My Healing Games

Chapter 634 The Serial Killer and the Redeemer

After hanging up the phone, the middle-aged woman walked towards the ground, as if there was some emergency.

After the middle-aged woman left, Han Fei, carrying his bag, looked down into the depths of the underground level.

The rooms on the basement level appear to have been bought by someone who must be a madman. He has written all sorts of incomprehensible words on the walls, filled with destruction and despair.

As Han Fei read those words, he explored deeper into their meaning.

The smell of formaldehyde in the air gradually intensified, and more and more bloodstains appeared on the ground. This basement, which resembled a crime scene, gave Han Fei an inexplicable sense of familiarity.

"As an actor or screenwriter, why would I be familiar with the smell of formaldehyde? Why would I be so familiar with murder scenes?"

Thinking about the stories he had written in his script, Han Fei felt even more confused: "What kind of person am I, really?"

Carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the ground, a normal person would definitely feel scared and panicked in such a situation.

However, Han Fei, a mental patient suffering from paranoia, did not have a relapse after entering such a bloody scene; instead, his breathing gradually became smoother.

He felt like a twisted contradiction, and the more he investigated, the more confused he became.

“My parents, whom I have no recollection of, handled the bodies underground and then transported them out… Dr. Fu said that recently there have been many unidentified corpses in the city, and the man who claimed to be my father happens to be a very good forensic doctor.”

"Could it be that my father and mother are psychopathic killers? Did I accidentally witness them committing murder, which is why I lost my memory?"

"Or perhaps they've been feeding me medication, causing me to forget my past? Turning me into a confused and delirious patient?"

No matter how you look at it, this house is incredibly terrifying.

"I'm living with a couple of serial killers, and they might not even be my parents!"

Han Fei had absolutely no concept of parents; he couldn't even find a starting point for his memories.

With various thoughts swirling in his mind, Han Fei walked through the bloodstains and arrived at the last room on the first basement level.

The door was locked, and upon closer inspection, blood could be seen seeping out from under the door crack.

"The blood has congealed. This bloody water was left by the mother cleaning the bloodstains in the crevices. It seems the primary crime scene should be in this room." Staring at the bloody water on the floor, Han Fei muttered to himself, "The bloodstains in the crevices can't be washed away with water; that would dissipate the bloodstains containing the victim's information. They should be collected little by little, and then treated with chemicals..."

Han Fei was startled by the thought that had crossed his mind: "Why would I know how to dispose of corpses?"

He lost all his memories, but his physical instincts remained, though sometimes those instincts were quite strange.

"Because I'm a screenwriter, I would consult similar materials?"

Han Fei, using his clothes as a cushion, gently pulled on the iron door, but the door to the room was locked and could not be opened.

"I probably won't go back to this horrible house this time. I need to figure these things out before I leave."

Looking around, Han Fei found a very thin wire, bent it into a suitable shape, and inserted it into the keyhole.

Han Fei originally just wanted to give it a try, but when he pressed his ear to the lock cylinder and listened to the sounds inside, his hands and brain worked together in perfect harmony, as if unlocking was a skill he was born with.

With the spring clip popping, he opened the dilapidated iron door on the basement level.

Looking at the opened iron gate, Han Fei himself was incredulous; he possessed an ability that most screenwriters didn't have.

Looking into the room, the scene before him had a great impact on Han Fei.

In the dark and oppressive room, there was a wooden table with a lot of manuscript paper and various pens scattered on it. The area under the table was soaked with blood.

Behind the wooden table were three shelves. One shelf was piled high with books, another with various specimen jars, and the last shelf held a variety of murder tools, including hand axes, daggers, ropes, and various medicines.

The wall directly in front of the wooden table was unpainted, but its surface was splattered with huge splashes of blood, as if someone had been killed there.

"Is this the devil's room? The desk faces the wall splattered with blood. Was the homeowner writing while watching the victim's corpse?"

The murder scene had been severely disturbed, and the air still smelled of pungent formaldehyde and an indescribable stench.

Han Fei slowly moved forward, and he realized something rather frightening: his body had actually become accustomed to the pungent odor.

A normal person would instinctively feel uncomfortable or even vomit upon smelling these things for the first time, but he only frowned slightly, which suggests that he may have frequently smelled these things before he lost his memory!

Why did I get used to it?

Walking to the desk, Han Fei picked up the unfinished script on the table, using his sleeves as padding.

"The sixth story—the tenant. That woman moved in in July. Her belly grew bigger every day, and her emotions became more and more unstable. She was irritable and easily angered, and she would argue with people every night. Sometimes I was curious. She lived alone on the sixth floor, so why was she always arguing with people at night?"

"I saw her a month later. She was in a very bad mental state and didn't want to take the elevator. Every day, she would walk up and down the stairs with her big pregnant belly, and she was always cursing something."

"She refused to associate with anyone, and the people in the neighborhood all thought she was sick, so they gradually stopped paying attention to her."

"The woman's arguing grew louder at night, but no one knew who she was arguing with. Many people guessed that she was on the phone arguing with the man who dumped her, but I felt that things were not that simple."

"The third time I met her was the day before she died."

"That night I wanted to go downstairs to buy a pack of cigarettes. When I passed the sixth floor, I heard noises coming from her house."

"I lingered at the entrance of the building for a while. The woman, who hadn't left the house for a long time, slowly crawled out of her room. Her face was so thin that she was skin and bones. She kept cursing something, and her neck was so withered that it seemed like there were only two skins left."

