Apocalyptic Era: Starting from picking up a Bishoujo

From the moment I came into contact with a real gun, I knew I might eventually have to deal with official forces, and I secretly hoped for such a development.

Yet I didn't expect the police to come knocking so soon, and it was even more incredible to me how closely reality mirrored my previous nightmare.

That girl is a serial killer, really?

Fear and excitement throbbed violently in my chest.

Perhaps I had allowed my facial muscles to relax a little because the policeman in front of me raised an eyebrow and asked, "What's wrong, do you recognize this face?"

"It's nothing, just that..."

"Just that?"

"This young girl... she's actually a serial killer?" I transferred some of the disbelief I had felt earlier to my tone at the moment.

"Oh, that..." He nodded profoundly in agreement, "Others have asked the same question before. It turns out she picked up a handgun from somewhere. Rebellious teenage girls can have extreme thoughts, sometimes not valuing their own or others' lives. With grudges against adults and society, and coincidentally getting hold of a real gun, it's easy for them to accidentally set it off, both mentally and physically."

"Can she be characterized as a murderer?" I probed.

"If the circumstances are particularly serious, yes... You can look it up online yourself to see." He did not seem to want to elaborate on the subject and asked, "So, have you seen her or not, do you remember this face? She's been spotted in this area, posing a serious threat to the lives of local residents, and the sooner she's caught, the better. There's a cash reward for reporting her."

A reward for reporting, and conversely, harboring would mean serious criminal liability—that much was clear to me. While not quite life imprisonment as the nightmare had suggested, my future would undoubtedly be shrouded in darkness.

I had consciously evaded pedestrians and surveillance cameras during the first half of last night's move with the girl, and during the second half, I had put her in a large suitcase to move her. In theory, I shouldn't have been so easily exposed. The problem was that I wasn't a dangerous element preparing for a crime, so I couldn't definitively assert that I had avoided all surveillance cameras. Perhaps there was a blind spot I hadn't noticed? The possibility of being caught by official forces was a real one.

Perhaps this policeman in front of me already had incriminating evidence against me and was now giving me a last chance to come clean. I'd better admit to a momentary lapse in judgment before it's too late and turn in that hot-potato girl.

But after finally encountering such an extraordinary event, and having come this far, should I really end this mysterious encounter as a concerned citizen? I had yet to hear any of the story!

There were several elusive doubts about the girl that the simple explanation of a "rebellious teenage girl who somehow found a real gun" couldn't satisfy. Once I let her go, I was afraid I would also lose the chance to continue participating in this bizarre case.

I can't turn in that child yet, not until I'm fully satisfied.

In response to the policeman's question, I pretended to recall before answering, "I don't think I've seen her."

"Alright... Sorry to take up your time." The policeman didn't show any surprise or disappointment. He just took back the photo and skillfully closed the door for me, "If you see her later, remember to call the police immediately."

"I understand."

I responded normally and closed the door, then eavesdropped on the noises outside.

The policeman's footsteps moved next door, and the knocking started again. He seemed to be questioning my neighbors, presumably intending to visit each house one by one.

I had heard somewhere before that in modern times, over ninety percent of solved cases were actually resolved through this kind of plain and simple door-to-door inquiry and surveillance footage review.

Just in case, I didn't immediately go back to my bedroom to talk to the girl. Instead, I picked up my phone next to the couch and went back to the entryway. There, I secretly listened to the policeman's movement outside while searching my phone for recent serial killer cases in my city—Saltwater City.

And sure enough, there were.

In the past two to three months, five bodies with ghastly death scenes were found one after another in Saltwater City, all victims being officials and wealthy individuals of high social status.

The media coverage seemed to be somewhat restricted. The news available to me didn't detail their causes of death or provide photos or specific descriptions of the "ghastly death scenes." All I knew was that official forces had gathered fibers and skin tissue from under the victims' fingernails that didn't belong to the deceased, presumably scraped from the murderer's clothes and body during their final struggle. It was confirmed that the same individual committed all five crimes.

The murderer's real identity remained unsolved, and the upper class was in a state of panic, fearing they could be the next body to be found.

I had some recollection of this news. When I saw it last month, I thought I might as well join in on the investigation, but since I was engrossed in researching other urban legends and ghost stories at the time, I didn't pay much more attention to this peculiar local serial killer case.

I initially just thought it was another case of a psychopathic serial killer with a vendetta against the rich, one that would be quickly apprehended by the omnipotent official forces. Yet so much time had passed, and there had been no progress in the case.

Was that mysterious girl the culprit behind these cases?

Something didn't feel right. If the victims died from gunshot wounds, it wouldn't be described as "ghastly."

