Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

In the courtyard, a thin coffin rested under the mourning tent.

The coffin was the cheapest kind, the planks so thin they let light through, painted with a cheap layer of black lacquer, some parts of which were already peeling off. Yan Jiecheng lay inside, covered with a white sheet, only his pale face visible. His face had been powdered by the Third Aunt, trying to conceal his deathly aura, but it only made him look more eerie.

Liu Haizhong, his belly protruding, stood in front of the mourning tent directing: "Guangtian, arrange the wreaths! Jiefang, go burn some paper money! Lao Yan, is there anything else we need to prepare?"

Yan Bugui sat on a small stool to the side, holding a small notebook and keeping accounts. Every time someone brought him a gift of money, he would record it: Aunt Wang, 50 cents; Uncle Li, 30 cents; Sister Zhang, 1 yuan…

"Old Liu, that's about it," Yan Bugui pushed up his glasses. "Everyone who was supposed to come has come. We collected a total of sixty-eight yuan and thirty cents. The funeral arrangements cost thirty-seven yuan and twenty cents, so we still have thirty-one yuan and one cent left."

He spoke calmly, as if he were calculating the cost of groceries, not his son's funeral. The old woman listened nearby, tears welling up again, but she didn't dare cry out loud. She knew her husband's temper; crying now would only earn her a scolding for being "insensible."

"Old Yan, you..." Liu Haizhong wanted to say something, but when he saw Yan Bugui's calculating face, he swallowed his words.

Everyone else in the courtyard was helping, but they were all distracted. Their eyes kept glancing towards the gate, where two policemen were standing guard; their ears were perked up, listening for any sounds outside. Everyone was thinking: Who will be next?

Sha Zhu was helping move tables and chairs, his movements mechanical, his eyes vacant. He hadn't slept well for the past few nights; every time he closed his eyes, he saw Yan Jiecheng lying in a pool of blood. So close, right at the courtyard gate, right under the noses of the police. How did Chen Feng do that? How dare he?

"Zhu Zi, be careful!" Liu Guangtian shouted.

Sha Zhu snapped out of his daze and realized he had almost knocked the table over. He steadied himself and continued working, but his hands were still trembling slightly.

Xu Damao's mourning tent hadn't been dismantled yet, and now Yan Jiecheng's had joined in. Two mourning tents stood in the courtyard, two coffins, white cloth curtains fluttering in the cold wind like banners summoning souls. The air was thick with the smell of incense and death, making it hard to breathe.

Yan Jiefang squatted in front of his brother's coffin, burning paper money. The firelight illuminated his young face, which showed sadness, but even more so, fear. He remembered how his brother had died—a deep gash on his neck, his eyes wide open, unable to close in death.

Could I be next?

Yan Jiefang shivered and threw a few more pieces of paper money into the fire. The flames leaped up, casting flickering light and shadow on his face.

Inside the police station, Officer Zhang's office was filled with smoke.

Several case files were spread out on the table: the Qin Huairu case, the Jia Dongxu case, the Director Wang case, the Xu Damao case, and now the Yan Jiecheng case. Five cases, five lives (including Yi Zhonghai's hand), but almost no leads.

"Captain Zhang, the on-site investigation report is out." A young police officer pushed open the door and came in, looking tired.

"How so?"

"Same as always," the young police officer said, placing the report on the table. "A single slit to the throat, instant death. The weapon was likely a kitchen knife or a similar blade. No fingerprints, no footprints, no eyewitnesses. The killer was very professional and clean."

Officer Zhang took a deep drag on his cigarette, remaining silent. He knew Chen Feng's profession well—not the kind of profession that came from formal training, but a profession born of hatred. When a person's mind is consumed by nothing but the thought of revenge, they become exceptionally calm, exceptionally cruel, and exceptionally cunning.

"What about the witnesses? What did Jia Zhangshi say?"

"She said she didn't see anything or hear anything," the young police officer said with a wry smile. "But we found a crack in her window that allowed her to see right up to the gate. She definitely saw it, but she was too afraid to say anything."

"Why are you afraid to speak up?"

"We're scared," the young police officer said. "We're afraid of Chen Feng's retaliation. Everyone in the compound is scared now; nobody wants to be the first to stick their neck out."

Zhang Gong'an stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast; it looked like it was going to snow again.

"We're short-handed," he sighed. "Five cases, five crime scenes. We need to investigate, conduct interviews, set up surveillance, and protect potential targets. Our department only has so many people; it's simply not enough."

"The bureau chief said that we can call on the joint defense team and activists," the young police officer said. "The street office also agreed to send a few more people."

"The joint defense team?" Officer Zhang shook his head. "Those people are fine at catching petty thieves, but dealing with Chen Feng? They'd be lucky if they didn't get killed instead."

