Chapter 3

But it was too late. Quite a few young women who came to class that day saw Andy sprinting across campus in superhero boxers.

It was an eyesore, sure, but since he hadn't actually hurt anyone, the university administration only gave him a verbal warning.

After that incident, Andy came down with a high fever that wouldn't break. He repeatedly muttered "monster", even in his delirium. He spent over two weeks in the hospital before he finally recovered.

Every time his parents brought up going back to campus, he reacted with sheer terror. When they asked what had happened, he refused to say a word. With no other choice, his parents filed for a leave of absence on his behalf.

Because of what happened to Andy, my classmates were all a little afraid of me. They felt I must have done something that had frightened him so badly that he'd caught a fever and even dropped out.

But I never figured out what he actually saw.

…

I jolted awake from the nightmare, the alcohol in my system mostly worn off. I went to the bathroom and knocked on the door, but no one answered. I kicked the door open and rushed inside.

The moment I stepped into the bathroom, all I saw was red. The metallic smell of blood enveloped me.

Shawn's eyes were as round as saucers, and his face was deathly pale and frozen in terror. He lay in the bathtub, his body stretched out stiffly, half-floating on the surface.

His body was soaked in a red liquid that filled the tub. Maybe he had been in there too long—his body was rather swollen.

I ran over, my hands shaking as I tried to pull him out of the tub. The water was ice-cold, and so was his body. It was rigid and devoid of warmth.

I suspected he was dead and jerked my hands back at once. Then, I dialed emergency services and the police.

The paramedics took one look and saw Shawn was already gone. They didn't dare take the body because they were afraid of getting involved. As they turned to leave, they warned me to turn myself in as soon as possible.

As I argued with them, the police arrived.

After photographing the scene, the forensic doctor lifted Shawn's body from the tub. I turned my head away, too scared to look, until they zipped him into a black body bag. Then, they had me confirm his identity and contact his family.

I took one look at his chalk-white face, then immediately dropped my gaze.

Before I even knew what was going on, I went from the person who called the cops to the prime suspect. I sat in an interrogation room with handcuffs on my wrists.

"Talk. Why did you kill him?"

The officer's tone made it sound like my guilt was a done deal, and it made me really uncomfortable.

I looked up at him in a bit of panic, repeating myself over and over. "I didn't kill him. It wasn't me. I was drunk. I don't know what happened."

The officer slammed his palm on the table. "If it wasn't you, who else could it be? Confess, and you'll get a lighter sentence. You're still young, so don't be stupid."

Something about his questioning felt off. I tilted my head back to stare at him, my temper flaring as I shouted, "Are you trying to force a confession out of me? I said it wasn't me! Why won't you believe me?"

I was torn up inside because of what had happened, too. I buried my head in my arms, clutching my hair with both hands as I threw myself down on the table.

Then, above me, I heard a soft sigh.

"All the blood in his body was drained, and his genitals were chopped off. They weren't found at the scene. Even if you hated him, you shouldn't have… What kind of grudge did you hold against him to have killed him in such a cruel way?"

"What?" My head shot up, and my eyes widened in shock. I covered my mouth and gagged.

The officer was taken aback and tested the waters.

"Don't tell me you're going to say it really wasn't you. The security footage shows that only the two of you came and went from that hotel room. The murder weapon was a fruit knife found in the bathroom. That knife only had your fingerprints and his."

He tossed the forensic report in front of me. I stared at the conclusion, unable to accept it.

"But it really wasn't me. He was my friend. Why would I kill him? Why would I cut off his…"

The officer froze for a second, then asked hesitantly, "It really wasn't you?"

I smiled bitterly and nodded. "It really wasn't me. We were drinking together tonight, and he was the one who took me to that hotel. I was already drunk by then. How could I have killed him?"

"But you two were the only ones who entered that room. It's not like he committed suicide, did he? If someone wants to die, there are plenty of quick, straightforward ways to do it. Why would he choose something as painful as slitting his wrists? And why would he cut off…"

The survival rate for wrist-slashing wasn't that low, and the process was agonizing. The blood loss sent people into shock and unconsciousness, and the chances of being saved were pretty high.

Shawn's genitals had also been chopped off after his death, which meant the killer had serious psychological issues.

Faced with the officer's questions, I had no way to explain myself. I even started to wonder if maybe I really had killed someone without knowing it.