Not sure for what purpose, but the corridors winding around this building don’t have smooth, rounded corners—instead, they’re almost right angles, jutting out awkwardly. Not only do they look ungainly, but when someone reaches a corner, their view is blocked by those protruding, bucktoothed angles. If two people happen to approach from opposite directions, it’s all too easy for them to bump into each other.

William Sherman led the way in front, Logan Sullivan followed closely behind him, holding the cat, and Charles Gray brought up the rear. As they drew closer and closer to that corner, Charles Gray suddenly had a feeling—as if something might suddenly emerge from the shadows there. At this point, he couldn’t pay attention to the conversation between the other two at all; he just stared fixedly at that corner—the dim light slanting in from the awkwardly angled window stretched the window frame’s shadow long across the floor, creating a shifting boundary between light and dark.

Then, Charles Gray noticed that at the edge of that shadow… something was moving.

It was as if someone hiding there was secretly poking their head out, and then… what seemed to be a hand appeared!

Chapter 5: The Reincarnation Sundial Four …

The hand that emerged from the shadow suddenly spread its five fingers wide and grabbed fiercely at William Sherman’s foot. William Sherman looked down in front of himself, completely unaware.

Logan Sullivan suddenly reached out, grabbed William Sherman’s arm, and yanked him half a step back.

“Oh right, I just remembered something,” Logan Sullivan said as he casually flicked some ash from his cigarette into the shadow. The black hand in the shadow seemed to get burned and instantly shrank back. He spoke urgently, “My memory, honestly. This case was transferred in a rush, and I need to know how the school can cooperate. I should talk to your principal or the party secretary—could you help me get in touch with them?”

Only then did William Sherman finally glance at him, and Logan Sullivan noticed that the corner of William Sherman’s eye narrowed into a fine line from the outer edge, long and elegant, like the hazy flourish left by a brush loaded with ink at the end of a stroke. Behind the clear lenses, that slanting gaze almost seemed to reach into one’s heart.

In the dim corridor, that look suddenly brought to mind the portraits of scholars in supernatural tales—after a female demon’s heart is stirred, she paints the scholar’s likeness on paper. Even if the person in the painting is as bright as the moon and gentle as jade, they can’t help but be tinged with a trace of the artist’s own otherworldly aura.

Then, William Sherman smiled. “You’re right. I really can’t be of much help here—might even get in the way. The offices to the south are all for the math department; you can just go in and ask around. I’ll go speak to the principal.”

“Thanks.” Logan Sullivan pulled his hand from his pocket and shook hands with William Sherman with a cheerful smile, said a casual goodbye, then waved to Charles Gray, turned around, and swaggered off toward the other office area with the intern in tow.

But after just a couple of steps, Charles Gray couldn’t help but look back.

He saw that William Sherman hadn’t left. The man with glasses stood where he was, took off his glasses and held them in his hand, absentmindedly wiping them with the corner of his shirt. The eyes that had been evasive just now were now fixed intently on Logan Sullivan’s back. That gaze was deep and distant, dark as night. His expression seemed full of longing, of restraint, with a kind of affection that was about to overflow… and perhaps also a profound pain.

William Sherman’s shadow stretched long behind him in the dim corridor, looking both lonely and desolate.

Charles Gray had a strange feeling, as if he had been standing there for thousands upon thousands of years.

William Sherman kept watching Logan Sullivan until he turned the corner, and only then did he notice Charles Gray looking back.

The young professor gave a polite smile, put his glasses back on—as if putting on a mask of indifference—nodded to Charles Gray, then picked up his teaching materials and disappeared into the elevator, as if everything that had just happened was nothing but the nervous intern’s imagination.

“Director Sullivan, that person just now…”

“Didn’t you notice this isn’t actually the so-called ‘math department’ office?” Logan Sullivan interrupted, running his hand along the dusty windowsill and idly rubbing the dust between his fingers, his face expressionless. “We’ve been led astray. Do you think it’s a coincidence, or did that Professor Sherman do it on purpose?”

