The Good, The Better, and The Worst

(This story goes after the previous story, “Initialization.”)

Twenty years later, Lyoss Hildisvine could still remember the feeling when she, for the first time in her life, opened the sketchbook of her father, Ottar Hildisvine–which included the already world-famous cases that the great detective and writer had encountered in his colorful life, as well as those that were yet to be published–and when she first discovered the story of Simon Pang. Unpublished, here Ottar Hildisvine sketched his recount of Simon’s case and how it tied to another famous murder case that took place almost simultaneously. Here’s his sketches:

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

I just want to jot down my short yet if not forever remarkable encounter with the case of Simon Pang as soon as possible and as fairly as possible, just in case I change my mind later, or some other things bend my perspective, or my points of view become significantly twisted by these other ongoing cases. Recent times have witnessed these eccentric incidents taking place one after another, beginning with the Undead Clown, the (attempted) murder of Freya, which is noted right before the current writing, and now this one. By taking notes of what I already have so far, I wish to draw connections across and conclusions in between, so as to contribute to my proceedings with the other people now waiting to be interrogated. By saying all these above, I meant that my logic might be totally misty and nonlinear, as I just want to be carried by my recounting. 

I.               Simon Pang

It was eight days ago when we rescued and took Simon Pang into custody from the Dahlia Hotel in Midtown Manhattan. The questioning began immediately the next day. The first two days proved to be totally unfruitful. He refused to answer anything. Nor did he eat or sleep at all, and he did basically nothing except for drinking a light amount of water; yet he showed no sign of sickness and was totally alive and healthy. We called for everyone we found who was related to or who used to be closely related to him, and could be helpful, with many of them cooperating with us immediately. It looks like the incident really took everyone by surprise, and as it eventually turned out, not much–if any–of their information is useful. 

Simon, 26, was born in Shanghai, China. After graduating from high school in his hometown, he studied Economics and Information Science at Cornell University. By the time we caught him with a gun on the roof of Dahlia, he was working as a quantitative engineer at one of the biggest fund companies. He has worked there for two years. 

He spoke for the first time on the third day, as I changed my schemes for questioning. It was 9 AM, and I was sitting with him in the interrogation room. It was a bare interrogation room, and I had been asking the administration to decorate it and to make it like a lively, common living room–as my reasonings have been going, this place where we are using to host people is not a prison, nor a camp, but a place to heal and cure–only to be rebuked by that it’s this way for the sole purpose of efficacy and negative/provocative psychological cues. Anyhow, within the four metal gray walls we were sitting by a metal table, on those metal, postmodern chairs which, after the scientific revolution, became only functional and no more quaint. Between us was the gun he was gripping back on the rooftop. I then started recapitulating again: 

“Simon, I don’t know where to begin, so I brought you this, and I don’t know if it could remind you of anything. Three days ago, around midnight, you were holding this gun to yourself, with your partner Clara standing in front of you, around ten yards away. Do you remember what you did then?”

He was sitting there without a word. His body was swelling and shrinking as he breathed. His head was lowered, and he was half-curled up on the chair. His long, curled hair draped all over his forehead. I could not see his face. 

“Well, Clara is now still talking next to where we are, and she told me just now what she clearly heard and saw. You shot yourself with that gun four times. You shot yourself in the mouth, and you consciously shot yourself four times. You stopped very shortly after the first shot, as you thought you’d already be dead; then you shot three more.”

I tried to make my every word distinctively clear and heard. Of course, Clara was not there next to us; she confessed everything she remembered the previous day. But she was still reachable. And, of course, due to her absolutely shocked state and the complications involved in this case, she did not “clearly hear and see” those four shots, but this was perhaps the only sure clue we could grasp out of the total mist in this case. And perhaps the most mystifying clue. Four bullets with Simon’s blood were indeed found on the floor, and from her description, it was clear that Simon Chen shot himself through the mouth, at the edge of the roof. From the way Simon shot himself, no normal human could have survived even one bullet in this case. Yet here he was, sitting there quietly for three straight days, totally alive. What’s more absurd, then, was that his skull and palate were totally intact. There was no sign of bullets. He lived as if no bullets had ever gone through him.

