Puzzle Madness

Chapter 41 Shooting the Window to the Soul
Richard was stunned. He hadn't thought himself the type to remain motionless in the face of danger. He could feel the shoulder he was gripping, shaking like a sieve: the forensic doctor he was holding hostage was the type to tremble in the face of danger.
Or maybe it was simply that the forensic doctor did not understand the situation he was facing as deeply as he did: he did not, like Richard, stimulate the instinct of Homo sapiens to remain frozen in order to gain a higher chance of survival when facing other predators tens of thousands of years ago.

When Richard felt he could breathe again, the boy in the yellow raincoat was already not far in front of him, carrying layers upon layers of broken ceiling tiles; like a waiter showing off his serving skills.

The boy's mouth was curved, his teeth gleaming brightly in the incandescent light. But it wasn't a smile—there wasn't a single muscle tightening in his eyes or brows, as if his face were separated: like some animal imitating a human to express friendliness.

Observation and analysis are part of Richard's job; it has almost become his instinctive reaction.

Richard felt his brain heating up and rolling like magma; past knowledge and training flashed before his eyes - as if he was back at the training camp at headquarters, in the "Applied Psychological Strategies" class: he never skipped classes, always took notes, and never missed homework; in the end he got 95 points in this course: perhaps because of this, he was sent out to do field work as a surveillance person.

He swallowed the saliva that had been flowing excessively from his nervous mouth. If he could go back in time, he really wouldn't study so hard. Actually, it would be nice to socialize with professors and colleagues. Even if he ended up being the last in the Special Package Handling Department or being sent to Latin America to record the variations in samba dance moves, it would still be an interesting life.

The most important thing is to be alive. Has anyone mentioned the quality of the milk tea shops in the underworld? How many nightclubs and dance halls are there in the tongue-pulling hell?

Chuck Lee had never been to a nightclub or a dance hall: now he was beginning to regret it.

[The first step is to establish communication—communication that is non-aggressive and can avoid risks.]

Knowledge, training, and learning still mattered. Even if his mind wandered off into the clouds, past achievements still surfaced automatically in Richard's mind, prompting him to react.

Richard took a step to the left, hiding his body behind the medical examiner but sticking his head out.

"Hello! Little Peng. No, buddy. My name is Richard - it seems that we happened to be in this awkward place, which is also a coincidence. What's your name?"

[Don't call them "little friends"! What teenagers who enter puberty hate most is not being recognized as mature, independent individuals.]

The professor who taught "Applied Psychological Strategies" seemed to have emerged from his brain and added a criticism:
[Damn, the words are too stiff! Richard, you can't learn anything from him!]

The boy in the yellow raincoat was not the first high-risk [target] Richard had come into contact with: but the killing and destruction caused by every criminal and patient whose files he had read came more from the military training they had received and the corresponding weapons they were equipped with - 93% of them were firearms.

It's like an "invisible man" whose head was blown up by himself during the day.

Instead of fighting with bare hands against a fully armed, systematically trained and experienced team. No, it was a massacre.

The manifestations of ecstasy are more dangerous to oneself than to others - this is the common sense that Richard was taught. It seems that common sense is often broken.

The boy in the yellow raincoat bent down and placed the two stacks of galvanized steel sheets and plasterboard fragments from his palm on the ground—they didn't even shake—then leaned forward slightly:

"Eh? I've seen you before: Did you come to Tianhu Community yesterday? Or maybe I'm mistaken. You're wearing a mask, so I can't see your face clearly. But I recognize your eyes."

[Skip my question, don't want to exchange names: this is not a good sign.]

Sweat slid down Richard's brow and into his mask.
He made a dangerous decision:
His left hand still held the pistol against the forensic doctor's waist, but his right hand carefully and slowly raised to his face, pulling the mask down to his chin, exposing his entire face.

"Yes, we met yesterday afternoon. What are you doing here? I have some official business to attend to. You saw it on TV, right? Some special business."

Richard raised the question cautiously. He was so short of information that he didn't even know how to proceed with this "chat" that concerned his life:
"Is there anything I can do for you? I'll do my best."

Let the other person make the request first—just don't make concessions, but don't refuse either: Listen! Listen carefully to every word they say. Build understanding through listening—infer from understanding, infer the nature of the other person's ecstasy symptoms; avoid the minefields in the other person's heart.

The morgue has no windows, only nine temporary storage compartments for bodies. Generally, police stations of this size would perform autopsies at nearby hospitals, but the Mong Cai City Police Station has a dedicated morgue.

It's small and the equipment is not complete.

The boy in the yellow raincoat stood before Richard, making no attempt to answer. However, he kept turning his head and surveying his surroundings, seemingly with great interest.

At such close range—no more than 220 centimeters apart—if Richard had only slightly raised the muzzle of the gun against the coroner's waist and angled it slightly, he could have shot him between the eyebrows, perhaps even in the eye. Given Richard's training, this was a nonstandard shooting maneuver; but it was also highly likely he would have hit the neck, liver, or heart.

