Twenty-One Password

When I saw those peeping eyes, I was not only frightened, but instantly understood what was happening. Jin Ze was right—this person wasn’t in my house, but upstairs, connecting to my Wi-Fi. Truly an elusive pervert.

Without a word, Jin Ze dashed out. After all, it was only one floor away; if he moved quickly, he might catch him, or at least glimpse his face. I followed immediately—not because I feared being alone, nor out of worry for Jin Ze, but from an instinctive sense: if I didn’t confront this voyeur soon, he’d scare me to death eventually. Rather than let him toy with me, I’d rather take the initiative.

By the time I reached the upstairs apartment, Jin Ze had already unlocked Zheng Wei’s door. He really did have Zheng Wei’s key.

But when I tried to step inside, I noticed Jin Ze’s body stiffen, as if he’d seen something so horrifying it stunned even him.

Curious, I rushed in. The sight before me made me gasp, mouth agape in shock.

A corpse slumped in front of the sofa—a woman, but her head had been severed. Even so, I recognized her instantly: it was Chen Jing, the mistress of this house, who had committed suicide with concentrated sulfuric acid. Her charred, rotting skin and burned chest were unmistakable. The body looked freshly removed from cold storage, a thin layer of frost melting on the surface, leaving a faint sheen of water—an eerie sight.

I was bewildered. Hadn’t the police taken away Chen Jing’s body this morning? How had it returned, seated in the spot where she died?

I glanced at Jin Ze, who immediately called Fang Qinghe to report the situation, instructing someone to check the morgue surveillance at the station.

News came quickly: the police station didn’t have a proper morgue, only a small cold room, unsuitable for long-term storage. Chen Jing’s case wasn’t particularly significant—she’d killed herself—so she hadn’t occupied the police cold room for long. By evening, her body had been transported to a dedicated mortuary elsewhere.

Clearly, her corpse had been stolen there—a lapse on the police’s part. They’d assumed it was suicide, with no further connection to the perverse killer.

So the question arose: if it was suicide, and the body so disfigured, why had the pervert stolen Chen Jing’s corpse, brought it back, and decapitated her? What was he trying to do?

While I pondered, Jin Ze searched the other rooms, but unsurprisingly found nothing. The criminal had already left—so calm it was chilling. It felt as if he lurked behind us at all times, knowing our every move, always leading us on, yet never allowing a direct confrontation.

In the end, Jin Ze resealed the hole. As he crawled out from under the bed, his body suddenly stiffened, as if struck by a realization.

He strode quickly into the living room; by the time I followed, he was already seated on the floor beside the sofa, right next to Chen Jing’s headless corpse—not on the sofa, but the floor, as if joining her.

Honestly, I was stunned. I wondered if Jin Ze had gone mad, but I didn’t ask. I stood at a cautious distance, alert—if Jin Ze snapped, I’d bolt at once.

Jin Ze ignored me, sitting there with his head raised, staring at the nearby wall. He didn’t seem insane, so I softly asked what was wrong. He beckoned me to sit beside him; I did, still unsure of his purpose.

Soon, Jin Ze spoke: “Chen Mu, if you were this corpse, what would you see?”

I instinctively replied, “A corpse can’t see anything. Jin Ze, aren’t you an atheist? Besides, Chen Jing’s head’s been cut off—what could she possibly see?”

Jin Ze shook his head. “Not what I meant. Suppose Chen Jing were alive and sitting here—what could she see? Why did she choose to die here? I once thought it was an ordinary suicide—that she despised her skin, ruined by corpse-oil perfume, and killed herself in a twisted manner. But it’s not so simple. If the killer brought her back and placed her in the exact spot where she died, this place must be significant—there may be a clue.”

His reasoning struck me as sensible, so I looked in the direction Chen Jing faced: just a table, a standing air conditioner, then a wall. Nothing special.

Jin Ze soon stood, examined the air conditioner, then moved to the wall, and tapped lightly on it.

