Wilson Yang would forever remember the events of June 9, 2002. It was just the beginning of the rainy season, with stifling heat and a light drizzle. In the afternoon, he patrolled his jurisdiction as usual, driving his police car. Suddenly, a message came through from the 911 command center: a child at the public phone in front of the county middle school reported seeing someone jump off a building in a suicide attempt. Wilson arrived at the scene within a minute; after all, the county was quite small.

A middle school student in an oversized beige uniform stood there, looking somewhat bewildered. Wilson found it odd that a suicide attempt would have only one witness. He slowly drove over, stepped out of the car, and informed the command center via radio that he had arrived. By this time, the young boy had noticed the police officer and appeared nervous.

"Did you make the report?"

"...Yes, sir."

"Where did it happen?"

The boy stared at the officer for a moment, then turned and pointed toward a distant, desolate building to the north.

"From the rooftop?"

"Yes, from the rooftop!"

The radio crackled, asking if they should call an ambulance. Wilson hesitated and replied, "Not yet. I'll assess the scene first."

Wilson knew that falling from there was likely fatal. But more importantly, he doubted the boy's account—such incidents usually attracted a crowd of onlookers. He vividly remembered a few years earlier when the county's deputy mayor had leaped from the 25th floor of that perpetually unfinished building. It had happened during the afternoon dismissal, and at least dozens of people had gathered to watch.

The boy climbed into Wilson's police car, and they drove north toward the first high-rise in Green Valley—the 27-story "Bi Lan Building." 

As they approached the building, the only elderly security guard happened to be absent. The structure was surrounded by a high wall, impossible to climb. This exaggerated wall had an interesting backstory: When the building contractor fled with the money, the county government struck a deal with the disgruntled laborers who had been demanding their unpaid wages while brandishing shovels and sticks. The government promised to pay most of the owed salaries, but in return, they required the remaining bricks and cement on the construction site to be used for building a protective wall. The purpose? To prevent scavengers or thieves from trespassing. County officials speculated that the building would remain vacant for quite some time, even though it was now filled with surplus wooden boards and aluminum panels originally intended for interior renovations.

In just a few days, the workers constructed a wall rivaling that of a prison. They worked diligently, anticipating that the county government might renege on its promise, ready to storm the government offices and confront the officials. However, the wages were eventually paid, and compared to the massive investment that had gone down the drain with the abandoned building, the labor costs were negligible.

County leaders dismissed concerns about people scaling the wall to scavenge, believing it unnecessary. Yet, the day after the high wall was erected, the deputy county mayor inexplicably leaped from the 25th floor, landing face-up on the ground. Soon after, rumors of the building being haunted circulated. According to local school gossip, the deputy mayor's eyeballs—dislodged during his fatal fall—were often found in the grass near the building. Wilson never believed in ghosts, but he could confirm one detail: as a forensic team collected the body in plastic body bags, he sat on the second floor eating his boxed lunch, observing that the corpse's eyes were indeed missing.

The large lock on the iron gate had rusted, but Wilson noticed that the adjacent smaller door had no lock. He pushed it open. As a police officer, he didn't need permission from anyone to enter. The young boy followed him inside.

Suddenly, Wilson realized he hadn't asked the child's name. He inquired, and the boy replied that he was Jack, an eighth-grader from the nearby school. Jack seemed like an honest kid, but could he truly have witnessed someone jumping? Wilson debated whether to ask the boy to wait outside—seeing a gruesome scene might frighten him—but then thought better of it. After all, a little exposure to the world wouldn't hurt.

"Did the person jump from this side?" Wilson asked.

"No, it was the other side. And they were wearing… what looked like a translucent gray raincoat."

"You saw that clearly?"

"Well, I can't be entirely sure."

"Are you certain it was the rooftop and not somewhere else?"

"Yes, definitely from the rooftop. No mistake."

Wilson harbored doubts. The stairs leading to the building's roof remained unfinished; the temporary construction elevator had been dismantled when the workers left. Most people could only ascend to the 25th floor, which explained why the deputy mayor jumped from there rather than the 27th. Regardless, Wilson led the boy around, scanning the grass for any signs of flies or other disturbances.

Then, a sharp crack underfoot—a pale safety helmet. Birds scattered from an unknown floor, alarmed by the sound.

"Kid, there's no body here. We've circled the entire place."

"But I did see a figure jump from above," Jack insisted. "Wearing a gray, semi-transparent raincoat." "A figure? Earlier, you said it was a person. How did it become a figure?"

"Could they have fallen outside the wall?" Jack persisted.

"Don't overthink it. Let's go. Nothing's changed here since a few years ago."

"Could it be—"

"Absolutely impossible! There's not even a trace of blood on the ground."

Jack fell silent, sensing the towering officer's annoyance. He followed Wilson toward the exit.