Eu Não Sou um Detetive Genial

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Gangwon Province, Qingchang City.

In the haze between dream and wakefulness, Han Ling’s eyelids fluttered.

A splitting headache surged through him like a tide. Han Ling summoned all his strength to open his eyes, but the light was murky.

It wasn’t pure darkness, but a heavy, grainy grayness.

Two seconds later, the murkiness was replaced by a wash of white light. Gradually, shapes became discernible, and his vision sketched out the contours of the room.

It was a living room.

The headache slowly eased. Han Ling turned his head to widen his field of view, realizing he was half-reclined on the living room sofa.

Fragments of memory surfaced like wreckage hauled from the depths, merging together until Han Ling regained full clarity.

“I shot myself in the temple. And I’m still alive?”

“No, that’s not right!”

Han Ling’s expression flickered. Enduring the lingering pain, he sat up straight and looked ahead.

By the TV’s feature wall stood a full-length mirror, and in its reflection was… a stranger.

A strange face, an unfamiliar hairstyle, a body he didn’t recognize. He was dressed in a gray t-shirt and black pants, appearing to be in his early twenties.

It was uncanny.

Suddenly, the pain in his head intensified, far worse than before. Han Ling instinctively clutched his head, letting out a muffled groan.

This pain was peculiar—unlike anything he’d ever felt. It was agony laced with vertigo, as though he were strapped to a wildly spinning pendulum while sharp instruments churn