Suddenly, I understood—Jin Ze suspected something hidden in the wall, just like when he previously discovered the basement guarded by the wolf dog.

But this time, no luck. The wall was solid, nothing unusual. Jin Ze returned to the sofa, growing more unsettled. He soon took out his phone and played the video of Chen Jing’s suicide from that morning.

I watched with him. Even seeing Chen Jing’s suicide with concentrated sulfuric acid again made my heart race—it was terrifying. Yet, I couldn’t deny her voluptuous figure, strikingly sensual, with tattoos suggesting a less-than-proper woman. Watching her aroused a certain desire.

Suddenly, Jin Ze paused the video, startling me: the screen froze as Chen Jing flashed a bizarre smile at the camera. Her smile was uncanny—she seemed in mortal pain, yet smiled abruptly, as if communicating with someone.

Jin Ze stared at the image. “I may have been wrong—Chen Jing wasn’t looking at the wall, but at something in the camera’s view.”

He stood up and went to the wall behind us—the one directly opposite the suicide video’s camera.

I turned to Jin Ze; he stood before a wall with a different finish, covered in decorative panels. He pried several panels loose, revealing a hidden compartment—a concealed closet—with a safe inside.

At the sight of the safe, I instantly understood.

Jin Ze squinted, “As I thought, Chen Jing’s death wasn’t ordinary suicide nor murder. She must have crossed someone—or some organization. She knew death was inevitable, but didn’t want it to be in vain. By leaving a suicide video, she meant to provide a clue for someone she cared about, or the police. That clue is probably in this safe. The killer brought her body back to reconstruct the suicide scene, hoping to check for any evidence left against him—just as he once retrieved something from Zheng Wei’s stomach. But this time he failed; Chen Jing hid the clue so well. I had to watch the video repeatedly and revisit the scene to guess it. The killer, for all his perverse calm, didn’t have the suicide video, so finding this safe was nearly impossible.”

Hearing Jin Ze’s analysis, my mind nearly exploded. Damn, Jin Ze was finally displaying his true ability—his intelligence and deduction were utterly impressive.

I moved next to Jin Ze, gazing expectantly at the safe. The clue inside could directly point to the killer.

Yet, at the final step, we were stymied: the safe was sophisticated, opening only by fingerprint or password. We had no password; the fingerprint was likely Chen Jing’s.

I looked to Chen Jing, but Jin Ze shook his head. “Impossible—her fingerprints were completely destroyed by the sulfuric acid.”

I sighed. “Then we’ll have to force it open.”

But Jin Ze said, “It’s not that simple. The safe may have a self-destruct device—forced entry could destroy it.”

I was dumbfounded. “Damn, Chen Jing was really something—she wanted to leave us a clue, but ruined her own fingerprints. How are we supposed to open it?”

As soon as I finished, Jin Ze suddenly turned to me, eyes shining with an excited gleam.

He said, “Chen Mu, your words helped me. I know how to open it.”

I was confused, but Jin Ze replayed the suicide video.

As he played it, Jin Ze explained, “You’re right, Chen Jing was conflicted. She wanted to leave us a clue, but feared the killer discovering what’s in the safe, so she’d rather destroy her fingerprints than let him open it. Maybe that’s why she chose sulfuric acid suicide. This killer is truly terrifying, to make Chen Jing so wary. But since Chen Jing wanted to leave a clue, there must be further details in the video we missed.”

Jin Ze focused on the video; I watched intently as well.

Chen Jing first dipped a brush in sulfuric acid and applied it to her chest—a scene I remembered vividly. Jin Ze replayed it back and forth; at first I thought he was ogling her breasts, but gradually I realized something.

Chen Jing wasn’t randomly brushing her body, but doing so with purpose. What seemed like twisted caressing was actually her writing numbers with sulfuric acid on her skin.

Eight—the number suddenly flashed in my mind. Yes, eight. Chen Jing wrote the number eight on her chest.

We continued to rewind and fast-forward, and in the seemingly chaotic brushstrokes, we found six numbers.

The password was 863828.