"I might have killed someone."
"This is a setup."
"I've called 911. They'll be here any minute. I need you to contact the company's legal team immediately."
"Tell my father to deploy every resource he has. We must suppress this. It cannot tarnish the family name."
The hand holding the phone trembled ever so slightly. Her eyes betrayed a flicker of panic, yet her voice remained exceptionally calm.
Her name was Winnie Pritzker, the eldest daughter of the Pritzker dynasty.
She oversaw hundreds of the family's luxury hotel chains and real estate holdings across America.
She never imagined someone would entrap her using such a crude method.
"Enrico, is this your doing? You despicable piece of trash."
Winnie forced herself to stabilize her emotions, her gaze shifting to the messy bed a few meters away.
On that bed lay the naked corpse of a man.
A paring knife was buried in the corpse's chest, staining the sheets and mattress crimson.
Her head was splitting with pain. She lifted her wrist.
10:57 PM.
She shook her head violently, trying to clear the fog. She only remembered a client arranging to meet at a nightclub earlier that evening. She had taken a single drink while waiting...
What happened after that was a black void.
She didn't know how she arrived at this hotel, nor why there was a dead man in her bed.
Looking around, this was clearly a flop house.
There were no bedside lamps, only torn curtains, a metal-framed bed, and a mattress so thin it sagged in the middle.
On the peeling, mottled walls hung several faded vintage posters, their edges curling and spotted with mildew.
The wall-mounted radiator rattled aggressively, emitting a terrifying whirring sound.
The cramped room was thick with the metallic scent of blood, though even that couldn't mask the penetrating odor of mold.
Hearing the faint wail of sirens approaching, Winnie dismissed the thought of running.
Perhaps the mastermind behind this setup wanted her to flee, giving the NYPD a reason to hunt her down across the city like a fugitive.
Winnie pushed open the creaking window, staring expressionlessly at the brilliant city lights across the street.
The cold wind bit at her skin, sharpening her mind and suppressing her earlier nervousness.
As the heir to the Pritzker empire, Winnie had seen the dark underbelly of the world, but this was the first time she had been thrown into the pit herself.
Although she might have killed someone, she wasn't frightened into paralysis.
She felt a burning, tearing pain in her lower body. Looking down, she saw scratches and hickeys marking her skin—injuries she noticed the moment she regained consciousness. She hugged her arms tightly around herself.
"Was it this bastard?"
Winnie slowly turned, fixing her cold gaze on the corpse.
"He raped me... and I killed him in a fugue state?"
She suspected her memory loss was due to being dosed with Rohypnol or a similar benzodiazepine.
Medically used for pre-surgical sedation, treating epilepsy, and insomnia, it carried the potent side effect of anterograde amnesia.
When abused, it caused the victim to experience brief mania or confusion, erasing all memory of their actions during the drug's window.
And her own younger brother, Enrico, was in charge of the family's pharmaceutical division.
Winnie knew the legal distinction between first-degree murder and accidental manslaughter well.
Moreover, the drug in her system wouldn't metabolize within a day. A toxicology report would be her strongest defense.
With enough compensation to the victim's family, this matter could be buried without ruining her.
As for the assault... that absolutely could not be known by the public.
"Ugh..."
A long, weak groan interrupted Winnie's chaotic calculations.
"Who's there?"
She stumbled back several steps in panic, her back hitting the wall, her heart hammering against her ribs.
In her retreat, she knocked over a chair, the dull thud echoing on the dirty carpet.
Being alone with a dead body hadn't frightened her.
After all, she might have killed him herself.
But if there was a third person hiding in the shadows... that was true terror.
Winnie scanned the room frantically but saw no one.
But she thought she saw... the corpse on the bed move.
"Water."
The weak voice rasped again.
It came from the corpse's mouth.
Winnie heard it clearly this time. She pressed her hands over her racing heart and slowly walked forward.
The room had only one ceiling light, casting a sickly, dim glow.
Rounding the bed, Winnie finally got a clear look at the young man's face.
He had a high nose bridge and deep-set features. The skin exposed by the thin blanket wasn't the pale white of an office worker, but a bronze tan earned from long-term exposure to harsh elements.
His shoulders were broad, his physique corded with functional muscle. Several grayish-white scars crisscrossed his abdomen and waist.
On his thick shoulder was a clear, flesh-torn bite mark. His chest was covered with numerous fresh scratches... and bright red hickeys.
"Gunshot wounds?" Winnie ignored the fresh marks, her eyes locking onto the old scars. A chill ran down her spine. "Who is he?"
"I want water. Why are you staring at my... body?" The young man suddenly opened his eyes, panting between words.
Winnie averted her gaze, looking around the room, but saw no kettle or cups.
She glanced at the knife sticking out of his chest and shook her head. "No."
At this moment, her composure cracked. She was terrified.
The young man didn't insist. His dazed eyes drifted to her face. "Called 911?"
"Mhm." For some reason, her voice was small and pitiful, devoid of the commanding presence she wielded in the boardroom.
"You... just hold on. The ambulance and police will be here soon."
The young man slowly moved a stiff arm, placing his hand near the wound and pressing gently.
"The blade entered at the wrong angle. The force was too weak. I won't die."
He pointed to a specific spot on his chest.
"To be fatal, it's best to stab near the midaxillary line, between the fourth and fifth ribs. That penetrates the heart directly."
Seeing he had the energy to critique her murder technique, Winnie finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Accidental injury was a much smaller problem than manslaughter.
"You stabbed me?" The young man flicked the handle of the knife, his eyelids twitching.
Winnie quickly interjected, "I really don't remember. It must have been someone else trying to kill you and frame me."
The young man mumbled a noncommittal sound. "Get a towel."
Winnie didn't understand, but she didn't question him. She hurried to the bathroom and returned with a rough, white towel.
The young man took it and inhaled sharply.
Winnie watched in horror as he began to wipe the handle of the knife with the towel.
He wiped it meticulously, his brow twitching with every movement.
His lips were pressed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring, but he didn't make a single sound of pain.
Watching this scene, Winnie felt a numbness spread through her scalp; the hairs on her arms stood straight up.
"It has your fingerprints on it," the young man rasped, tossing the towel aside and taking a ragged breath.
Winnie asked, shocked, "Why?"
"Later... I'll tell you." The young man slowly gripped the knife handle with his own right hand.
"You know who I am?" Winnie's expression shifted.
The young man didn't answer immediately. He panted twice, gathering strength.
"You must remember this. My name is Anthony Tarasov. I just returned from Afghanistan. You're my girlfriend. You broke up with me. I tried to kill myself."
Winnie froze.
Before she could process the alibi, the door was violently kicked open.
Four police officers stormed in, aiming Glock 19s at Winnie.
"Hands on your head! Now!"