And he was still stone silent. 

“But that is something we already knew,” I continued. “What’s new about your partner Clara, though, is that she told me that between the time you shot yourself and the time we arrived, you were standing there like a statue, with your eyes popped open and your mouth murmuring something repeatedly. She said you were murmuring something like–”

Simon coughed, and I knew he was about to say something. But I accelerated my speech:

“Something like, ‘I see! I see! It’s him!”

“Have you ever!” He shouted with a rich, coarse voice, but with his body unmoved. “Have you ever played Hopscotch, sir? Hopscotch?”

His answer was totally unexpected, and he spoke smoothly, like no bullets had ever run through his mouth. I went blank for a second, then gave the most natural answer.

“Why, of course I have.”

“So you’ve played Hopscotch, sir! I’ve played it too. We’ve all played Hopscotch. On the playground, it’s such a simple game. Jump on the squares, skip when you must. Follow a certain path, then you succeed, and people laugh; follow another, then you fail, and people laugh again. Whatever you do, the crowd keeps laughing. 

“But one day–one day, you trip–and fall outside the chalk. In an instant, the laughter stops. No one moves. Everyone stares at you. 

“You are not outside the game.

“For you have entered the larger grid. The one that was always there. The container. The grid too wide and too pale for children to notice. The grid that is always watching. The rule no longer speaks to you. The people no longer smile. There is no success or failure. There are only endless stares. Endless movement. You must play, play forever.”

“Simon,” I answered immediately. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Did you see people playing Hopscotch on the rooftop that day? Did it scare you in your childhood? You should at least give us some common ground to stand on.”

He went quiet. He was still as always, and I still couldn’t see his face. 

“Or do you mean that this story of yours has anything to do with what you saw that day? Did you see something that Clara didn’t see? Or, did you–” 

“What did she say to you?” He interrupts. 

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t my question clear? What did she say to you? What did she see?” He sounded irritated.

I didn’t answer this question. Nor did I expect him to tell me what he saw right away. At that point, I was merely trying to confirm Clara’s words, that he did commit suicide out of his own will, and that there was something, or even someone, that was with them when Simon shot himself, but that Clara failed to catch sight of. 

At this point, I halted our conversation for a while, as I was gathering what I already knew. I was convinced that Clara could have nothing to do with his suicide. Although, even before the confirmation of her words, I had already almost excluded her as a suspect. She had no reason to induce such an incident, and–from our conversation the previous day–she had every reason not to let Simon kill himself. 

II.             Clara Holloway

I was talking to Clara Holloway the previous day, and she was the first person I spoke to about this case. Clara Holloway was white, blonde, with the treacherous look of a rock band lead, and from Europe. She graduated from UCL and, by the time I spoke with her, had worked at Goldman Stanley’s TMT Team (also in Midtown, near the Dahlia Hotel) for three years. She sat with arms around her legs and was vaping the whole time. From her dissociated look, I could tell she was still recovering from the incident. 

“Please, tell me about it.” At one point, I asked. 

“About what?”

“About you and Simon. How you started, and what happened that day.”

“I don’t know. We just met for four days.”

“How did you meet?”

“Bar.”

“Alone?”

“With friends. Both of us.”

“Then?”

“Then my friends discovered he was looking at me. One of my friends knew him. So we played a game. I lost. So I went up to him.”

“That’s random.”

“Isn’t it?”

“So that was several days ago. What happened then?”

“That was a weekday. We met at the same bar twice before Saturday. Nothing else.”

“How did you like him?”

“He was great. He was unlike any other man I’ve met.”

“What did you do on Saturday?”

“We played tennis in the afternoon, ate; then we went to the show.”

“The show?”

“Aurobora’s show. Don’t you know about that?”

“Why did you guys go for that show?”

“Why not? And he’s been Freya’s fan for three years. That’s what he told me.”

Upon hearing Freya’s name, an almost insidious guess flashed through my mind. But I thought it was ridiculous then. So I continued:

“What did you guys do after that? It’s still two hours before the incident.”

