Kill Me (Part 2)
a question: "Do all hitmen do this—maintain an outward profession as cover to avoid exposing their identity?"
"That's right, they do. But you have to be competent at the cover job too. If you do it poorly, it's easy to slip up."
"So by your logic, hitmen are lurking all around us? Coworkers, bosses, neighbors, friends, even the supermarket checkout clerk—any of them could be a hitman?"
He smacked his lips. "Logically speaking, your reasoning isn't wrong."
"So here's a question—even though you're a hitman, you wouldn't know if another person is also a hitman, right?"
Unexpectedly, he shook his head. "I can tell whether someone is a hitman."
I was surprised. "How? Do you have some kind of uniform marker or secret code?"
"Nothing that complicated." He started to say something, then hesitated.
I said, "I'm a dead man walking. What could you possibly be afraid to tell me?"
"Alright—" He hesitated. "I can tell you, but this is an industry secret. You can't write it into a novel."
"Relax. As a writer, I have my own professional ethics—besides, I won't have the opportunity anyway."
He nodded, as if making a momentous decision, and said: "Names."
"Names?"
"That's right. From a person's name, you can tell whether they're a hitman. Arrange the stroke counts of the characters in their name into an arithmetic sequence, square each number, then divide by the difference between the first and second terms. If the final result is 0.36, then that person is a hitman."
Another numbers game! I was astonished. "That calculation process is way too complex. Based on what you're saying, to mentally calculate whether someone is a hitman on the spot—anyone who isn't great at math couldn't do this job?"
"Of course not." He looked somewhat smug. "As a hitman, you have to be proficient in mathematics. Let's take long-range sniping, for example—you need to observe humidity, wind direction, wind speed, then rapidly calculate the margin of error in your head. When tracking a moving target, you must quickly compute the ratio of the target's speed to the bullet's velocity, then estimate the lead. Beyond that, you need to account for the bullet's parabolic trajectory, muzzle velocity, air resistance, gravitational effects... You can't carry a calculator around. All of this has to be done by mental arithmetic."
"Damn. I'm impressed," I said sincerely. "I always thought hitmen were just ruthless people. Didn't realize it's a high-IQ profession."
"Just making a living. Nothing's easy these days." He gave a cold laugh. "Someone once said—we're all being violated by life, just in different ways."
3
I arranged my affairs, wrote my will, and quietly waited for Halloween to arrive. But unexpectedly, my editor Wendy from the publishing company showed up at my door, disrupting all my plans.
She had come about my soon-to-be-published new book, *Panic*, and brought a contract for me to sign.
I was puzzled. "The contract for the new book was already signed ages ago. Why do I need to sign again?"
Wendy tossed her ponytail and beamed at me. "Take a closer look at the contract."
I took the contract and read it carefully. My jaw dropped. It was an additional print order, and the numbers made my head swim.
"The company wants to print an additional five hundred thousand copies of *Panic*?"
"Not just a reprint—it's much more than that!" Wendy said. "The company has decided to make *Panic* a flagship title, with heavy investment in full-channel promotion—TV, radio, Baidu homepage, news spots, anything and everything! Stage adaptation, game adaptation, film and TV adaptation—big screen, here we come!" Wendy stood up, grabbing my shoulders. "Owen Quinn, you're about to blow up!"
"I'm... about to blow up?" I couldn't believe my ears. "This... is real?"
"Of course it's real! The contract is right here—how could it be fake? After all these years, your potential is finally about to explode! You're going to become a top-tier nationally recognized author, the idol of millions of fans, the darling of the media, the icon of countless literary youth!"
Holy shit—was she talking about me? I tried to stand up but my legs went weak and I slumped back onto the sofa. I clutched my chest. "Wendy, my heart isn't great. You'd better not be messing with me."
Wendy held the contract in front of my face. "It's in black and white. Even I couldn't fake this."
I took the contract, read it again and again, then solemnly signed my name—as if sealing a pact with an angel.
After Wendy left, I rushed to Zhang's Dental Clinic that very night. Surprisingly, no one was there—weren't hitmen supposed to be on call 24/7? I didn't dare go far, so I checked into a nearby hotel. At the crack of dawn, I went back—still locked up tight.
