The weapon by the pillow

Chapter 1 The Third Dream

This is the thirteenth time.

Cheng Tan suddenly opened his eyes, like a fish that had fallen into an abyss being violently pulled up and thrown onto the cold riverbed.

This was certainly not a riverbed, but rather a single bed in Cheng Tan's rented apartment, soaked with his own cold sweat and fear.

In the darkness, the outline of the ceiling floated vaguely, like a huge tombstone, pressing heavily on his retina.

Cold sweat soaked through his cotton pajamas, clinging to his skin, both icy and sticky. He stiffly rolled his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the eerie green glow of the digital clock on the bedside table: 03:47.

It happened at this exact time, down to the second, like a persistent curse.

He slowly raised his right hand and held it out in front of his eyes. In the darkness, the outline of his hand was just a darker shadow, but Cheng Tan could clearly feel what remained on it.

The thing brought out of the dream still seemed to carry the sensation from ten minutes ago—sticky, warm, with a real, nauseating rusty smell.

There's blood on it. Blood from a dream. Blood belonging to that woman.

That woman.

He closed his eyes, trying to banish the face, but her features only emerged more clearly from the fragments of his memory. Pale and bloodless, as if covered in a thin layer of frost. Her eyebrows were faint, almost without curves. Her lips were chapped, slightly parted, frozen into a startled arc. Most chilling were her eyes, staring blankly at him, the depths of her pupils reflecting not fear, but a…heart-wrenching despair.

Every time I dream of her, it's the same face. Every time I dream of her, I'm the one ending her life with my own hands.

The only difference is the weapon.

The first time, it was a slender, gleaming icicle. He clearly remembered how he held that cold object, feeling it pierce his skin, penetrate his soft tissue, and finally stop with a dull thud on his bone. It was as if the chilling aura of the weapon still lingered on his fingertips.

The second time, it was a rough, black electrical wire, its outer layer peeled off. In the dream, the muscles in his arms ached from straining, and the wire dug deep into the woman's delicate neck, leaving a purplish-black indentation that almost rolled up the flesh. The other end passed through his palm, its rough texture seemingly still rubbing against his fingers.

The third time, the fourth time... the heavy thud of the wrench, the sharp cutting of the paper cutter, even a heavy, angular paperweight slammed into her temple with a dull thud...

Last night was the thirteenth night.

With his eyes open, he could clearly remember that in his dream, he was holding a huge pair of pliers. The cold metal jaws opened like the giant jaws of a prehistoric creature, precisely closing on the woman's slender left wrist. He could even hear the "crack" of bones breaking, each sound clearly piercing through the membrane of the dream and stabbing into his now-awake eardrums. The hardness of the jaws against the bone and the instantaneous sensation of it shattering were so real that they made his stomach churn.

Thirteen nights. Thirteen different murder weapons.

The same woman died at his hands in different ways.

Cheng Tan suddenly sat up in bed, his throat dry. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. The dim light pierced the darkness, instantly filling his small studio apartment and outlining the simple pieces of furniture: a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk piled high with books and odds and ends.

He threw off the covers, his bare feet stepping onto the cold floor. The chill shot up his spine, momentarily clearing his muddled mind. He almost stumbled towards his desk, haphazardly pulling open the drawers. A jumble of odds and ends spilled out: expired bills, crumpled supermarket receipts, several pens that had stopped writing, a few business cards… He rummaged through them roughly, his fingers frantically probing. Finally, at the very back of the drawer, his fingertips touched a cold object.

He took it out.

A pair of pliers.

The pliers, covered in years of grease and rust, lay heavily in his palm. The cold, metallic feel was so real that it almost made him feel disoriented. Looking closer, he saw a few dark brown spots stubbornly clinging to the inside of the jaws near the hinge. They were perhaps long-congealed stains, or perhaps... dried blood.

Cheng Tan's breath hitched; he could almost hear the sound of blood flowing from his forehead. It was terrifying…it really was that pair of pliers!

He vaguely remembered that it was left by the landlord, supposedly something left behind by the previous tenant. He had always kept it deep in the drawer and never paid it any attention.

Why this one of them?

Why did it appear so precisely in his nightmare last night?

Is it just a coincidence?

He stared at the few dark brown stains on the jaws of the clamps, and fragments of the touch, sound, and images from his dream surged back to him.

The strong, metallic smell seemed to drift back, lingering in my nostrils once more.

He slammed the pliers back into the drawer, hearing a muffled clang as if he'd thrown away a red-hot branding iron.

No. This can't go on. He'll be driven insane by these endless nightmares.

I have to find something to do, I have to get out of this room that's been filled with nightmares.

He hastily threw on a coat, grabbed his keys and phone, and practically fled the apartment.

Jiangzhou City was just waking up in the early morning. A damp mist hung in the air, carrying a slight chill. Dewdrops clung to the leaves of the plane trees lining the streets. Cheng Tan wandered aimlessly, his steps feeling unsteady, as if he were walking on cotton. The terror of the night and the lack of sleep left him with a splitting headache. The world before him seemed shrouded in frosted glass, its edges blurry and shimmering. He just wanted to find a place, a place with plenty of light and people, to temporarily escape the chilling fear that had seeped into his very bones.

Turning the corner, an old newsstand came into view.

He then remembered that as he walked through the old town, the green corrugated iron roofs, which were not commonly seen, were somewhat rusty, and the glass windows were covered with colorful magazine covers.

Looking over, the owner of the newsstand, an old man with gray hair, was wearing reading glasses and slowly sorting through the newly delivered newspapers.

Cheng Tan walked over almost instinctively. He needed something, anything, something that would allow him to grasp something of reality unrelated to his nightmares. His gaze swept over the newspapers displayed in the newsstand's window, lingering on the most inconspicuous stack. It was a local Jiangzhou weekly newspaper with a very small circulation, its paper rough and yellowed. He remembered that it specialized in collecting and organizing old stories, strange tales, or unsolved cases, selling them to readers with a thirst for the bizarre.

"Boss," Cheng Tan said in a hoarse voice, startling himself, "excuse me... could you give me one of these?" He pointed to the stack of old newspapers.

The old man glanced at his bloodshot eyes and pale face, said nothing, and handed him a newspaper. Cheng Tan paid by scanning a QR code, picked up the newspaper which smelled of old ink, and walked to a metal bench next to the newsstand where people could rest. He sat down.

A cool breeze brushed his cheek, slightly dispelling the daze. He took a deep breath, pulling himself out of his numb fear, and began to flip through the thick newspaper. His fingertips traced the rough paper, his gaze aimlessly sweeping over outdated headlines, tiny bulletins, and blurry pictures… Time rustled through the pages, the musty smell of the old newspaper slowly filling him with its scent.

However, when he turned to a certain page in the middle, his finger suddenly stopped.

This is a news report, very short. The title is in bold, carrying a sense of unresolved seriousness and a familiar, coldness:

[Woman found dead in rented apartment after 13-year unsolved case]