Ma En went home. In the days that followed, he didn't touch the book. The experience at the bookshop — unprecedented, uncharted — had installed a deep wariness in him. He'd bought it himself, but he wouldn't read it until he was sure his mental state was completely sound. He'd spent years chasing the bizarre, and he understood the other side of that pursuit: if he actually found what he was looking for, it probably wouldn't be good for him. His own theory held that the things beyond human comprehension were inherently dangerous — that was why humans had become creatures incapable of perceiving them. Humanity had limited itself, weakened itself, as a survival mechanism.

Years of ordinary living had taught Ma En not to expect sudden discovery. He'd even made peace with the possibility that he'd search his whole life and find nothing. Now he might have found something. And he understood, with absolute clarity, that he couldn't predict what deeper contact would bring. Part of him hoped the book was genuinely one of the bizarre. Another part was terrified it was.

The contradiction kept cycling — the urge rising, the will forcing it back. He lived his ordinary life for a while longer and let his emotions settle. The past. The present. That long, tedious daily routine, the monotonous civil service job he'd chosen and maintained on purpose — all of it began to feel like preparation for reading this book. In the rhythm of those repetitive days, he could feel his spirit accumulating. His will being ground sharp.

Half a year passed. He'd nearly forgotten the book existed when a phone call dragged it back to the surface.

The police. Asking about the bookshop. The reason wasn't clear, but it didn't sound like the owner had filed a complaint — what had happened between them hadn't really warranted one. The moment Ma En heard the call, he knew: this was about the bookshop, but it wasn't about arresting him. Something else had happened. Something serious.

The officer's voice was steady, but Ma En caught an undertone. The officer asked him to come in.

Ma En wasn't sure what had happened. He finished his work for the day as usual, then headed to the station after clocking out. Over the years, his search for the bizarre had taken him through plenty of close calls and more than a few encounters with police. Even in this city, he'd been to the station five or six times — not for anything mundane like an ID card, but for weightier matters. Like reporting a serial killer six months ago.

The station, judging by its layout and exterior, looked more like a large courtyard compound. Fire department on the left, civil affairs on the right, tax office a bit further along, and on the other side, small shops and noodle places — all blended into the residential area with nothing to set it apart. Even the sign and emblem weren't mounted prominently; they were just embedded in the wall. Unremarkable in every way. If you weren't a local, you'd need a while to find it. Supposedly the government planned to change that — make the station easier for citizens to locate — but after three or four years of good intentions, nothing had been done.

In other cities, police stations didn't look like this.

Ma En had no interest in whether the station would ever get a facelift. But on his way over, he'd begun turning over possibilities. He wasn't excited, exactly. But his heartbeat felt different from the other times he'd walked through these doors.

He arrived without stopping and was met by a familiar face — an officer he'd dealt with several times before, a man past 40. The serial killer report had gone to him too.

They were acquaintances, of a sort, but every time the old officer saw Ma En, the same feeling crept in: this young man was trouble. Not major trouble, not minor trouble — just trouble. As though bad luck clung to him and followed him into the station. The old officer wasn't complaining. He didn't think of himself as superstitious. It was just years of police instinct pulling an alarm.

And it always turned out he was right. This time, too.

"Little Ma. Have a seat." The old officer pushed open the door to a reception room, filled two cups at the water dispenser by the entrance, slid one across to Ma En, and sat down on the other side of the table. He was quiet for a moment, watching Ma En with sharp eyes, waiting for him to drain his cup — an old habit — before continuing. "That bookshop we discussed. You went there. Correct?"

"Yes. I said so on the phone. I got curious about the bookshop the perpetrator mentioned, so I went to have a look. Did you go too? How's the owner?"

"...Do you know why we went?" The old officer's tone tightened, loosened, then tightened again.

"I only know you weren't interested before." Ma En paused. "Something happened to the owner?"

"Yes." The old officer's voice dropped heavy. "The bookshop owner is dead. Body was found in his home. Already rotting."

Ma En's eyebrows rose. "The smell was that bad? When was he found?"

The old officer didn't elaborate on the body. Instead: "You visited that bookshop six months ago. The autopsy shows the owner died suddenly — that same night you left."

"Cause of death?" Ma En pressed.

"That's not something you need to know." The old officer leaned back. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

"Am I a suspect?" Ma En sounded more curious than concerned. The old officer studied him for a beat, then said: "Not exactly. But you were probably the last person to see him alive."

