[Old City Prison]

The prison's architecture resembled a medieval castle, with its grand hall and entrance flanked by fifty-meter-high walls. At regular intervals along the walls, manned watchtowers stood in coordination with drones for joint surveillance.

Above the walls, an invisible electric grid or some kind of alternative membrane seemed to hover, faintly shimmering in the light.

A black sedan, adorned with gray stripes and a metallic cap-like ornament on its roof, slowly made its way along the solitary road, eventually stopping in the desolate prison parking lot.

Two pairs of black leather shoes stepped out simultaneously from the driver and passenger sides, though the sizes of the shoes differed significantly.

Both individuals were clad in black trench coats, with badges bearing eye-shaped insignias pinned to their chests. However, the materials and colors of the badges varied slightly.

The driver was a young man who appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, his youthful features betraying his inexperience. The moment he stepped out of the car, his attention was completely captured by the imposing prison.

In contrast, the middle-aged man who emerged from the passenger side wore a perpetually weary expression, his face marked by deep eye bags. Stretching lazily, he gave the impression of having slept through the entire journey.

Rather than looking at the prison, the middle-aged man turned his gaze toward the "rookie" beside him.

"Are we really this short on manpower?"

The raspy rhetorical question was like an arm reaching out from a crack in a stone wall, pulling the young man's attention back from the prison.

Scratching his head sheepishly, the young man replied, "Mr. Anderson, you fell asleep the moment we got in the car... My name is Zhang Chi, from the Behavioral Science Department. The Minister assigned me to accompany you on this 'prison visit.'"

"Bring the bird. Follow me."

Zhang Chi looked puzzled. "Do we really need a bird in a high-security prison like this?"

Anderson seemed unwilling to explain further. From the inner lining of his coat, he retrieved a metallic container resembling an egg.

With a mechanical precision, the "egg" opened, and a bird resembling a parrot emerged, perching itself on Anderson's right shoulder.

Zhang Chi followed suit, activating a similar device to summon his own bird, which settled on his shoulder.

Thus, the two men, one leading and the other following, stepped into the foreboding gates of the prison.

---

[Maximum Security Detention Area]

After verifying their identification, surrendering their weapons, undergoing blood tests, and completing psychological evaluations, they were led by a fully-suited prison guard deep into the facility. They passed through the mixed-use general area, where the atmosphere was chaotic yet relatively open.

Crude jeers and vulgar remarks echoed from the open cells of the general area as inmates took notice of the two visitors, who, dressed in formal attire and devoid of any protective gear, were a rare sight.

Beyond the general area, they traversed a fully enclosed corridor, descending fifty meters via a spiral staircase at the end.

They arrived at the deepest section of the Border City Prison—a place avoided by both guards and the general population of inmates.

This was the Maximum Security Detention Area, reserved for prisoners who had committed atrocities that defied the bounds of execution-worthy crimes. These individuals were not only unimaginably dangerous but, for reasons unknown, could not be allowed to die.

"Mr. Di has been transferred to the 'communication chamber.' Your visitation time must not exceed fifteen minutes. If any dangerous incidents occur, we will immediately terminate the session."

Anderson clasped his hands together, cracking his knuckles, and gave a word of caution to the young man beside him.

"Zhang Chi, I’ll handle the conversation from here. Do not speak to Mr. Di unless I explicitly permit it. Avoid making eye contact with him as much as possible."

"Understood. I'll focus on taking notes."

Zhang Chi had already pulled out his department-issued notebook, ready to meticulously document the upcoming conversation.

"Let’s go."

They passed through the final transition zone.

A new type of bulletproof glass served as a barrier, isolating the prisoner within.

This was Zhang Chi's first field assignment, and the prospect of interacting with such a criminal made him understandably tense. He had done his research before arriving and was well aware of the kind of dangerous individual he was about to face.

The file referred to him as a "demon."

This moniker came from a survivor's account, which described the perpetrator of a massacre not as a human, but as a devil with flaming eyes and curved horns.

[Traits: Violent Tendencies, High Intelligence, Lack of Humanity, Superhuman Physique]

These labels, recorded in the file, were etched clearly in Zhang Chi's mind.

However, when Zhang Chi peered through the glass, he saw only an ordinary young man performing standard push-ups.

No curved horns. No red skin of a demon. Just black hair and yellow-toned skin, much like Zhang Chi himself.

Even as the visitor's presence became apparent, the man inside continued his push-ups, silently counting under his breath.

"198, 199, 200..."

After finishing two hundred push-ups, "Mr. Di" slowly stood up.

He had deliberately dressed in a white shirt and slacks to greet his "guests," though his shirt was now soaked with sweat from the exercise.

Zhang Chi's first impression of the man was one of friendliness.

But upon closer inspection, Zhang Chi quickly discerned an intangible sense of danger lurking beneath the seemingly amiable demeanor, prompting him to heighten his vigilance.