“We drank and smoked. I was kind of high. He wanted us to go to his home. But we lived on opposite sides, and it was too far away. So I said we should spend the night at the hotel right across the street.”

“So you went to the Dahlia Hotel. Who booked the room?”

“Simon.”

That was 700 dollars a night. 

“And then?”

“I don’t know. I think we kissed all the way to our room. We made love on the floor. I… he… I then tried to shower with him. So I went and turned on the water. I waited for some time, but it was too long. Then I discovered he was no longer there.”

“You waited in the bathtub?”

“Maybe.”

“So then you went out to find him. How did you find him on the rooftop?”

“I talked to the lobby boy. He said nobody went down. Then he said maybe he went up for a smoke. I was too messed up to think, so I went up.”

“Where was he when you arrived?”

“He was sitting on the edge. He was sitting there, with–with a gun in his mouth. He was sitting there, and I–I don’t know…” Clara began to throb, with her eyes staring blankly forward. “I think I just, just ran to him, I think I was just shouting, and it was raining and, and I couldn’t see him clear, but I think he was staring at me when he–when he–”

“What did he–”

“When he shot himself! When he shot himself! Four times! Four times!” Clara furiously dashed off from her seat, rushed around the table, and stood in front of me. Weird as ever, she suddenly stopped there, ten inches in front of me, straight like a pencil, and was absolutely stiff. She stared right into my eyes, breathing heavily. “Then I thought he was dead. Then he dropped the gun. Then he gaped at me. Then he pointed the other finger towards me. Then I questioned.” Clara was uttering these words in a suddenly uncontrolled but amazingly smooth manner, and her eyes were piercing right through me. “Then he breathed. Then he said he saw something. He said, I see! I see! It’s him! It’s him! I saw him! He's right! He’s right there!”

“Who’s he?” I tried to stay composed as I held my sitting pose. Clara didn’t say a word. Instead, she gradually opened her mouth and gaped at me. Her stare went hollow and inanimate. 

“Where was he?” I asked.

“‘Right behind you.’” She said, gaping at me.

“He was right behind you?”

“He’s right behind you.” 

I immediately turned around. No one was there. Then I realized nothing could go wrong. Three people were right across the window watching us. But as I turned back, Clara fainted in front of me, and that was the end of our conversation–I didn’t get to see her in the next several hours. Honestly, that of her was unrewarding rather than terrifying, as people I had questioned at this place before had tried to scare me in much worse ways. She did provide a lot of useful information, though, and there were some questions left to ask. Luckily, she mentioned that she was with her friends at the bar, one of whom knew Simon before. That turned out to be Amy Wang, who we already knew had been Simon’s good friend from Cornell University and had already called for at that time. It didn’t take long before we took care of Clara Holloway, and Amy came into the room. 

III.           Amy Wang

From the outset of this case, I knew we would call for Amy. As for the reason, I think some information about Amy and Simon's social standings would be helpful here. This case didn’t receive our specific attention (especially to the extent that I had to only focus on it for so many days) for no reason. Both Amy and Simon are notable social media influencers, and they have been influential since college, to the point where I believe my entire department has heard of them. They are especially impactful in their focused social topics: i.e., those related to international kids, students, and young working elites. However, they kind of go in different directions, mainly because they are of different sexes. In a word, Amy is shaping the identity of an independent, self-supporting, counter-stereotypical Asian female, while Simon, on the other hand, is more like a weekly vlogger, strongly focusing on conflicts related to his identity as a Chinese international. While Simon did touch on a broad variety of topics with each post, I believe I could give Amy a clear identity just by checking her Instagram right now and noting the first three posts–I am literally checking it right now, and here they are:

[Photos: her sitting on the Airport marble floor with oversized jeans, hoodie, and a cargo bag]

-       “POV: Your 2AM flight got delayed, but you were too stubborn to sit in the lounge #pov #ootd #fyp #fypシ #fashion”

[Video: her freestyle dancing to a recent Aurobora song]

