**Prologue: The Styx**, one of the rivers of the Underworld in Greek mythology. It flows around the Underworld seven times. It is said that the dead must cross the Styx to enter the realm of Hades, and this river is ruled by the daughter of Oceanus, the great god of the river encircling the world.
**Urban District · Block 12 · An Apartment**
"Drip, drip..."
Warm droplets fell from the white showerhead into the bathtub filled with warm water.
A seven-year-old girl sat in the tub, her soft golden hair spreading out and dissolving into the water. She kept her head slightly lowered, her small body curled inward, feeling the temperature of the water against her skin. The sunlight falling on her tiny shoulders seemed to carry its own warmth, gently stroking the dampness at her temples.
"So warm..."
The little girl murmured unconsciously, her eyes closed.
*Tap, tap...* Soft footsteps sounded from beyond the bathroom door.
The little girl turned her head slightly and saw a woman push the door open and step inside.
"**Ojaer**, you shouldn't stay in the bath too long." The woman looked at the girl, a faint smile on her lips, and placed a bath towel on the small stool within the girl's reach beside the tub.
She seemed more like a girl herself than a woman.
She appeared to be around twenty years old, her short hair dyed silvery white, giving her a crisp, efficient look. Only the slightly faded ends revealed the original dark brown color beneath, but this did nothing to dim the brightness in her eyes.
Raising a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she rolled up the sleeves of her dark top, crouched down, and picked up a white washcloth from the edge of the tub. Wetting it in the warm water, she gently began to wash the little girl's back.
"Hey, you have a little birthmark on your right shoulder."
"Really? I do?" The little girl turned her head, slightly surprised.
"Yes, you do." The silver-haired woman smiled softly, gently wiping her down with the cloth. "But don't worry, it's very small, like a little cherry. I think birthmarks are a special mark a mother gives her child."
"A mark?"
"Yes. In case the child ever gets lost, the mother can always find them by the birthmark." The woman's voice was tender. "You are a very special child."
Hearing this, the little girl beamed a radiant smile.
"------" A jarring telephone ring cut their conversation short.
The woman put down the wet washcloth, casually dried her hands on her clothes, and turned to retrieve her phone from her shirt pocket.
"Hello, this is **Lorraine**... What? Right now? But I took leave today to spend time with my sister... Yes, I understand. Don't worry, Chief, I'll be there as soon as possible."
Lorraine hung up and let out a sigh.
She turned to look at Ojaer and shrugged helplessly.
"Did something happen again?" Ojaer tilted her head, a look of concern on her face as she watched Lorraine.
"Things have been busy at the precinct lately... Early this morning, some citizens found two suspicious individuals. Both were covered in blood and showing symptoms of severe muscle weakness. The precinct is short-staffed, and the Chief wants me there right away..." Lorraine crouched down, her eyes filled with guilt as she stroked the girl's hair. "I'm sorry, Ojaer. I promised we'd paint together and bake a cake on your birthday."
"It's okay. I can go buy a cake from the shop downstairs later."
Lorraine pressed her lips together slightly. "Alright. I'll leave some money on the table. Be careful when you go out."
"Don't worry, I'm not six years old anymore!" Ojaer grinned.
"True, you're seven now." Infected by the girl's bright smile, Lorraine relaxed and stood up. "Remember to blow-dry your hair after the bath. Your clothes are on the rack beside you."
"Okay." Ojaer waved her small hand. "Goodbye, big sister. Be careful."
"Goodbye."
Lorraine turned and left the bathroom, a faint sense of unease flickering in her heart—*Why did both of us instinctively tell each other to 'be careful'?*
But the question lingered in her mind for barely two seconds before being forgotten. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
Lorraine walked into the living room, threw on her dark jacket hanging on the wall, and put on her shoes. Bending down, she retrieved a pistol from a hidden compartment in the entryway, tucked it securely into the small of her back, and headed out the door.
*Click.*
The sound of the front door closing was the last sound in the living room, and then, silence fell once more.
---
**Urban District · Police Precinct**
Four or five police cruisers were parked outside the precinct. Though it was just the start of the workday, the station was already a hive of activity. Officers hurried in and out—some carrying files, some escorting handcuffed suspects, others patiently answering phones... They moved with crisp, efficient steps, clad in their dark uniforms and black caps, fully immersed in their duties.
Past the bustling office area lay a corridor on the left side of the station.
At the end of the hallway, a group approached. Leading them was a pot-bellied detective chief, followed closely by an officer. Behind them walked three doctors. The group of five came to a halt at the corridor's end.
"Here." The Chief handed a folder to the officer behind him—an officer whose face was wrapped in bandages. "I've called Lorraine. She's on her way. Once she arrives, she'll coordinate with you... Early this morning, citizens found two individuals covered in blood in different blocks. One was a young girl, the other an adult male. The girl was brought here to the precinct as she was closest. The adult male has been taken to the hospital. I've assigned **Colin** to the hospital case. You'll be working with the doctors to investigate the girl's situation."
The officer listened to the Chief's instructions and followed his gaze toward a little girl in a white dress sitting on a bench in the hallway.
