybe that yacht is the key. We should…” “We’ve checked all the surveillance footage around the harbor. There’s no sign of any luxury yacht, nor did we see your friends going to the harbor.” Before I could finish, Detective Prescott poured cold water on my idea. So they were tricked? If they were lured out, it must be murder, premeditated by the killer. Using my novel content was merely a tactic to find a scapegoat. If that’s the case, then… the killer must have read my novel! After I relayed my thoughts to Detective Prescott, he was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, there was a hint of resignation in his tone. “We’ve already had people investigate what you’re suggesting. As you said, your content was set to auto-publish at 3 AM, and Scarlett Price’s time of death was around 4 AM. That means the killer is hiding among the readers who purchased that chapter between 3 AM and 4 AM.” “But after our technical team checked, we didn’t find any unusual accounts.” The lead went cold again. I anxiously picked up and put down my phone several times, then carefully said, “I have a theory. Don’t you think the killer might be murdering people according to the scenarios I publish? If so, then the next two chapters…” “What are the next chapters?” Detective Prescott gave me a peculiar look, as if surprised that a young woman like me could devise such twisted scenarios. I cleared my throat, opened my author dashboard, and showed him the two unpublished chapters. The next two chapters were “The Performer Dies by the Audience” and “The Collector Dies by Their Collection.” Detective Prescott stared at them for a long time, then suddenly stepped out to make a call. Three minutes later, he returned. Detective Prescott wearily massaged his temples, staring at my novel’s content. “If that’s the case, then at 3 AM on the 24th, the killer might strike again.” I nodded. Then I heard him continue, “Since you’re the author, imagine yourself as the victim. How would you escape? Or, think about the loopholes in the scenarios you designed. Perhaps we can use those loopholes to track the killer.” Loopholes? I crossed my arms, leaned back in the chair, my brows deeply furrowed. Loopholes… When I designed this part, it was to grab readers’ attention, creating a twisted serial killer case. This serial killer specifically targeted single women, but each time before striking, he would find an excuse, saying that modern women were hypocritical, materialistic, and greedy… For example, the girl in the story, beautiful and capable, was chosen because the killer had once been rejected by a pretty girl, so he hated pretty girls. Thus, he chose “Death Kaleidoscope” as her method of death, embedding shattered glass into her body, scarring her face, leaving her to die in despair. But this design had a huge loophole. The loophole was… 4 Just as a faint idea formed in my mind, I heard urgent footsteps outside. Immediately, the young officer who followed Detective Prescott knocked on the door. “Chief, new intel.” Detective Prescott pushed the door open and stepped out. Through the door, I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I saw the young officer’s expression was grim, and upon hearing his words, Detective Prescott’ face completely changed. A few minutes later, Detective Prescott pushed the door open and came back in, his face terrifyingly dark. “Melody Chen is dead.” “What?” I shot up from my chair, looking at Detective Prescott in disbelief. “How is that possible? My next two chapters haven’t even been published yet, how could Melody die? How did she die? Is it like the plot I designed in my novel?” Detective Prescott gravely nodded at me. “Ten minutes ago, our team detected Melody Chen’s account going online. Immediately after, she started a livestream, but by the time the camera focused on her, she had already stopped breathing.” “We dispatched officers to the scene, Melody Chen’s home, but the killer had already escaped. We investigated all surveillance footage in the surrounding area but found nothing. The killer seems intimately familiar with her home’s layout, cleverly evading all cameras.” “And there’s something else peculiar…” Here, Detective Prescott gave me a strange look. “Our team found that all the fill lights at the scene were set to maximum brightness and couldn’t be turned off. And the victim’s phone, computer, backup phone, and four other devices were simultaneously looping a compilation of her past livestream ‘disasters.’” He paused after saying that, then continued, “I recall a line in your novel, where the serial killer, after murdering an internet streamer, said something like this:” “Let the performer be killed by incessant scrutiny in the replay of their own failures.” Seven devices simultaneously playing Melody’s past livestream ‘disaster moments’ exactly matched the content of my novel – letting her die in the replay of her own failures… A chill ran down my spine. It was as if an unseen hand had been laying out this plan long before any of us realized. “Detective Prescott, speaking of loopholes, something just occurred to me…” “What is it?” “I’ve written many mystery novels and designed many killers, but they all share a common trait. All serial killers take photos as mementos of their ‘masterpieces,’ and sometimes even return to the scene. The photos of Scarlett you showed me today, are you certain all of them were taken by your team?” Detective Prescott froze at my words. The person who called 911 this morning was an elderly cleaning woman, wearing a brightly colored cap. Because it was raining, she was also wearing a thick raincoat. When the officers arrived, the cleaning woman was waiting by the entrance, and upon seeing them, she even sent them a photo of the scene: “Young man, you wouldn’t believe it, that young lady bled so much, it was horrifying, take a look…” After sending them the photo, when they tried to find the cleaning woman again, she had vanished without a trace. Now that I thought about it, the cleaning woman’s height and build didn’t seem like a woman’s at all; it was more like… a man’s! So, the person who called 911 this morning could very well be the killer themselves?! Realizing this possibility, Detective Prescott quickly found the photo sent by the “cleaning woman.” He zoomed in frame by frame, and suddenly noticed something in a shattered mirror fragment on the victim’s neck. In that mirror fragment, vaguely reflected was an eye, with a mole at the corner of it. Upon discovering the clue, Detective Prescott immediately called the young officer, but when the call connected, the other party spoke urgently: “Chief, our team found Audrey Stone! She’s alive!”
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