Maybe Dr. Zhang was out on a house call. He'd said the cover job still needed to be maintained properly. I comforted myself with this thought and waited outside the dental clinic until sunset, but Dr. Zhang never appeared.
My heart sank like the dying light before dusk, gradually swallowed by darkness.
I waited two days outside the dental clinic. Not a single soul. I panicked and bought the past week's worth of City Morning News, scouring every corner of every page—but found nothing. Tomorrow was Halloween. Would he appear like a ghost in the movies, materializing before me and, without a word, calmly putting a bullet in me, ending this aggrieved and fragile life of mine?
No! How could this happen! This was an unbearable absurdity! I was on the verge of fame—how could I die so easily!
My mind raced. I could feel my cheeks hollowing out, my hair and beard growing wild like weeds. Just as I teetered on the edge of despair, Dr. Zhang finally returned to the clinic.
"You..." I jumped up at the sight of him, so overcome with emotion I couldn't speak.
"Hey, big author, what's going on with you?" He looked surprised. "Haven't seen you in days—what happened? You look terrible."
Tears streamed uncontrollably from my eyes. "Where did you go these past few days? I've been waiting for you so miserably."
"Ah, the health bureau sent out a notice recently requiring all dentists to attend mandatory training. It's been going on for days—you can't skip it or they'll revoke your license. I came back to grab some professional books... What are you waiting for me for? Relax—as long as I take a job, I guarantee it gets done. In this line of work, reputation is everything!"
"No, no, it's not that—" I grabbed his sleeve desperately. "I want to cancel the commission. I don't want to die anymore."
"What?"
"Here's the thing—I'm about to become famous. I can't die." I explained everything from beginning to end. To my surprise, after hearing me out, he scratched the back of his head in distress.
I said urgently, "Dr. Zhang, don't worry—the money is still yours. I'm not asking for it back."
"It's not about the money. Look—these past few days I had to go to training. I was worried I wouldn't have time on Halloween, so I farmed the job out to someone else."
"What?" Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded.
He looked embarrassed. "Hey, you should have said something earlier. Look at this mess."
"Who did you give the job to? Cancel it right now!"
"That's exactly the problem—I don't know who it is. In our line of work, there are rules. Hitmen can't contact each other directly. Everything goes through a middleman, and we never even meet face to face. The key is, my middleman contacts me one-way—they can find me, but I can't find them. So I have no idea who the guy is. All I know is he's ranked sixth on the annual Elite Hitman Ranking. A real badass."
After hearing this, my limbs went numb and my whole body felt plunged into ice. Dr. Zhang quickly steadied me. "Hey, pull yourself together."
"I'll pull myself together, I'll pull myself together..." I swallowed hard and looked at him. "Dr. Zhang, tell me—where will the hitman strike tomorrow?"
"I really can't say." He pursed his lips. "Anyone on that ranking is no pushover. Striking anywhere wouldn't be strange."
4
I spent a terrified night. Past midnight, it was already Halloween. At dawn, I made a decision—I couldn't just sit and wait to die. I had to run, leave this city, get as far away as possible.
Just as I'd packed my luggage and was about to drive off, my phone rang without warning, startling me so badly I nearly shot out of the car. I glanced down—it was Wendy.
"Hello." My cautious voice came out trembling.
"Owen Quinn, what's wrong with you?" Wendy paused on the other end.
"Nothing." I forced myself to calm down. "Go ahead."
Wendy said that a launch event for *Panic* was being held downtown this morning. Multiple media outlets would be there, and I needed to get there quickly. Several film company executives would also attend in person.
This would be the first book launch of my entire life—but wasn't I supposed to be fleeing? What should I do? I hesitated.
"Owen Quinn, say something." Wendy urged.
"I... uh..." I looked out the car window. "How's the security at the venue?"
Wendy laughed. "Relax, it's a launch event in the city center. No one's going to cause trouble. Hold on, let me ask..." She came back a moment later. "They've hired Anyuanding security—no problem there."