Maybe it was because Logan Sullivan looked young, or maybe because he was always so easygoing and friendly, but Charles Gray was gradually getting a bit bolder. He asked, “Then why let him go? I mean, if he brought us here on purpose, why…”

Logan Sullivan held a cigarette in one hand, the other in his pocket, and turned to look at him through a haze of smoke. Charles Gray fell silent at once.

“He’s an ordinary person. I already checked. You’re new, so it’s fine if you don’t understand these things—we’ll teach you as we go.” Logan Sullivan’s voice dropped. “Here in China, our rights are basically the same as those of colleagues in other departments. Without evidence, we can question people, ask for cooperation, be suspicious, even detain someone for questioning according to the law. But there’s one rule: you absolutely cannot detain an ordinary person at any dangerous scene without authorization. If something happens, no one can bear that responsibility.”

His tone wasn’t harsh—if anything, it was gentle. But maybe because the corridor was so chilly, Charles Gray couldn’t help but shiver.

With his back to him, Logan Sullivan continued, “You can probably imagine, most of our cases can’t go through the normal prosecution process. So in some situations, we have the authority to execute offenders—‘people’—on the spot. That kind of power… can be dangerous. That’s why we have a set of rules we must follow. Do you know what the first rule is?”

Charles Gray shook his head awkwardly, then realized the other man couldn’t see him with his back turned, and his face flushed bright red.

“No matter if you’re facing a human or a ghost, as long as there’s no solid evidence, you have to presume them innocent.” Logan Sullivan patted the black cat’s rear. “And you, you fat idiot, what were you trying to do just now? You were fawning so much you looked like a dumb dog.”

The black cat smacked him with a paw and jumped out of his arms, strutting ahead of the two with an air of indignation. “I just thought that Professor Sherman was a bit odd. I can’t say exactly what, but being near him made me feel very comfortable.”

Logan Sullivan pointed out coolly, “You also feel comfortable around wandering spirits—especially when you’re burying dried fish in corpse pits.”

The black cat flicked its tail dismissively. “You know that’s not what I mean, you stupid human.”

Charles Gray: “…”

The corridor grew darker and darker, as if they were walking into a tunnel with no end. Logan Sullivan took a lighter from his pocket and, with a “click,” lit it. The tiny flame danced uneasily in the darkness, quietly tearing a small hole in the endless black.

The smile had vanished from the man’s face. In the firelight, his face looked unhealthily pale and a bit tired, but his gaze was intensely focused, as if it were deeper than the surrounding darkness. A rotten smell drifted from the depths of the dark, and Charles Gray couldn’t help but cover his nose.

“I hate these circular corridors,” Logan Sullivan said softly. “I hate anything round—life and death, over and over, never-ending.”

Charles Gray’s nerves were stretched to the limit by his words. Just then, he suddenly heard a “click” in the darkness. In a flash, Charles Gray couldn’t help but think of the sound of a bullet being chambered on TV. Before he could ask, he felt something gently blow on the back of his neck, and he jumped up in fright. Then he heard Logan Sullivan say, not too loud or too soft, “Get out of the way.”

The tone was as casual as if he were just carrying a plate of hot dumplings and telling someone to move aside so they wouldn’t get burned.

Luckily, before he could say anything, Charles Gray had already leapt out of the way in terror.

A gunshot rang out in the darkness. Charles Gray heard a heart-wrenching scream behind him—if he had fur, it would have stood up higher than when the fat cat Darrin Grant got its butt touched. His wildly pounding heart made his chest feel hollow, and Charles Gray almost thought he’d been scared into a heart attack.

He sat on the ground and looked back in a panic. By the faint light from Logan Sullivan’s hand, Charles Gray saw a black shadow on the wall, about the size of a five- or six-year-old child. At first glance, it looked like someone had splashed ink on the wall. In the center of “its” chest was a “bullet hole,” and from there, a patch of blood-red was spreading outward, as if it could bleed.

“What is that?” Charles Gray asked in a voice he barely recognized as his own, shrill with fear.

“Just a ‘shadow’—don’t get all worked up.” Logan Sullivan reached out and wiped the black shadow on the wall. The blood-red liquid followed his fingertip, flaking off like old, damp plaster.

“Wh-what kind of shadow is that?”