At that moment, "Mr. Di" shifted his gaze toward Zhang Chi, their eyes meeting.

Despite his exemplary academic record and near-perfect practical training scores, Zhang Chi felt a cold sweat break out across his back. Nevertheless, he maintained his composure, politely nodding in greeting.

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Using the nod as a pretext, he buried his head in his notebook, jotting down his immediate **impressions**.

"Mr. Di, we’re here to request your assistance in analyzing a special case."

Anderson took the lead, sliding a prepared document onto the scanner. A duplicate copy was soon delivered to Mr. Di.

It took him only three minutes to skim through the file before stacking the pages neatly and holding them in his hand.

Their conversation was entirely soundproofed, with communication transmitted via electronic signals.

Even after processing, Mr. Di's voice carried an unsettling quality. Though it came through their earpieces, it felt as if it were emanating from the depths of the earth.

"It’s been a while since I’ve had young visitors. I can help you analyze the case, but on one condition. Talking to an old man like Anderson speeds up my aging process. Let the young one discuss the case with me."

Anderson, well aware of the prisoner's temperament, knew that outright refusal would likely render the trip futile.

He turned to Zhang Chi, who was busy taking notes.

"Remember, keep the conversation strictly case-related. Avoid sharing personal information at all costs. I’ll be monitoring everything. If anything inappropriate comes up, I’ll terminate the session."

Zhang Chi, as a formal agent of the Behavioral Science Department, understood that interacting with criminals was an integral part of his future work. Without hesitation, he accepted the task.

Anderson stepped back, leaving the space to the two younger men.

Zhang Chi did not rush into conversation. Closing his eyes, he seemed to engage in a peculiar form of internal communication with something deep within his mind.

When he reopened his eyes, the hesitance of a rookie was gone, replaced by a steely determination.

Just as he was about to speak to the criminal behind the bulletproof glass, the man greeted him with a friendly wave, his right hand moving in a fixed rhythm.

The earpiece transmitted the sound of his voice, now noticeably more affable.

"Come closer..."

The words seemed to seep into his thoughts.

But Zhang Chi remained motionless, warding off the mental pull of the man’s voice with sheer willpower.

The earpiece buzzed again. "Oh? Impressive. A promising rookie. But if you don’t step closer, there’s no point in talking to me."

"Step forward," Anderson’s voice instructed from behind.

Reluctantly, Zhang Chi inched closer, stopping a meter away from the glass.

"Ahem, Mr. Di, I’d like to discuss—"

Before he could finish, the earpiece interrupted him.

"What’s your name?"

Realizing he hadn’t introduced himself, Zhang Chi was about to respond when the voice interjected again.

"Zhang Zhen... No, wait. Let me guess—Zhang Chi, am I right?"

"Yes."

Just as Zhang Chi was about to steer the conversation back on track, the man across the glass interrupted again, delivering his analysis of the case outright:

"This 'Butterfly Killer' will strike again within three days. It's highly likely that the next victim is already in his custody. Investigate the areas where his second or third crimes took place, and look into missing obese males aged 45 to 55. You might find some clues."

While offering his analysis, Mr. Di folded the document in his hands with an almost artistic precision.

"Thank you."

Having obtained valuable information, Zhang Chi decided not to linger any longer. He could sense something dangerous brewing.

Just as he turned to leave, a voice came through his earpiece once more: "So, when do you plan to commit your first murder?"

"What?!"

"Let me rephrase that—when did you first start feeling the urge to kill, Zhang Chi? Let me guess..."

Without hesitation, Zhang Chi yanked off the earpiece, severing the verbal connection with Mr. Di.

But the conversation was far from over. Instead, the voice became even clearer—not filtered through electronic signals, but emanating directly from behind him.

If the processed voice had sounded like it was coming from deep underground, then this unfiltered voice was like a fissure opening straight to hell, the raw sound of a demon seeping through.

"What?!"

Zhang Chi spun around in shock, only to find that the bulletproof glass separating them had vanished.

*Stay calm.*

A whisper in his mind instantly dispelled his panic. Zhang Chi quickly donned the black gloves that came with his trench coat, shifting into combat mode.

The trench coat, made of multi-layered flexible metal designed for tactical operations, could withstand medium-caliber bullets. Zhang Chi himself had achieved the highest scores in his training group during pre-employment combat tests.

He assumed a Mongolian wrestling stance, ready to subdue the unarmed prisoner before him.

Swish!

Something flashed before his eyes, too fast to see clearly.

In the next moment, he heard the sound of something hitting the ground repeatedly.

Looking down, Zhang Chi saw his ten fingers scattered across the floor, the combat gloves sliced cleanly apart.

The pain was excruciating—ten fingers connected to the heart—but his brain suppressed the sensation, his gritted eyes fixed on Mr. Di. He noticed that the document in Mr. Di's hand had been folded into the shape of a blade.