Her posture was slightly contorted. She slumped against the backrest, her right arm dangling limply over her abdomen, her lower body twisted askew, while her head was turned rigidly to the right. From a distance, she looked like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
She was staring silently out the window at a towering spire in the distance. Then, a black sedan pulled up to the curb, catching her attention. Her dark red eyes narrowed slightly as she shifted her distant gaze to the vehicle parked outside, a thoughtful expression on her face.
The girl looked young, barely thirteen. Her brown hair was spread loosely over her shoulders, a few messy strands hanging over her forehead and partially veiling her left eye. She wore a simple white dress, an anklet adorning her left foot, the frayed hem of her skirt reaching her knees. A large patch of dark blood stained the white fabric from her chest down to her upper abdomen. From afar, it looked as if a massive red spider lily had bloomed grotesquely across her front—a sight of eerie, unsettling beauty.
"----- Move it!"
An officer marched a suspect past the girl. She lifted her eyes, meeting the prisoner's fierce glare. The man was roughly twenty-seven, gaunt, with a crew cut and a prominent, vicious scar running from his right eyebrow all the way down across his lips to his left jaw. Their eyes met for only two seconds before the scarred man was shoved onward and disappeared down the opposite end of the corridor.
...
The girl watched his departing figure out of the corner of her eye until the sound of both his and the escorting officer's footsteps faded completely into silence. Only then did she withdraw her gaze.
"...That's the situation. She's been sitting like that for an hour." The Chief sighed and turned his attention back to the officer beside him. "We sent someone to question her earlier, but she wouldn't say a word. See if you can get anything out of her... Report to me immediately if anything unusual happens."
"Yes, sir." The officer nodded and glanced at the doctors behind him. "Let's go."
"Right."
Carrying their medical equipment, the doctors followed the officer toward the girl. Behind them, the Chief hitched up his trousers under his protruding belly and turned to leave the hallway.
*Tap, tap...*
The sound of approaching footsteps reached her left ear. The girl blinked, and in the next moment, the sunlight warming her skin was blocked by looming shadows.
More people coming to interrupt her solitude.
They stopped before her. The three doctors in white coats surrounded her first. They crouched down, frowning as they examined her, attempting to adjust her contorted posture into a more upright position. But within a second of letting go, her limp body slumped sideways again.
One doctor retrieved a small reflex hammer from his kit to test her knee-jerk response. Another used a penlight to pry open her left eyelid, checking her pupillary light reflex. A third doctor twisted her arm slightly, evaluating her bicep reflex.
The girl passively allowed their prodding, remaining completely silent and offering no resistance.
"...Doctor, how is her condition?" The officer stood behind them, watching the examination with confusion.
Hearing the voice, the girl looked up. She noticed for the first time the officer behind the crouching physicians—a man whose face and neck were completely wrapped in gauze bandages. The white dressings obscured his features entirely, leaving only his eyes and mouth visible. This piqued her curiosity, and she stared at him as if observing a freak.
"...Sigh."
The doctors, after a thorough check-up, only grew more bewildered.
"Her condition is strange. No external wounds, skin intact, pulse normal. All basic vital signs are present and within normal ranges..." one doctor murmured. "But where did all this blood come from?"
"A female officer already examined her body earlier and found no injuries either. As for whose blood this is, that's still under investigation." The officer consulted the folder in his hand.
"Officer, the muscles in her head are intact and exhibit normal reflexes. But from the neck down, her body shows symptoms consistent with severe myasthenia. Skeletal muscles and smooth muscles have lost contractile ability. Both innate and acquired reflexes seem absent. She doesn't respond to pinpricks. Patellar reflex, biceps reflex, triceps reflex, abdominal reflex—all normal physiological responses are gone... Essentially, her symptoms resemble those of high-level quadriplegia."
Another doctor shook his head as he spoke.
"Quadriplegia?"
"For example, patients in severe car accidents often suffer spinal cord damage resulting in complete paralysis below the neck."
"But what's strange is that her spine is perfectly intact." Another doctor bent the girl slightly forward and palpated her vertebrae. "Cervical, thoracic, and lumbar continuity and structure are all normal... No fractures, ruptures, or severance. This doesn't look like post-traumatic quadriplegia."
"...Could it be drug-induced?"
The three doctors considered this in silence, then shook their heads again.
"While there are certainly drugs that reduce muscle tone, a substance capable of so precisely incapacitating everything below the neck is exceptionally rare. And such drugs would be strictly controlled by hospitals; the average person couldn't get their hands on them."
The investigation hit a dead end. The four of them stood in silence, no one speaking for a moment.
Finally, one of the doctors broke the quiet.
"Officer, we're physicians, but we can only perform preliminary examinations here. For a full assessment of potential nerve or organ damage, she needs a complete workup at the hospital... An ambulance is parked outside the station. We'll go prepare to transport her."
"Alright." The officer sighed and nodded.
It seemed that was the only course of action for now.
The three doctors packed up their medical kits and left toward the entrance, discussing possible diagnoses in hushed tones. The long corridor was suddenly left with just the officer and the girl.