"As she slowly crawled out, I could hardly believe my eyes. I saw the woman's belly bulging high."

"This woman is not pregnant; there is not a person inside her."

The complete version of the script was on the desk, but Han Fei felt that there was more to the story. He glanced at the bloodstains on the floor and asked, "How did he know that she wasn't carrying a human?"

Han Fei gently put down the script, feeling a chill in his heart. He had seen the first half of the script in his room, and now the second half was on his desk. Did that mean that the original owner of this room was him?
Upon careful consideration, Han Fei felt as if his heart was about to leap out of his chest, and the veins on his forehead bulged.

Is there such a possibility?

Familiarity with formaldehyde and the stench of corpses, knowledge of lock picking and disposing of bodies, and even the urge to grab and swing knives at the sight of them on the shelf—all of this seems to point to one thing.

"I was actually the serial killer? And that couple were helping me dispose of the body?"

Han Fei has lost his previous memories; he cannot recall his past identity, but his keen insight and amazing physical instincts remain.

Destroying a body and covering up evidence is an extremely difficult task. It would take an ordinary person a long time to figure out the steps involved, but the moment he saw the bloodstains, his mind automatically simulated various methods to clear his name of the crime.

"So skilled, it doesn't seem like this is your first time. Me, the serial killer?"

Carrying a bag full of scripts, Han Fei stood there, nothing could have had a greater impact on him than this incident.

"But if I am a serial killer, then why was that couple disposing of the body?"

"Did they already know what I was doing, and gradually use drugs to make me lose my memory, trying to change me?"

"My parents helped me dispose of the body, giving me a second chance to start over despite my amnesia? From that perspective, they really are the best people in the world to me, but..."

Han Fei clenched his hands: "If I really killed someone, if I am truly guilty, I would rather be punished myself than let them do such a thing. This is my true thought at this moment."

"If I have such thoughts, why would I do such a thing?"

Contradictions. Han Fei was in a state of profound contradiction. He had forgotten everything. It seemed as if many souls had once existed in his mind, each wanting to paint their own image on a blank canvas.

With his sleeves padded, Han Fei pushed open the door to the inner room. He was really professional; he left no fingerprints or shoe prints and made no sound when he walked.

An even stronger stench wafted from the inner room, where some theatrical costumes were displayed.

The first costume was the uniform of the orphanage, which was very worn and had been slashed in many places with a knife.

Upon closer inspection, a crumpled piece of paper fell out of a shallow pocket of the clothes.

The crumpled paper looked like it had been torn from a script; the writing on it was distorted and blurry, completely different from the text on a regular script, as if it belonged to a different person.

"At 12:01 a.m. on Monday, a child who had escaped from the orphanage died. The cause of death was suffocation. I remember his face as he died; it was dark purple. He struggled until the very end, like a bird whose wings had been grabbed. I knew he could never fly away from this world again because someone had torn off his wings."

The writing on the crumpled paper was stained with blood, as if the murderer had written it at the crime scene.

"Every time someone is killed, it needs to be recorded?"

Han Fei then looked at the second garment, a tattered rag doll coat, which was different from the one he had worn before and was more slender. There was also a note hidden inside this garment.

"One Tuesday night, a young man finished his night shift and the ghost-hunting party at the amusement park. He wanted to rest after work, but he couldn't get rid of his skin. The cause of death was suffocation. I guess he must have been very scared when he was enveloped in darkness, but I am no longer scared."

Putting away the note, Han Fei looked at the third outfit, a clown costume covered in various colors, complete with a hat and mask.

The size of this outfit is exactly the same as Han Fei's, as if it were tailor-made for him.

As Han Fei reached for the note, before he could get close, the clown's mask suddenly fell to the ground.

It was a somewhat frightening smiling mask; the clown was laughing so hard it was almost hysterical.

Han Fei found a note behind the mask and looked at the blood-red words on it.

"Sunday nights are lively. I like to walk alone on the street, letting everyone see my smile, and then I collect their smiles. I've always wanted to be someone who can heal all pain and despair, but unfortunately, I haven't even cured my own illness. Shh, don't look back. Guess what's on my face under the mask—am I crying or laughing?"

The last piece of clothing seemed to belong to Han Fei. He always felt as if he had worn this piece of clothing and done many things while wearing it.

"The people claiming to be my parents don't fit this outfit at all in terms of height and build. Thinking about it that way, they're even less likely to be the owners of this room." Han Fei covered his forehead: "Could I really be a psychopathic killer?"

In his extreme confusion, Han Fei recalled the words Fu Tian's mother had said, and he remembered the scene when that woman met him.

"wrong!"

Han Fei's eyes changed again: "At least in that woman's eyes, I am a brave and kind person who pursues fairness and justice and is not afraid of fate. She thinks I am the best husband and father in the world. This is the highest praise I can think of."

The things in the room contrasted sharply with what the woman had said. It was as if the amnesiac Han Fei had been torn apart, half of him sunny and gentle, and half of him twisted and crazy.

Which one is the real me?

Unable to recall his past, Han Fei, suffering from amnesia, needs to redefine himself: is he a psychopathic killer, the real murderer of serial murders, or an innocent good person who has been dragged into this mess?

"What should I be like as a living, breathing human being?"

(End of this chapter)