"Paper!"

There was no time to marvel at Mr. Di's methods. Zhang Chi adjusted his footing and swung his now fingerless hand with full force.

Smack!

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed.

But his palm never connected with Mr. Di. Instead, his wrist was caught in an iron grip, the sensation more akin to being locked in a searing-hot metal shackle than being held by a human hand.

"What kind of monster are you?!"

Zhang Chi refused to give up. He swiftly raised his leg for a high kick.

Thud!

This time, his kick landed squarely.

Yet the sensation transmitted back through his foot was as if he'd struck solid stone. Mr. Di remained motionless, his head tilted only about ten degrees.

Danger!

Zhang Chi felt an unprecedented sense of peril.

At the same time, the whispers in his mind grew louder, turning into a cacophony. It felt as though his entire face was about to split open.

Hiss... hiss...

Something resembling tendrils began to seep out from Zhang Chi's eye sockets and between his teeth. A crack appeared at the tip of his nose, as if his entire face was about to fracture, revealing something horrifying beneath.

Chirp! Chirp!

The incessant chirping of a bird broke through the chaos.

The bird perched on Zhang Chi's shoulder—the one summoned earlier—was flapping its wings frantically, trying to escape from its master.

Just as Zhang Chi was about to transform into some terrifying form...

Whoosh!

Something invisible struck him from the front, too fast for the naked eye to follow.

Zhang Chi felt a sharp intrusion in his mouth. The grotesque transformation of his face was forcibly interrupted, his consciousness rapidly fading.

Looking down, he saw the paper blade, folded from the document, lodged in his mouth and piercing into his brain, destroying a critical part of his neural tissue.

As he teetered on the edge of death, a fleeting moment of clarity brought back fragments of memory:

He recalled hearing faint whispers in his mind starting at some point.

He remembered how those whispers would sometimes make him act like a stranger to himself.

And he vaguely remembered... killing his girlfriend not long ago.

*Thud!*

His body collapsed heavily to the ground, pinkish fluid oozing from his mouth where the paper blade was embedded.

An agent had been killed.

Yet the prison alarms remained silent.

Only the bulletproof glass, now restored, descended once more from the ceiling.

Outside the glass, Mr. Anderson lit a cigarette at a leisurely pace, his eyes flashing with a hint of surprise—not at his colleague's death, but at how much stronger Mr. Di had become during his time in captivity.

Inside, Mr. Di crouched over the corpse, seemingly conducting an examination. He commented casually, "He didn’t even realize he had already 'changed,' achieving a perfect disguise... These things are evolving."

Anderson's voice came through the earpiece: "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Di."

"If you already suspected this man was compromised, why not deal with him internally?"

Anderson shrugged. "If word got out that we had an 'impostor' in our ranks, it would cause mass panic. Even a one-in-ten-thousand chance of that happening is unacceptable. By comparison, an agent being killed during a prison visit by a dangerous inmate? That’s much easier to explain."

"Is that so?"

Mr. Di suddenly stood up and pressed his face against the glass, as if he were about to break through it.

The sight made even the seasoned Anderson break into a cold sweat. "Mr. Di, rest assured, your assistance will not go unrewarded. The item you requested has been found."

Hearing this, Mr. Di immediately calmed down, stepping back and softening his tone.

"Is that so?"

Anderson pulled out a leather-bound notebook from inside his coat. It looked old and well-worn. "I’ll make a copy for you right now."

"No need. I want the original."

To Anderson's astonishment, Mr. Di held a handful of teeth—freshly extracted from the corpse—embedded between his fingers like makeshift tools.

Pressing his hand against the glass, he rotated it in a clockwise motion. The bulletproof glass was sliced open in a perfect circle.

*Clink, clink.*

The teeth fell to the ground at Anderson's feet as Mr. Di extended his hand in a "give it here" gesture.

This action triggered the prison's alarms, red lights flashing.

Yet Anderson did not retreat. Instead, he stepped forward and handed over the notebook.

The moment Mr. Di received the diary, he became "obedient," his attention wholly absorbed by the item.

He ran his fingers over the cover, even pressing it against his face to inhale deeply, as if savoring the scent of a lover's skin.

"Ah, no foreign scent, no signs of tampering. Perfect. Thank you, Mr. Anderson."

The visit concluded.

Anderson informed the prison authorities not to interfere with Mr. Di's diary under any circumstances.

Back in his room, Mr. Di carefully washed the blood from his hands and dried them with a towel.

Sitting at his desk, he gently lifted the cover of the diary with his finger, his eyes focusing on the words inside.

[Owner: Luo Di]

[Diary Start Date: June 10, 2026]

Day One: Clear Skies

As the words entered his eyes, Mr. Di's thoughts drifted back several years, to a unique and extraordinary time in high school.