Kill Me (Part 1)
1
The building had six floors, thoroughly dilapidated, showing its age. If it weren't located on the city outskirts, it would have been demolished long ago. Old-style buildings like this had no elevators. I climbed the stairs floor by floor and noticed that every landing bore a sign for "Foot Bath & Massage," flickering in the shadowy corners like a cigarette butt blinking on and off.
I reached the sixth floor, somewhat winded. Lack of exercise had degraded my body quickly, and made life feel ever more boring and exhausting. The top floor was even more desolate than the five below—no "Foot Bath & Massage" signs here, just discarded tables, chairs, and furniture piled everywhere. At the stairway corner, an inconspicuous wooden placard read: "Zhang's Dental Clinic."
This must be the place. I steadied myself, pushed open the door, and walked in.
Because it was against the light, the room was rather dim. A middle-aged man in a white coat sat at a desk reading. On the desk lay common dental instruments—extraction forceps, elevators, periodontal surgical knives. Seeing someone enter, he quickly closed his book, turned on the desk lamp, and said, "Hello."
I nodded and sat down across from him. In the lamplight, I could clearly see his features—sharply defined, with thick brows and large eyes, his face radiating the professional bearing of a medical worker.
"May I ask, which tooth is bothering you?"
"None," I shook my head. "They're all fine."
"Then you're here because..."
"Dr. Zhang, I want you to help me kill someone."
"What?" He asked again, incredulous. "What did you say?"
"I said, I want you to help me kill someone."
"Heh heh..." He laughed. "Sir, I think you've come to the wrong—"
"I haven't come to the wrong place, and I mean you," I interrupted. "Dentist is just your professional cover. Your real identity is a hitman."
He smiled bitterly. "Sir, I really don't know what you're talking about."
I pulled out the morning's newspaper, spread it on the desk, and pointed. "In the seam between pages A3 and A4, there's a discount ad for 'Zhang's Dental Clinic.' I checked—it's very short, only one hundred and sixty-five characters. But if you take today's year and date as numbers, multiply each by two, then divide by three, you get a sequence of numbers that correspond to specific characters in the ad: 'Target eliminated, please pay balance, Dr. Zhang.' If I'm not mistaken, this low-circulation City Morning News is one of your communication channels with clients."
He slowly let his smile fade. His body didn't move, but his right hand reached toward the drawer under the desk. If I guessed correctly, there was a handgun in there.
I said, "You don't need to be nervous. I'm not a cop, not any kind of law enforcement. I'm just a writer."
"A writer?"
"That's right. A writer—mystery and suspense specifically."
"Oh," he raised an eyebrow. "No wonder you could decipher the newspaper ad."
I smiled. That was child's play for me. In my novels, I'd devised many methods of secret communication through public channels, all far more complex than this.
"Is that so." He neither confirmed nor denied, his entire body still in a state of alert readiness, clearly not yet off guard.
To convince him, I gave my name and listed my representative works, but he shook his head—he'd never heard of me. I smiled wryly. As expected, I was still too obscure.
I said, "Actually, I also wrote a novel about a hitman. It's called *Hellfire*."
Unexpectedly, his eyes suddenly lit up. "*Hellfire*—you wrote that?"
"That's right. You've read it?"
"I have. Goes with the profession, you could say. The book is well written, especially the part where the hitman hides on a building fifteen hundred meters away and blows the target's head off with a single shot—'Pfft,' a muffled sound, brains splattering everywhere. I remember how the book described it—the man went down as if..."
I finished his sentence: "As if his soul had been instantly snatched away."
"Yes, yes! 'As if his soul had been instantly snatched away'—that metaphor was brilliant. Left a deep impression on me. But—" He shook his head and pointed to his own chest with his left hand. "Hitmen use guns to kill. They don't aim for the head. It's almost always the heart. First, because the head is too small a target—hard to hit consistently. Second, if you blow the target's head apart, how does the client confirm identity?"
"Good point," I nodded. "Very professional indeed."
Perhaps this novel had bridged the distance between us. He dropped his guard, returning his right hand from under the desk to the tabletop. "For someone outside the profession, writing to that level is already impressive. I suppose I count as one of your readers now. You said you wanted to commission me to kill someone? Go ahead, tell me who. I'll give you a twenty percent discount."
I said, "Kill me."
2
He was clearly startled, obviously not understanding my meaning.
So I repeated myself: "I want to commission you to kill me."
He looked at me in bewilderment. "If you weren't a writer, I'd definitely think you were crazy."
"That's right—I'm a writer," I said with a bitter smile. "And that's exactly why I want you to kill me."
He said, "I don't understand."
I asked him, "As a hitman, do you have any professional aspirations?"
"Professional aspirations... I do have some..." He thought for a moment. "In our circle, there's an annual Elite Hitman Ranking. Being selected is a tremendous honor. Honestly, I'm in this line of work just to make a living. But if I have any professional aspiration at all, it's to one day make it onto that ranking."
I nodded. "Right, that's your pursuit. As a writer, I have mine too. My ultimate dream in life is to one day become a bestselling author!"
"Bestselling author?"
"That's right! You've read my book—what do you think of the writing?"
"I think it's good. I read *Hellfire* twice. Quite well done—much better than all that gazing-at-the-sky, crying-a-river drivel."
"That's exactly the problem! I think it's good, my editors think it's good, but after writing so many books, I'm still not fucking famous! Look at those people—dressed weird, slicked-up pretty boys who write absolute dogshit, yet they become wildly popular, praised by the media, worshipped by fans. Meanwhile, I languish in obscurity. Why?" I grew agitated, feeling my cheeks flush red. "Then I figured it out—in this era, to get famous, you need hype! Let me tell you, becoming a bestselling author is my ultimate pursuit in life. If I can achieve that, I don't mind betting my life on the hype!"
"Don't get so worked up. There must be other ways..."
"There are no other ways! I've tried everything—spending my own money on media ads, writing reviews, gaming the bestseller charts online, even giving away free books at bookstore entrances—but nothing catches fire! I'm not even as famous as some guy pretending to be tough on QQ! I've had enough of this anonymous existence. I can't breathe another day like this! I have the talent—why shouldn't I be famous? I'm telling you, I refuse to accept it! I want to be famous, I want to be a bestseller, I want everyone to know my talent. I want to blind every person who ever looked down on me!"
He was stunned by my intensity. "Is being famous really that important?"
"Of course it's important! You don't understand writers. You spend your whole life writing books, not making any money—what's it all for? Fame! Carving your name into this world, into everyone's hearts—that's the entire meaning of my life!"
"For that meaning, you'd rather die?"
"I'd rather die!"
"Alright then. I respect your decision." He fell silent for a long time. "I'll take the job. Time and place."
I glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was already October. I chose Halloween—could add to the atmosphere. As for the location, anywhere prominent would do. My next novel, *Panic*, was about to be published. He needed to stage the scene to look like I'd been silenced for revealing the hitman syndicate's secrets in the book. That kind of news—the media would be all over it like dogs on a pile of shit.
"No problem," he nodded. "I'm a professional at this."
"Also," I instructed, "Whatever you do, don't shoot me in the head. You have to shoot here—the heart. I don't want my brains splattered across the newspapers. They'd just pixelate my face."
"Rest assured. I understand. I'll make it quick and clean."
Having settled the matter, I felt extraordinarily light-hearted, even considering whether to drop by the foot bath downstairs for some relaxation. As I left, Dr. Zhang saw me to the door. I looked back at his sign and suddenly thought of