In that dire moment just now, the only solution Wen Yiqian could conceive was precisely this.
Though his acting left much to be desired, the fear of death swiftly eclipsed his sense of shame, leaving him no time to worry about appearances.
After all, the person before him was a character of his own creation—divining their thoughts was hardly a challenge.
What's more, he had written far too many scenes like this. The familiarity of the moment lent him a strange ease, as if instinctively drawing from muscle memory.
Had it been a novel, Wen Yiqian would have had ample time to reflect, to plan, to revise—undoubtedly crafting something far more seamless and exquisite.
But under such perilous, life-threatening circumstances, conjuring this strategy at all was already a remarkable burst of latent potential.
Wen Yiqian glanced down at his blood-soaked right hand, face contorted in pain.
As expected—no one thinks clearly when they're trying to show off.
Grabbing a blade barehanded... if he were given a second chance, he'd never have the courage to do it again.
Because—by God, it hurt.
Calling the police was, without doubt, the wisest course of action.
That said, with blood dripping from his hands and a knife still in his grasp, he did appear far more like a deranged killer than the woman tied to the ground, blindfolded.
…
Ditan City Police Station, inside the interrogation room.
"You again?"
"Perhaps I'm just cursed," Wen Yiqian replied, scratching his head as he looked at the two officers—one male, one female—before him.
It was his first time in a police station, and being scrutinized so intensely by the pair was more than a little unsettling.
The male officer appeared to be in his forties, dark-skinned with chiseled features and rough skin resembling the surface of the moon.
The female officer looked to be in her early twenties, delicate features, porcelain complexion—radiantly beautiful even without makeup, evoking that ineffable aura of first love.
With such distinctive traits, Wen Yiqian had little trouble deducing their identities.
The man was most likely Li Weiguo, head of Ditan's criminal investigation unit.
The woman was his assistant, An Zhi—the female supporting character in his novel.
In the story, the protagonist had once been framed for murder by a high-IQ psychopath and thrown into custody. Though he eventually cleared his name through cunning, it left a deep impression on these two officers.
"Alright, tell us—what have you gotten yourself into this time?"
"Uh… well… actually, I'm the victim."
"Right, you're the one who called it in. When we arrived, the supposed murderer was tied up, blindfolded, face-down, and—how shall I put it—rather indecorously positioned…"
"No, officer, please! Let me explain!"
…
In this case, Wen Yiqian was indeed the victim.
Though the details were a tangled mess, the police were no fools. After thorough investigation, the truth was finally brought to light.
By the time the paperwork was complete and he was cleared of suspicion, night had already fallen.
An Zhi was assigned to escort Wen Yiqian out of the station.
"To be honest, the way you handled that pervert in such a tense moment—pretty impressive," she said with a grin. "Though if you weren't this handsome, I doubt it would've worked as well."
"Er… thanks,"
In real life, Wen Yiqian was an introverted shut-in, and speaking with a woman this beautiful made him noticeably nervous, tongue-tied and unsure of what to say.
"Well then…" An Zhi bit her lip. "Should we… add each other on WeChat?"
Just as Wen Yiqian was about to nod, a sudden realization struck him.
He had borrowed a neighbor's phone to call the police.
Writers rarely bother detailing trivial matters like a protagonist's lock screen password—hardly worth the word count.
Wen Yiqian himself had glossed over it in the manuscript, using vague descriptions like "unlocked the screen" without ever specifying the digits.
Now, he regretted that laziness deeply.
His protagonist was cautious by nature—of course the phone had a password. But even Wen Yiqian, the author, didn't know it. He'd never bothered to invent one.
Worse still, there wasn't even a fingerprint unlock—another casualty of his habitual corner-cutting.
Now he was stuck: unable to access the phone, let alone add someone on WeChat.
He could only shake his head and murmur, "Better not."
"So aloof," An Zhi muttered under her breath, clearly disappointed.
Wen Yiqian flinched at the words. He longed to explain, but doing so would have felt… strange.
Asking her to jot down his number by hand? Unbearably awkward.
As both the author and the protagonist, he still carried a bit of that idol complex.
"Shall I leave you here?" An Zhi asked, pausing to check the time before pointing ahead. "The bus stop's over there. If you're taking the subway, head that way. It should still be running at this hour."
How is she this kind and this beautiful? Wen Yiqian marveled silently.
He glanced at her involuntarily, only to find her looking back at him. He quickly averted his gaze, lowered his head, and hurried away.
If he had to rate his own performance just now, he would've called it: introverted recluse, keyboard warrior, hopelessly awkward, and—utterly pathetic.
"Was I really that off-putting?" An Zhi murmured, watching him disappear into the distance. She glanced down at herself with a pout, visibly hurt.
…
"She's just a side character."
"A mere plot device."
"I'm not interested."
Wen Yiqian mumbled to himself like a deluded monk, making his way to the bus stop.
What's the cardinal rule of writing dark fiction?
No female leads. Ever.
In all his years of writing, Wen Yiqian had never spared the women in his stories. Female characters rarely met happy ends.
He was infamous for killing off sisters to fuel the protagonist's growth. So much so, readers speculated he harbored a deep grudge against women.
Characters like An Zhi were tools, nothing more. They existed to push the plot forward, then fall victim to psychos for dramatic effect.
But now that he'd actually met An Zhi in person, Wen Yiqian felt… conflicted.
She was so lovely, so vivid, so real—nothing like the cold symbols that once represented her on a screen.
If, one day, she were truly tortured and murdered by some deranged lunatic… he wasn't sure he could stomach it.
In fact, the thought of anyone suffering like that felt unbearable.
Despite his grim narratives, Wen Yiqian had a firm moral compass and a genuinely kind heart—he was, without exaggeration, a good man.
"Ye Gong loved dragons…" he muttered—a fitting metaphor for someone who adored darkness in fiction but feared its reality.
Shaking his head, Wen Yiqian tried to clear his thoughts.
He checked his pockets. Just his phone.
Who carries cash these days? With mobile payments ubiquitous, he hadn't even thought to bring any.
"Should I go back and borrow money for the ride?"
He considered it—then immediately dismissed the idea. His pride wouldn't allow it.
Scratching his head in frustration, he glanced around miserably.
"Wait… where exactly is my place again?"
"I'm the author of this world, the protagonist no less—and I still manage to be this pitiful?"
Boom!
A streak of lightning tore through the night sky, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Wen Yiqian shuddered.
"Is it… raining?"
He extended his hand. A single droplet landed in his palm.
Rainy days had always been his favorite.
Each rainfall carried with it a cozy, enveloping mood.
He'd written countless rain-soaked scenes, and without exception, they featured murderous lunatics.
"But the police station's right nearby. I should be fine, right?"
Still uneasy, Wen Yiqian turned to look back—only to realize that from this angle, the comforting silhouette of the station had long disappeared.