Klein lowered his head, staring in shock at the viscous dark-red liquid on his fingertips, mixed with grayish-white matter.
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He was no doctor, but he possessed this much basic medical knowledge.
If a human brain suffered a thumb-sized penetrating wound, the only outcome was becoming a cold corpse.
How could someone still be alive and kicking like him?
Could it be that he was no longer human?!
At that thought, Klein's expression changed again.
But the next moment, the intense pain at the side of his head subsided somewhat, replaced by a numb, itchy sensation.
In the mirror's reflection, the flesh around the wound on his head was wriggling. The shattered fragments of skull were squeezed together and fused by an invisible force, while fresh granulation tissue frantically sprouted from the edges of the wound. Hiss... What the hell was this thing?
Thinking of this, Klein hurriedly looked away from the mirror and back at the cluttered desk.
Beside that notebook lay a revolver in silence.
A faint trace of gunpowder smoke still lingered at its muzzle.
This gun had been fired not long ago—
Could it be the murder weapon?
With that thought, Klein looked again at the notebook written in Hermes.
"Everyone will die, including me."
The previous owner's handwriting, the fired gun, the hole in the previous owner's head.
All the clues connected, pointing toward a simple and obvious conclusion:
His predecessor had committed suicide, and had even left behind final words before doing so—
But why?
Klein forced himself to draw upon those memories that still did not belong to him.
Klein Moretti had been a typical bookworm.
A little introverted, with a small social circle, but he definitely could not be called reclusive.
He had an older brother and