"If it's a murder case, being the last person makes me a suspect." Ma En didn't waver. He had no reason to. He knew he hadn't killed anyone, and he was certain what the police had found wasn't a homicide — otherwise the old officer wouldn't have said "died suddenly." He was starting to sense that this summons wasn't just routine. The old officer had something else on his mind.

"I'm not suspecting you. The coroner's already ruled it — this isn't a homicide." The old officer shook his head. "But my gut tells me it's not that simple."

"But there's no evidence," Ma En said quietly.

"That's exactly how criminals in movies talk when they're sure they'll get away with it." The old officer sighed. "You shouldn't use that tone."

"I haven't committed a crime," Ma En said. "I went in, bought a book, left a hundred-yuan bill. The bookshop owner, though — he seemed like he might have been on something. Started having an episode the moment I walked in. I couldn't be sure, so I paid and left."

"Drugs?" The old officer's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

So Ma En recounted the owner's behavior that day, everything as it happened, nothing held back. He didn't feel he needed to hide anything, though he was beginning to suspect the owner's breakdown might be part of the same bizarre things he'd encountered. But he hadn't read the book he'd brought home, and without that, he couldn't be sure. For a man living an ordinary life, all the speculation in the world was just self-indulgent fantasy.

The old officer listened, lighting a cigarette. By the time Ma En finished, the man was stubbing out his second. He ground the butt into the ashtray and fixed Ma En with a blunt stare. "We looked into you. We know you went to see the killer. Did he tell you what book he read?"

"No. He was barely coherent by then. All he remembered was the bookshop. The specific book, he'd forgotten."

"So you went to the bookshop to find a book you couldn't even identify?" The old officer's stare turned skeptical, but Ma En read it as a fishing tactic. He answered anyway. "Yes." Nothing to hide.

"And you found one? You did pay a hundred yuan." The old officer didn't miss a beat. "Even legitimate books rarely cost that much."

"I grabbed one at random. It's sitting at home. Haven't looked at it." Ma En kept his voice level. "Maybe I should take a look tonight. It did cost me a hundred yuan."

The old officer couldn't crack him. He shook his head. "You young people... everything you do is on a whim."

Ma En shrugged.

"The owner had his episode right when you got there?"

"Yes. He was in bad shape. I didn't have change, so I just left the hundred-yuan bill on the counter. He didn't take it?" Ma En's expression shifted — he'd caught something.

"No. He didn't." The old officer confirmed what Ma En had already guessed. "After he died, the shop sat untouched. When we went in, the bill was still there. Can't return it to you, obviously."

Ma En laughed. "That stopped being my money a long time ago."

"Hmph. Practically blood money for that poor man." The old officer scowled and lit another cigarette.

After a silence, he said: "You know what you did wrong. Don't you, young man."

"I do." Ma En didn't deny it.

The old officer held his gaze a moment longer, then laid it out in a hard, clipped voice: "You took items from a crime scene. You impersonated a connected party to visit a killer. When the bookshop owner collapsed, you didn't call for medical help. And there are smaller things on top of that. Considering you've been straight with me today, I'll let this one go as a warning. Next time, there will be consequences. Understood?"

"Understood." Ma En nodded without protest.

"You're a civil servant. Act like one." The old officer's tone didn't soften. "Lay off those unwholesome books. I don't want to be the one who drags you into a cell someday."

"It's not that serious." Ma En smiled faintly.

"Not that serious?" The old officer's eyes could have bored holes through steel. "Try me. How much of what the perpetrator said about a book making him kill — how much do you think was real? Personally, I'd say thirty, forty percent at least. Some books shouldn't be read, especially at your age. How old was the perpetrator? Thirty. That's barely older than you."

The questions came down like a barrage. Ma En took them calmly. He knew the old officer wasn't just speaking from duty — there was genuine concern behind it. The kind of worry you only got from someone who'd started to care.

"Don't worry. I know where the line is," Ma En said.

"...Good." The old officer smoked one cigarette after another. "That's enough for today. Go home, sleep it off, wake up tomorrow and forget the whole thing. See yourself out. I'm not walking you."

"Sure. You're busy." Ma En took one of the old officer's cigarettes without asking, picked up his briefcase and umbrella, and walked out of the station.