Chapter 3

I found it somewhat amusing in my heart. When did my father become so superstitious?

Out of curiosity, I walked over and took out my phone to snap a photo of the beads.

Then I sent it to Zachary.

With a teasing caption: "Look, my dad's new find. Says it's made from animal bones, can ward off evil and protect the home. Pretty cool, right?"

Zachary video-called back almost instantly.

When the call connected, his face on the screen was deathly pale, with the police station dormitory in the background.

"Sophia, listen to me. Come back quickly. Don't make a scene."

I was startled by his appearance, my heart jumping to my throat again.

"What's wrong? Don't scare me."

"Those aren't animal bones!" Zachary's voice was urgent, so urgent it frightened me. "I got a perfect score in my forensic medicine elective! I couldn't possibly be wrong!"

"Look carefully at the bone structure and density! And that patina color from long-term handling!"

"Those are human bones!"

"And judging by the size, they're finger bones from a minor!"

A boom echoed in my brain, everything went blank.

The phone nearly slipped from my hand.

Human bones...

Finger bones from a minor...

I froze, cold spreading from the soles of my feet straight to the top of my head.

Behind me, heavy footsteps suddenly sounded.

The wooden floor made creaking sounds, especially jarring in the silent night.

My father's ghostly voice came from right behind my ear:

"Sophia, who are you talking to so late at night?"

In that instant, every hair on my body stood on end.

I stiffly pressed the disconnect button and turned around.

My father stood in the shadows, half his face hidden in darkness, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

He was still holding that mug printed with a cross.

"Dad..."

I forced out a smile.

"No... nobody."

"Just venting to a coworker about the company making us work overtime."

I didn't dare look at him. As I spoke, I quickly put the bead string back in its original place.

When my fingertips touched those cold beads, it felt like touching a dead person's hand.

My father didn't speak, just stood there quietly watching me.

I held my breath, palms full of cold sweat.

Time seemed to freeze. Each second felt as long as a century.

Just when I was about to suffocate, he suddenly grinned.

"City bosses are all heartless. If you don't want to work, then quit. I'll take care of you."

Those yellowed teeth, stained from years of smoking, looked particularly sinister in the dim light.

"Go to bed early. Stop playing with your phone."

I don't remember how I walked back to my room.

The moment I locked the door, I leaned back against it, gasping for breath, cold sweat instantly soaking through my clothes.

That night, I was trapped in nightmares.

I dreamed those human bone beads turned into tiny skulls, crying and screaming around me, demanding my life.

I dreamed that the couple beaten to death at the village entrance—the "human traffickers"—crawled up from the ground covered in blood, their withered hands grabbing my ankles, calling me "daughter" over and over.

I also dreamed Zachary was locked in a rusty iron cage, his tongue cut out, only able to make muffled sounds as he looked at me in despair.