Qi Min was truly dead.
It took Qin Guan three full minutes to confirm this fact. She had been strangled during their struggle, throttled by his enraged, irrational hands.
He slumped off the bed, his mind blank. Everything felt like a nightmare. But as his heartbeat steadied, cold clarity struck: He'd killed her. His hands still spasmed from the force.
He couldn't recall why he'd gripped so fiercely—whether to silence her screams, punish her lies, or retaliate for her schemes. His mind churned with panic, regret, and hatred, a viscous sludge of emotions.
Numbly, he stared at her corpse. Her pale skin looked ghastly against the burgundy nightgown, like a horror film scene. Her wide, lifeless eyes held accusations he couldn't bear to meet. One strap had slipped, exposing a breast he'd once found alluring. Now it was cold, lifeless.
What now?
Reporting to the police flashed and died. A prison sentence meant losing everything. Impossible.
Five minutes later, rationality prevailed. He sat facing her corpse, elbows on knees.
First, erase all traces of himself.
Methodically, he analyzed escape routes. Luck had favored him: the taxi ride home earlier established an alibi. The security guard had seen him return. He'd sneaked out through the back exit, avoiding cameras—precautions meant to evade Xu Ruyi now shielded him.
No one knew he'd come here. The dilapidated Xinhe Hotel had no surveillance. The drowsy front desk attendant hadn't noticed him.
He fetched a wet towel and meticulously wiped every surface he'd touched—door handles, furniture. Even fist imprints mattered; he'd once won a case using such evidence.
But as he cleaned Qi Min's body, he froze. Under the bedside lamp, fresh scratches glared on his arm—her desperate nails had clawed him. DNA lurked beneath her fingernails. Irrefutable proof.
Cursing, he hurled the towel. Trimming her nails now was futile.
One solution remained.
Swallowing hard, he resolved: Make her vanish. Completely.
Just like last time.
But this time, he'd ensure nothing remained.