But he also knew that this was a last resort. With insufficient police manpower, they had to rely on the masses. Mobilizing the public and deploying a city-wide control system was the only viable strategy at the moment.

"Alright," said Officer Zhang. "Notify the street office to send a few more reliable activists to assist us with patrols. Key areas: around the courtyard houses, around the steel mill, and near the black market."

"yes!"

After the young police officer left, Officer Zhang sat down again and opened the case file of Yan Jiecheng. He looked at the photos of the scene—the pool of blood at the gate of the courtyard, Yan Jiecheng's wide-eyed eyes, and the kitchen knife lying on the ground (later confirmed to have been left by the murderer, but without fingerprints).

Why did Chen Feng leave the knife behind? Was it because he was in a hurry to escape and didn't have time to take it with him? Or was it a deliberate provocation?

Zhang Gong'an couldn't understand it. This Chen Feng was like a fog, impossible to see clearly or fathom.

But he knew Chen Feng would kill again. The next target would likely be Liu Guangtian, or Sha Zhu, or Yan Jiefang.

We must stop him.

Officer Zhang picked up the phone: "Connect me to the director's office."

Chen Feng hadn't left his rented room for two days.

He sat on the bed, an old newspaper he had picked up from the street spread out in front of him. The newspaper was from half a month ago, and the headline on the front page was "Grasp Revolution, Promote Production, and Set Off a New High Tide of Socialist Construction," followed by some reports on factory production.

He looked closely, trying to find some useful information, but found nothing. On the surface, everything seemed normal in the city: factories were producing, workers were going to work, and students were studying. Only he knew that, secretly, blood was flowing like a river.

He tossed the newspaper aside and walked to the window. The window was small, offering only a glimpse of the opposite courtyard wall. The courtyard was quiet; occasionally, neighbors would come and go, always in a hurry, heads down, silent.

The atmosphere here was tense. Although it was four or five streets away from the courtyard house, the news had already spread—several people had died in a courtyard house in the south of the city, all killed by an escaped convict. Now the whole city was searching for that fugitive, and eyes were everywhere on the streets.

Chen Feng knew he couldn't go out easily. He had to wait at least a few days, until the situation calmed down a bit and people relaxed a little.

He returned to the bedside and pulled out the money and identification he had hidden in a crack in the wall. He counted the money; there were still over three hundred yuan left. That should last him a while.

The photo on his ID card bears a resemblance to him; if one doesn't look closely, it should be enough to fool everyone. However, he can't work for official organizations or stay in guesthouses; he can only rent private rooms like this.

He needed a job, or rather, a cover. Staying indoors all the time would arouse suspicion. It would be best to find temporary work, which would both cover his tracks and earn him some money.

But how can he find someone? He can't register at the neighborhood committee office, nor can he go to the labor bureau. He can only rely on introductions from acquaintances or look in some informal places.

Chen Feng thought about it and decided to go out for a walk tomorrow to see if there would be an opportunity.

Now, he needs food.

He took two steamed buns from under the bed and ate them with pickled vegetables. The buns were dry and hard, but he ate them slowly and carefully. He chewed each bite for a long time before swallowing.

After eating, he drank some water, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

My mind is a mess. One moment it's Yan Jiecheng's face before he died, the next it's Liu Guangtian's terrified eyes, and then it's Sha Zhu's fierce expression.

And then there's Xiaoyu. Where is Xiaoyu? Is she really dead?

Chen Feng opened his eyes and looked at the crack in the ceiling. The crack was winding and twisting, like a snake.

He remembered a time when he was little, playing in the yard with Xiaoyu, when they saw a snake. Xiaoyu was so scared that she hid behind him, and he picked up a stick and killed the snake. Xiaoyu clapped her hands and said, "Brother is so amazing!"

He is still fighting the "snake," but the snake is too big and too venomous. It killed his parents and caused his sister to go missing.

We must kill them all. Leave not a single one alive.

Chen Feng closed his eyes again, forcing himself to sleep. He needed energy, and he needed a clear mind.

But he couldn't sleep. He kept his ears perked up, listening to the sounds outside.

There were light footsteps moving around in the yard. Was it a neighbor? Or...?

Chen Feng quietly got out of bed, walked behind the door, and peeked out through the crack in the door.

The courtyard was empty, with only the moonlight shining on the ground, casting a silvery white glow. There was no one there.

He went back to bed, but instead of lying down, he sat with his back against the wall.

This is safer. If someone breaks in, he can react immediately.

Time passed slowly. Occasionally, the sound of dogs barking could be heard outside, and the distant rumble of a passing train could be heard, but silence soon returned.

Late at night, Chen Feng finally couldn't stay awake any longer and fell asleep.

But he sleeps very lightly and is easily awakened by the slightest noise.