He could also choose to shoot directly. He gambled that the bullet would still have enough impact after passing through the forensic doctor's waist tissue, but the caliber of the gun was originally small and it was equipped with a silencer; his hope was somewhat slim.

Having said that: if the caliber of his gun was not small, Richard would not dare to adopt such an improper shooting posture.

The other party had no observable physiological signs of ecstasy - perhaps he was not a seriously ill patient who could withstand bullets at close range.

But, not to mention killing, what if the ability to stop the enemy is insufficient? What kind of actions will the enraged opponent take?
He was not equipped with a rifle like the commando team: it turned out that the firepower of an automatic rifle might not be enough.

Richard didn't want to die yet - in fact, it was the first time he realized how much he didn't want to leave this world.

Try to understand. Before you control or manipulate someone, understand them first. Seek common ground, common interests, common ground—transformation! If you are on the same side as them, they won't hurt you.

If everything Richard saw was recorded on a videotape, this part would seem to have been cut out:
The boy in the yellow raincoat, who was a little further away in the previous frame, was now standing right in front of Richard, the downy hair on his face almost touching. "What are you thinking about?"

The boy in the yellow raincoat came closer—but in an instant, he fixed his gaze on the forensic doctor, whose mask was constantly shaking:

"Why is he the one doing all the talking? Why aren't you saying anything? Did he kidnap you? Are you a hostage?"

The morgue was originally air-conditioned, but now, was the temperature set too low and the airflow too strong?
Richard felt himself starting to tremble—trembling with sweat all over his back.

He rolled his eyes slightly downwards, and they met the eyes of the coroner. Richard didn't know what the forensic doctor, whom he had held hostage in the corridor, was thinking; but he saw doubt in his eyes - and a hint of absurdity. Everything that was happening now was too ridiculous, to the point that
Suddenly, Richard's eyes widened: it was as if a light bulb was lit in his mind, and wonderful inspiration flowed through every groove of his cerebral cortex.

He put his hand holding the gun around the coroner's shoulder, pointed the gun upwards, and slowly raised it, holding it high as if for demonstration -
He saw it: his gaze followed the pistol from under the hood of the yellow raincoat.

Richard opened his mouth and said something he never thought he would say:
"I want to put a bullet in your head and see if you die. I'm just curious about this, and I've been thinking about it for a long time: Do you think this gun can kill you?"

"what?!"

This time, the boy in the yellow raincoat's eyes widened—it seemed as if he had never expected to encounter such a conversation:

"Oh. Oh! Try it, try it! What are you waiting for? Come on."

He raised his hands, groped and rubbed his face:

"Where should I hit? I heard the area between my eyebrows is actually quite hard. How about my temples?"

Richard's hand holding the gun was shaking, and his teeth were chattering. He carefully transferred the gun from his left hand to his right hand, trying hard to calm the tremors:

"Mouth, eyes, temples; it's all fine. Whichever you prefer?"

This may be the only chance.

Richard regretted deeply—why had he not chosen a larger caliber pistol? Why hadn't he chosen more lethal ammunition? Could this gun be loaded with armor-piercing rounds? But regretting the past wouldn't help him in the present or the future.

"Can't you think of it? The eyes! I heard that hitting the eyes hurts the most; and I want to see it."

The boy in the yellow raincoat raised his eyebrows comically and opened his eyes as wide as possible: To be honest, these were the cleanest and clearest eyes Richard had ever seen.

This is not a figure of speech or a metaphor, nor does it represent a look or anything else vague.
The pupils were a pitch-black, like paint, and their existence was indistinguishable; there wasn't even a trace of blood in the whites of the eyes—as if they were painted on. This wasn't normal; any human being would have a vascular membrane in their eyeballs, and it would give the whites of their eyes a subtle blood-red tint.

So...it doesn't look like a pair of eyes that a human would have.

But it doesn’t matter:

Richard was gasping for breath - he could feel the forensic doctor, whose neck he was strangling, was also breathing heavily because of the tightening pressure on his neck - he stretched out his arms, aimed the muzzle of the gun, and aligned it with the eye.

At this distance, even if I were blind, I wouldn't miss.

All the fear and terror left his body and flew into the farther sky - perhaps it was because of the adrenaline, he had never been so excited; the hot blood seemed to rise along his spine and pour into his brain.

"Count one, two, three, and then start?"

The boy in the yellow raincoat gestured one, two, three, blinked hard a few times, and then opened his eyes wide:
"One"

Click.

flutter--
Chuck Lee pulled the trigger, followed by a slight click.
-
hiss--
He heard a noise like a leak and some muffled mumbling.

Blood splattered everywhere, spraying Richard's face. He should have worn a mask; small streams of blood were still gushing out, and some of it hit the ceiling with pressure, forming a bright red mass -
Richard lowered his head:

The autopsy officer, whom he had captured, was clutching his neck with all his might; blood gushed out from between his fingers. The forensic doctor's eyes were filled with a strange and complex emotion, and tears streamed down his face.

Across from Richard, the boy in the yellow raincoat rubbed his eyelids—looking awkwardly at the two people drenched in blood.

"It's over. It looks like your shot got deflected by your eyeball."

(End of this chapter)