"Who is it?"
Klein was still thinking about the mysterious suicide of this body's original owner — and the possible danger waiting for him — when a sudden knock hit the door. His muscles tensed automatically. He opened the drawer, pulled out the revolver, and called out warily.
The other side stayed quiet for two seconds. Then a slightly sharp voice, carrying an Awwa accent, answered,
"It's me. Mountbatten. Bitsch Mountbatten."
A brief pause.
"The police."
Mountbatten… that name rang a bell.
Klein immediately pictured him — the officer in charge of this street. Rude, violent, always ready to use his fists. But honestly, maybe only a man like that could keep this neighborhood's drunks, thieves, and hooligans under control.
And that voice — yeah, unmistakable.
"Okay, I'll be right there!" Klein called out.
He almost put the revolver back into the drawer, but froze. He had no idea why the police were here. What if they searched the room? Or worse. Acting fast, he went to the stove — the fire already out — placed the revolver inside, tossed in a few pieces of coal, covered it, and then set the kettle on top like nothing happened.
After that, he straightened his clothes, walked to the door, and muttered under his breath, "Sorry, just woke up from a nap."
Outside stood four policemen in black-and-white checkered uniforms, peaked caps lined up neatly.
Mountbatten, with his rough brown beard, coughed.
"These three inspectors have something to ask you."
Inspectors? Klein's eyes flicked over their shoulder insignias. Two of them had three silver hexagons, one had two — all higher ranks than Mountbatten's three chevrons.
Right. Mountbatten always bragged about being a "senior sergeant," but clearly, these guys outranked him.
So, real inspectors, huh?
Klein quickly stepped aside. "Please, come in. How can I help you?"
The leader — a middle-aged man with sharp, intelligent eyes — scanned the room like he could see through walls. Wrinkles gathered at the corners of his gaze, and a bit of light brown hair peeked from beneath his cap.
"Do you know Welch McGovern?" he asked in a low, heavy voice.
"What's wrong with him?" Klein blurted before thinking.
"I'm the one asking the questions." The man's tone cut through the air.
The inspector beside him — also with three hexagons — smiled politely. "No need to be nervous, Mr. Klein. Just routine questioning."
He was in his thirties, with a straight nose and gray eyes — the calm, unreadable kind that made you feel like you were standing at the edge of a deep, still lake. Not comforting. At all.
Klein inhaled and tried to sound composed.
"If you mean Welch McGovern — the Khoy University graduate from Constant — yes, I know him. We were classmates under Senior Associate Professor Quentin Cohen."
In the Loen Kingdom, Professor wasn't just a title but a position — basically, the boss of a department. Only one per department. Everyone else waited for the job to open up… or found a way to "encourage" the current professor to retire early. Eventually, the kingdom added Senior Associate Professor as a consolation prize for the smart but unlucky ones.
Klein paused, glanced at the inspector again, and said,
"To be honest, we got along pretty well. Recently, I'd been visiting him and Naya often. We were studying a Fourth Epoch notebook he owned. Did… something happen to him?"
The middle-aged inspector looked sideways at his gray-eyed partner.
The gray-eyed man spoke softly. "I'm sorry. Mr. Welch passed away."
"What?" Klein's voice came out louder than intended.
He'd had a bad feeling before, but still—
Welch died? Like the original owner of this body? Great. Fantastic.
"What about Naya?" he asked quickly.
"Ms. Naya has also passed away," the gray-eyed man said evenly. "Both were found in Mr. Welch's home."
"Killed?" Klein asked, though he already had a bad guess forming.
Maybe suicide…
The inspector shook his head.
"No. All signs point to suicide. Mr. Welch repeatedly struck his head against the wall. The wall was… covered in blood. Ms. Naya drowned herself — in a washbasin."
Klein's stomach turned.
"That's impossible…"
His scalp prickled as the mental image hit: a girl kneeling over a basin, brown hair swaying slightly in the air, her body perfectly still. Welch lying on the floor nearby, eyes wide, face a ruined mess of blood, the wall behind him streaked red.
The gray-eyed inspector continued, "We think the same. But the autopsy ruled out drugs or external force. No signs of struggle."
Before Klein could say anything, he went on, casual but observant:
"When was the last time you saw either Mr. Welch or Ms. Naya?"
He exchanged a look with the youngest inspector — the one with two hexagons.
That one looked about Klein's age, with black sideburns, green eyes, and a poetic sort of charm. The kind of guy you'd expect to write sonnets, not interrogate people.
Klein thought for a moment.
"It should've been June 26th. We were reading a new chapter of his notes. After that, I went home to prepare for my interview on June 30th — at Tingen University's History Department."
Tingen — the city of universities. Two major ones, Tingen and Khoy, plus technical schools, law schools, business colleges. Second only to Backlund.
As he finished speaking, he caught movement in the corner of his eye — the young inspector walking over to his desk. And picking up his notebook.
Oh, come on! I forgot to hide that!
"Hey!" Klein shouted.
The young man smiled, flipping through the pages anyway. The gray-eyed inspector said mildly,
"This is a necessary procedure."
Mountbatten and the lead inspector just stood there watching — neither stopping nor helping.
Search warrant? Klein thought bitterly. Right. Loen doesn't even have those. The police force here's barely older than me.
Helpless, he watched as the young inspector flipped through his notes — until the man stopped, frowning slightly.
"What's this?" he asked. "'Everyone will die, including me.' What's that supposed to mean?"
Oh, great.
Klein's brain spun. Isn't that common sense? Everyone dies except gods! He almost said it out loud but bit it back. Time to improvise.
He covered his forehead dramatically.
"I don't know. Honestly, I don't. When I woke up this morning, I felt… off. Like I'd forgotten something. Especially recent stuff. I don't even remember writing that."
Sometimes, the best lie was one that sounded like a confession. And Klein, veteran keyboard warrior that he was, knew how to sell it.
Mountbatten snorted. "Ridiculous! Do you take us for fools?"
His expression screamed this lie insults my intelligence.
"I'm telling the truth," Klein said, steady and serious, meeting both his and the middle-aged inspector's eyes.
He wasn't even lying, technically.
"Maybe you are," the gray-eyed inspector said slowly.
Wait, what? He bought that? Klein blinked in disbelief.
The man smiled faintly. "An expert will be here in two days. She should be able to help you recall your lost memories."
An expert? Like, psychology expert? Klein frowned.
Fantastic. Can't wait for her to find the part of my memory that says 'actually from Earth.'
The young inspector put the notebook back and moved on to the bookshelves. Thankfully, he didn't think to lift the kettle.
"Well, Mr. Klein, thank you for your cooperation," the gray-eyed inspector said finally. "Please don't leave Tingen for the next few days. If you must, inform Inspector Mountbatten. Otherwise, you'll be treated as a fugitive."
That's it? No more grilling? No trip to the station? Klein blinked, caught between relief and confusion.
Still, he nodded. "That's fine."
The inspectors left one after another. The young one — the green-eyed poet type — lingered just long enough to pat Klein's shoulder.
"It's really something," he said softly. "You're lucky."
"Huh?" Klein looked at him, confused.
The inspector smiled faintly. "Usually, everyone involved in a case like this ends up dead. We're glad to see you alive."
He walked out and closed the door gently behind him.
Usually… everyone dies?
Very glad that I'm still alive? Fortunate that I'm still alive?
On that June afternoon, a chill crawled down Klein's spine.