Chapter 4: Autocorrecting Reality (Or: "How My Novel Started Editing Me")
Today had not been a good day.
Ji Xiahan’s eyes had twitched more in the past 12 hours than in his entire life.
It started with autocorrect. “Cadaver” became “notebook”— turning his manuscript into a surrealist farce: “The notebook’s limbs were scattered across three locations.” “I buried the notebook where no dogs would find it.”
Ten pages. Ten fucking pages of this.
Then, the microwave betrayed him.
His instant noodles—the only edible thing in his apartment—exploded thirty seconds early, spttering broth like arterial spray across his st clean white shirt. The stain resembled a Rorschach test he refused to interpret.
And then.
The TV flickered to life on its own, volume bring: “POLICE HUNT SERIAL KILLER” —followed by a methodically familiar crime scene description. -Victim’s name: Li Xiao -Dismemberment pattern: Three burial sites. A different body part missing from each victim.
The reporter’s mic picked up a detective’s voice in the background: ‘Gou, we’ve got another—’
His editor chose that moment to text:
“Your vilin’s realism is uncanny! Ever considered consulting for criminology lectures?”
Ji Xiahan’s ughter sounded hollow, even to himself.
His phone buzzed again. Another editor message: “P.S. The police called today. Asked if you do ‘field research’ for your books. Told them you only drink coffee and hate nature. ??”
The smiley emoji blinked like a warning siren.
Ji Xiahan shivered.
This was far worse than a fine.
Then, an audio message from the editor:
“Ji, the police loved your book! They want to hire you as a case consultant. Congrats!”
In the background, a familiar voice (Gou Ming?) remarked:
“Never seen an author research so… thoroughly.”
Ji Xiahan looked down at his open manuscript.
The paragraph about stabbing a monkey was now underlined in red.
Outside his window, a bck car parked across the street. The door opened.
No one stepped out.
“Well. What must be, will be.”
Denial was pointless.
At least Ji Xiahan was utterly convinced of his innocence. They couldn’t accuse someone without evidence, right?
He took a deep breath.
Before leaving, he emptied his pockets: No receipts (paper trails). No keys (metal jingles). Just a pocketknife (always a pocketknife).
The icy doorknob burned his palm.
It was just paranoia…
…Until the day it wasn’t.
He descended the stairs, heart in his throat.
He’d been invited for “coffee.”
---
Later, after being dropped off in front of the city police station, he was escorted deep into the building.
After a brief wait, a man entered.
Tall, wearing a bck coat, his face unreadable. His eyes carried the weight of exhaustion.
"I read your 'novel.'"
His voice was gravel-deep.
"A fan?" Ji Xiahan offered a faint, almost provocative smile.
"I suppose you know why you're here."
The man sat across from him.
"Who is Li Xiao—or 'Li Xu'? I'm sure you know the answer better than I do."
Li Xu was the name of the first victim in Ji Xiahan's novel. A fictional someone.
Li Xiao was the name he'd heard on TV this morning. A very real someone.
"Officer, I don't understand why I've been called here to discuss my novel?"
Ji Xiahan pyed dumb.
"Your novel depicts scenes only someone involved would know. Vividly."
It didn't work.
He was cornered.
"Novels are pure fiction; one cannot assume any alignment with reality is anything beyond coincidence."
Ji Xiahan studied the man opposite him—and froze.
The man was smiling.
Shit.
Before he could spin tales for this absurd situation, a third person barged in.
"Gou Ming, what the hell are you doing here?"
The voice was gruff, disrespectful.
"You're just a contracted auxiliary detective. Who said you could interrogate suspects like a real cop?"
Gou Ming?
Ji Xiahan's eyebrow twitched.
This was Gou Ming?
He tapped a finger against the metal table and sighed.
This was becoming problematic.
Gou Ming sighed.
"Fine. I'm leaving."
He stood, adjusted his coat, and strode toward the door. Pausing beside the newcomer, he muttered:
"How's your nose?"
"You—!"
Gou Ming left, shutting the door pointedly behind him.
The newcomer—who Ji Xiahan now recognized as the corrupt superior Gou Ming had punched in his novel's opening—plopped into the chair irritably. He sat down irritated, asked standard questions—the kind Ji Xiahan actually knew how to answer—requested his phone number, and sent him away.
The exchange sted barely five minutes.
Returning home, Ji Xiahan's mind raced.
Had his novel become reality? Some prophetic dream?
A coincidence?
He had much to deliberate.
Half an hour ter.
The apartment smelled of the instant noodles that had exploded earlier, and the metallic tang of Ji Xiahan's sweat as he flipped through the printed manuscript. The pages whispered like dried skin peeling from a corpse.
A shiver ran down his entire body.
There.
A crimson underline slithered across a paragraph he didn't recall writing:
"The first cut is the deepest—unless you count the fourth, when the bone begins to show."
His fingers hovered over the stain. Too red for ink. Too thick. He pressed a fingertip to the page. It came away damp.
The fshlight on the table buzzed in solidarity.
---
Outside, the bck car's engine purred like a contented predator.
Gou Ming turned to page fourteen of his own copy, its margins bleeding with annotations. But his version only contained what had been published online.
Mysteriously, today's events had been recorded and published without Ji Xiahan's knowledge.
"Liar," he'd scrawled beside the writer's alibi.
Then, a margin note reading 'How do you know what I see?' with the word 'see' violently underlined.
He'd been busy since st night, appearing everywhere possible to catch even a glimpse of a clue with his past-seeing ability.
It was a race against time, doomed to fail.
But not without hope.
Li Xiao had been a literature student. According to his phone records, he'd been reading Ji Xiahan's books. That's how Gou Ming had gotten his hands on this "novel."
Ironically, he'd ended up as the 'first victim Li Xu'—perhaps because their names were simir?
Now, Gou Ming had to determine what role this Ji Xiahan pyed in it all. Where was he gathering material for his novel? How did he know about Gou Ming's ability? How did he know what transpired in his visions?
Any one of these questions stole the breath from his lungs, made it hard to breathe.
Gou Ming shifted gears, started the engine, and gripped the steering wheel.
He couldn't rest yet.
---
