Chapter Twenty-Three: Awakened Memories

The firmness in Fatty’s voice left Zhou Yi momentarily stunned. It seemed that nothing he had experienced so far came as a surprise to Fatty. Fatty turned around, took Zhou Yi’s backpack, and opened the metal box once more. Earlier, only two or three photos had been taken out of the envelope, but there was actually much more inside. Now, with nothing to hide, Fatty dumped everything out at once.

There were photos of Wang Shengyu and Jiang Yushan, photos of layouts of the Wang family’s real estate company, a picture of the black Hummer, and a string of objects that tumbled out. Zhou Yi reached for them. Though they were rusted, he could still recognize the bronze Buddhist scripture pendant that had once hung from his car keys.

He felt for his own backpack. Underwater, he’d tried to use the car keys to smash a window, so he’d pulled out the keys and placed them together—one looked brand new, the other was already rusted.

Fatty came closer, picked up both bronze pendants, compared them, and grinned widely, his eyes shining with excitement.

“My metal box was always kept in the air-raid shelter. I only brought it out just now because I was coming to see you. I think it’s because this place is underground, with dozens of centimeters of iron plate for insulation. That’s why these cycles haven’t affected it. That’s also why I didn’t want to talk outside,” Fatty explained.

Zhou Yi’s brows drew even tighter. Indeed, everything before him could be explained by Fatty’s logic, but what was the purpose of all these cycles?

Fatty flicked away his cigarette butt and stared into Zhou Yi’s eyes. “I’ve figured out part of it, but not why the cycles keep happening. And those photos—why are there pictures of these two people here? From what you recorded, I only know that Wang Shengyu is the one who murdered your girlfriend, but why would I have his photo?”

Zhou Yi examined the photos closely. One showed Wang Shengyu and Jiang Yushan about to get into a car, taken from above at an angle. The quality wasn’t great—obviously taken in secret. On the back, only the names were noted. Under Wang Shengyu’s name, many heavy black lines were drawn, as well as a red cross.

Zhou Yi narrowed his eyes. The handwriting was his own, and the cross was his habit—what did it mean? Was it a kill mark?

Since childhood, whenever he had decisions to make, he would cross out the options he didn’t want, leaving only the chosen ones. If that was the case, then by this marking and Fatty’s theory, did he intend to kill Wang Shengyu?

He slowly looked up at Fatty. After all this analysis, he was no closer to understanding—the situation had only grown more confusing. What Zhou Yi wanted most was evidence, something that would bring Wang Shengyu to justice.

But as things stood, that seemed impossible. Wang Shengyu could easily clear himself of suspicion. The car had been gifted to Jiang Yushan, and its whereabouts were unknown. There was no surveillance footage of Wang Shengyu. Even if the car was found, Jiang Yushan would take the fall.

“So, according to your theory, this has all been repeating because, in each cycle, I’ve failed to achieve some purpose?” Zhou Yi asked.

Fatty nodded, his expression growing even more resolute. “All this shows you’ve approached me before, and I’ve been involved, but we never succeeded. Normally, I’d never do anything beyond my comprehension. Maybe this time, we should try something different?”

Zhou Yi fell silent. The word “murder”—in nearly thirty years of life, it was something he’d only ev