Xia Yang, depicted in the red mural, was sitting on the sofa, turning his head to look back; Gao Ming in the real living room stood beside the sofa, facing the wall.
They looked at each other, the flowing red and the twisted dark dividing the scene.
Immersed in the painting, Xia Yang seemed to have become part of it; he smiled as usual, his gaze gradually shifting from Gao Ming to his own hands.
Those hands were not smeared with paint, but with fresh blood, each finger soaked with the victims' blood.
Gently taking a finger into his mouth, Xia Yang closed his eyes, as if savoring a certain sensation.
Seemingly struck by inspiration, he turned and walked upstairs.
"How did this come about?" Gao Ming knew that Si Shui had obtained a very special black-and-white memorial photo, but he hadn't actually seen the photo himself.
Approaching the mural, Gao Ming discovered that there were some discrepancies between the giant painting and reality.