Anyuanding—that was a solid firm. They'd worked with the petition-interception office for years and had always earned high marks. Hearing they were involved gave me some peace of mind.
I said, "Wendy, tell the Anyuanding guards that someone might be coming after me. Tell them to be on alert. You go ahead and set up the venue—I'm on my way."
When I arrived at the downtown press conference building, the first thing I saw were the Anyuanding guards stationed at the entrance, wielding riot equipment, built like tanks, stone-faced, radiating an inexplicable sense of security. With them there, I figured, no one would dare make a move at this venue.
I'd arrived early. Wendy was in the lobby directing the setup. Seeing me, she rushed over with a radiant smile. "Owen Quinn, you're really about to hit the big time. Makes all those years of me championing you worthwhile."
I said, "When I hit the big time, your bonus won't be small either."
She laughed bashfully, then looked at me strangely. "Why do you look so pale?"
I brushed it off. "Had some insomnia last night."
"That won't do. All those journalists are going to photograph you later, and you'll be on TV. Come on, let me take you to the makeup room for a touch-up."
I followed Wendy toward the makeup room. Venue staff bustled about, photographers tested their lenses, cleaning ladies mopped the floor... Everything was so busy and normal. Maybe I was being paranoid—the hitman might not even strike today. Or maybe he'd taken the money and skipped town—after all, nobody knew who he was.
The path to the makeup room led through a secluded corridor. The narrow space made my tension leak out again—I let out a long, involuntary breath.
"Owen Quinn, are you really not feeling well?" Wendy touched my forehead considerately.
"I'm fine, just a little—" I suddenly noticed the ring on her middle finger. "Wendy, you're engaged?"
"No, I've worn this for years. Shows how little attention you pay to me. It's not an engagement ring—just a keepsake."
"A keepsake?" I grabbed her hand to look. On the ring, a number was engraved: "6."
I jerked backward a step.
"Owen Quinn, what's wrong?"
"You—don't come any closer." I pulled out my phone and rapidly calculated. "Wei Xiaoqing—thirty-two strokes total. Arrange as an arithmetic sequence, square each, divide by the difference between the first and second terms..."
I stared at the final result on my phone. My entire mind went blank.
0.36.
"Ha. Looks like Dr. Zhang told you quite a bit. I'll have to file a complaint with the association."
I looked up, staring in shock at Wendy before me. "...You?"
"What, surprised?" She was still smiling brightly, but her tone turned cold and flat.
I said desperately, "I want to cancel this mission! I don't want to die anymore!"
"I'm sorry. The mission is already in progress and cannot be canceled." Wendy lifted her long skirt and reached toward her thigh. If I had to guess, a handgun was strapped there—and a silenced one at that.
"Wendy, listen to me—if you kill me, won't all of this—" I stopped mid-sentence. Suddenly, I understood everything. My lips trembled. "You received the assignment to kill me from Dr. Zhang first, and then you orchestrated all of this—the reprint, the full-channel promotion, the press conference. You're going to kill me right here, with all the media present, at the launch event, for maximum sensational impact..."
She held a compact silenced pistol and nodded. "As expected of a mystery writer. It really would be a waste of heaven's gift if you didn't become famous. So, if you don't die today, none of this has meaning. *Panic* won't be a bestseller. Those five hundred thousand reprinted copies become waste paper. Right?"
I froze. It was a loop—a Möbius strip I'd fastened myself. Just as Wendy said, aside from killing me, this puzzle had no solution.
She smiled faintly. "It's all for bestseller status and fame. Don't worry—go in peace."
I murmured, "Are you a hitman, or an editor?"
"Is there a difference? Just making a living—different methods, that's all." She raised the gun, her expression suddenly turning cold. "Mission 182: Kill the author Owen Quinn. Stage the scene as a silencing by the hitman syndicate for exposing insider secrets, to achieve maximum sensational impact. Client: Owen Quinn."
"Pfft." A faint sound of gunfire—like someone passing gas.
I crumpled and fell, as if my soul had been instantly snatched away, collapsing into a warm pool of blood. Before drawing my last breath, I touched my chest and felt a small measure of relief.
She hadn't shot me in the face. She'd aimed for my heart.