The officer shifted his attention back to the girl on the bench, his mind turning over the facts. *(My colleagues are already cross-referencing the city's basic resident database. We should be able to confirm her identity soon by matching age and appearance.)*
*(The blood on her clothes has been sampled and is being sourced... Though the amount of blood is horrifying, it's already dry, meaning it happened sometime last night.)*
*(She's only thirteen. Could she have witnessed a murder scene, been discovered by the killer, and attacked, losing her mobility as a result?)*
*(But if that's the case, why didn't the killer silence her permanently? Why abandon her in a public block? A busy street guarantees she'd be found quickly... That doesn't align with typical homicidal psychology.)*
The officer frowned, crouched down, and silently observed the girl on the bench.
"...I've heard that police officers are good people. You'll protect me, won't you?"
Their eyes met. Unexpectedly, the girl spoke.
The officer was momentarily stunned but quickly recovered—this was the optimal moment to gather information.
"Yes. Protecting citizens is our duty... Little girl, do you remember who did this to you?"
He straightened her collar for her and smoothed down the hem of her white dress.
He knew such gestures could help bridge the distance between them, perhaps calming her enough to lower her guard.
"...Yes, I remember." The girl nodded slightly.
Her voice was hoarse, the muscles controlling her vocal cords possessing barely a third of their normal strength. But her gaze upon him was fixed and piercing, as if trying to see through the secrets hidden beneath his bandages.
"Who did this to you?"
He pressed further, but she sealed her lips and offered no reply.
*(Is she still afraid?)*
*(...Don't rush it. Take it slow.)*
With that thought, the officer softened his tone and changed the subject.
"Little girl, do you remember where the blood on your clothes came from?"
"...Yes."
"Is it yours?" he probed, testing her memory.
"It's not my blood." This time, she gave him a clear answer. "It's their blood."
"Theirs?"
"When I killed them, the blood spattered onto me. I didn't have time to change before the game ended." The girl's calm voice relayed the chilling sentences. "And now, a new round of the game has begun."
She looked at him as if hinting at something deeper.
But he could not pierce the hidden depths of her dark red eyes. He only felt a cold shiver creeping up his spine.
"...Who are you? Where are your parents?"
"Parents... what are those?"
"Your mother and father. They created you, brought you into this world, raised you, taught you to walk, taught you to speak."
"...I don't remember any players like that." The girl pondered for a moment, then shook her head. Looking him straight in the eyes, she answered earnestly.
Her reply was strange, illogical, disjointed.
Nevertheless, the officer jotted down their exchange in his notebook.
"Do you remember why you were found on the street? According to the citizen who reported it, he discovered you during his morning run. You were lying in the crosswalk of Block 12, nearly run over by a truck..."
"...What about you?"
"Me?"
"Do you remember why you're here... Arthur?"
The officer froze when the girl spoke his name.
"How do you know my name?"
"Your nameplate."
Prompted by her, Arthur looked down and saw the narrow nameplate pinned to his left chest, clearly inscribed: *Police Officer Arthur*.
"...Yes, I'm Arthur, an officer with the city police. The Chief assigned me to your case."
"Really?" The girl looked into his eyes. Those dark red irises seemed capable of peering straight into his soul. "Arthur, do you remember what happened yesterday? Or last year? Do you remember how long you've worked here? All those people coming and going, calling themselves police officers—do you actually know them?"
She spoke slowly, deliberately, each word landing like a blow to his chest.
Arthur froze.
He looked instinctively toward the bustling colleagues moving about the station. This should have been an easy question to answer. Yet now, he found himself speechless. Staring at those men and women, they suddenly felt as alien to him as if he'd never laid eyes on them before...
*Who... are these people?*
*Who, exactly?*
An inexplicable dread clawed at his heart. The notebook slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
Questions of who he was, where he was... they swirled in his mind once more.
A familiar yet strangely foreign sense of disorientation enveloped him again.
It was as if... he had asked himself these very questions before...
*Who am I?*
*Where am I?*
"I..." He grimaced in pain, fragments of unpleasant memories seeming to surface.
"Arthur, what happened to your face?" The girl asked flatly.
Though phrased as a question, her tone carried the weight of a statement.
Arthur lowered his head, his fingertips brushing over the gauze on his cheek.
"Does it still hurt?"
"A little."
"Who cut your face? Are you disfigured?"
This question struck directly at his core.
He tried to recall something, anything, but a sharp pain blossomed deep within his skull.
"...I don't remember."
"It seems they chose an interesting player for this game."
"What do you mean?" Arthur stared at her warily. "Who are 'they'? And why do you keep using words like 'game' and 'players'?"
"Tell me, Arthur..." The girl cut through his questions, her voice laced with cold. "Do you want to live?"
"What are you trying to say?"
The girl shifted her gaze away, looking out the window at the black sedan parked outside.
"That black car has been sitting there for half an hour, but no one has gotten out. They are watching you from the shadows. Observing you. Spying on you. Waiting for a moment when you let your guard down..." She paused and looked back at him. "Arthur, someone wants to kill you. Just a few minutes from now."