Of course, if all five bodies had their heads blown off by a gun, that would be a different story, but in that scenario, would there even be a chance for the victims to struggle and scratch the perpetrator, and more than once at that? After all, given the range of a handgun, it seemed unrealistic for the victims to have had close contact with the murderer.

But... you can't be too sure. Maybe the girl had terrible aim and had to be within reach of the victims to be sure of hitting; maybe the girl committed the murders using martial arts, as she had used joint locks on me before.

Moreover, the policeman had indeed accused the girl of being the murderer, plus while she appeared as if she could be a victim, she had not suffered any harm.

If she really was a murderer, then what I was doing now...

No, let's stop for a moment, there are still too few clues, concluding now would be too hasty.

Perhaps it's best to ask her directly and see how she reacts.

-

Once the police outside had finished their visit on this floor, I turned and took the pistol from behind the sofa, reengaged the safety, and then went to the bedroom door, pushing it open.

The girl was sitting cross-legged on the bed, hugging her arms in a meditative pose, seemingly indifferent to her nearly naked state.

She appeared to have been sitting there the whole time, but I noticed subtle signs of disturbance around the room, it looked like she had investigated the bedroom stealthily while I was talking to the police, trying to glean something about me.

At the sound of the door opening, she quickly raised her head, first sweeping a glance behind me, then fixing her gaze on me, her face a picture of complete bafflement.

"Why are you hiding me?" she asked, her brow furrowed deeply, her tone replete with strong suspicion, "You heard just now, didn't you? I am the vicious serial killer. As a common citizen, shouldn't you turn me in to the police, since that's the logical thing to do?"

"Then, are you the killer?" I asked her in return.

"I'm not." She denied firmly at first, then her expression faltered, and she began to doubt herself, "…I am not, am I?"

"Whether you are or not, I hope you can give a definite answer."

"Yes and no." Her words were still uncertain, but her tone was sure, "At least, I haven't killed anyone in this era."

"That makes no sense," I said, "Are you trying to say you're from the future?"

"Answer my initial question first," her tone became forceful, intent on regaining control of the conversation, "Why are you hiding me?"

I didn't intend to argue with her for control and had my responses well-prepared, flowing effortlessly: "Because you are not the killer."

"What makes you say that?" she questioned skeptically.

"The cause of death for those victims wasn't gunshot wounds," I first tossed her the phone displaying the web pages, then continued, "Moreover, I don't think the real culprit would end up bloodied in the ruins at night, just like the victims."

That was a lie. Even though I hadn't seen direct evidence proving she was the killer, I had been psychologically preparing myself for the possibility that she was, and to a certain extent, I had been ready to deal with her in secret.

She persisted in questioning: "Even if you don't believe I am the killer, there's no reason for you to hide me. Whether I am the killer or not, the fact that I possess firearms and ammunition against the laws of this era is true, telling the police should be what you're supposed to do."

"Didn't I say earlier? It was you who told me not to call the cops." While speaking, I slowly walked over to the desk and placed the pistol on top, then turned to face her, "I don't know what secrets you're hiding, but if they're connected to firearms and ammunition, it means your secrets are a matter of life and death.

"To me, you were just a girl, ragged and collapsed in the night. I wanted to step forward and protect you, is it really that strange?"

I don't know if my well-prepared "lines" were too forceful, but she scurried back to the corner of the bed as if scorched, then swallowed hard and asked in astonishment, "Just… just for that reason?"

At this point, I had to play this act out to the end, put on a brave face.

"Isn't that enough?"

"How can this be, could it be that the people of this era truly…" she unexpectedly faltered.

I thought I would have to use more words to convince her, but it seemed she believed me already.

But what did she mean with this era and that era, could she be suffering from delusions of grandeur? Or could she really have secrets unimaginable to me?

Just as I was about to express my confusion again, she regained her composure, studied me for a long while, then slightly relaxed her wary posture and introduced herself: "My name is Mazao, 'ma' as in sesame, 'zao' as in breakfast. What's your name?"

"I am Zhuang Cheng, 'zhuang' as in dignity, 'cheng' as in success." I replied.

Mazao seemed to make an important decision internally.

She sat up straight on the bed, hands resting on her knees.

"Alright, Zhuang Cheng. …Next, I will reveal my true identity and origins. I know you might not believe me, but I hope you will listen to me first."

Was she finally going to come clean?

Could this be happening too quickly? Was she going to tell the truth, or concoct lies to deceive me?

With anticipation, I nodded, indicating her to proceed: "Go ahead."

"Just as you said earlier, I am not from this era; I am a person who has traveled from the future to the present." She began with an earth-shattering revelation, "And in the future, human civilization has been destroyed, and the world has entered the age of apocalypse."