-       “tbh if I didn’t get an A+ in MATH2210 I’d have ended up in a kpop group like Aurobora (jk💀) #dance #aurobora #dancecover #freya #syggr #bryna #kara”

[Photos: her in various fits on the Hong Kong street]

-       “fitcheck: your fav Asian baddie (fit by @diesel) #y2k #fashion #diesel #fitcheck #fyp #asian”

Yes, and now back to the topic. From what we gathered, Amy and Simon were very good friends, far beyond just a couple of tagged posts; they were often seen together. Less than an hour after Clara passed out, Amy sat across the table in the same room. She has been working as an internal designer for a local fashion brand since graduation. She wore a rather plain outfit that day, fidgeting with her fingers and puckering her lips. She confirmed all the information we already had–that they had been close friends for years (but had never been in a romantic one), and even after graduation they often met up.

“How did you think of Simon? You’ve been so close for years.” I enquired.

“He’s… he’s like, a good man?” Amy looked sideways and squeezed a smile.

“Of course, but please don’t get nervous. Simon–we are just trying to understand why he wanted to do that to himself–and, of course, why all those consequences. He didn’t hurt anyone, and there isn’t anything illegal involved here. It’s just that we are trying to make sense of things. And right now I’m just trying to,” I gestured as I said this, “to learn more about his personal life and how he got along with Clara. I’m sorry about your friend, but she’s completely fine right now.”

“I know, I know. It’s just–I–I couldn’t believe it. He’s like, like the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“And why is that?” I asked, with several of her social media posts in mind–those that are extremely pro-radical feminist, where she was saying “I don’t need no men,” “girls should learn to get rid of men,” and the like. “How is he, you know, so different?”

“Like, I guess,” Amy embarrassedly grinned at me, “like he’s deep in his mind. He thinks a lot, I feel like he has read a lot of books. He always got like very philosophical on a lot of topics about life, and he’s also an easy-going person. I don’t know. I feel like every time I struggled with some issues, I could turn to him for a solution. And he always talked me out of them. He’s just very interesting to get along with.”

“And what do you think makes him that kind of a person?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Amy leaned back on her chair. “I feel like his background is already very unique. I mean, before college. And also if you like, read his posts–I mean not the Instagram photos, but the posts he wrote on Rednote (the most popular Chinese social media app), you can see that he’s really getting insights into some issues and trying to make himself better.”

This is something I can confirm. In those days, I had been looking into all kinds of posts relevant to Amy’s and Simon’s, mostly on topics like Asian stereotypes, Asian hate, feminism, and Asian meritocracy. However, I realized that most (I could say 80%) of the posters were female, especially those who wrote long articles on these topics. Simon was literally the most popular male influencer I could find who wrote extensive articles discussing his identity issues. The majority of his posts also cover his daily life, such as his experience in a professional fraternity in college or how he survived a day of internship. However, his first post that went viral, if you check on Rednote, was during his freshman year when he wrote (Note that I am directly translating from Chinese so some might be inconsistent):

Title: “The Retaliatory Freedom from a Meritocratic East-Asian Kid”

I am not a "victim of meritocracy" in the traditional sense, nor am I an "anti-meritocracy fighter." I am just a child who grew up in a meritocracy atmosphere but unknowingly turned away from it.

Since I was a child, I have studied very hard in an ordinary international high school in Shanghai. I once thought that good grades, good universities, and good jobs were the only paths to success in life. Moreover, my grades were indeed good, but I was never the "best". I was always the one who was good enough but not shining enough. Later, I learned that this kind of comparative mentality, rooted in the bones, is called meritocracy. And I myself became an incomplete ‘good kid’ - not good enough, and not rebellious enough. This mentality of "wanting to escape but not daring to betray" ran through my entire adolescence. It was not until college and work that I slowly realized: what really needs to be rebelled against is not grades, but life defined by grades. 

The freedom I want is not "playing badly", "refusing to work hard", or "anti-social". Instead, I stopped defining myself by any external standards. Whether my grades were good or not, whether my career plan was “satisfactory” or not, whether I had obtained "social recognition" or not... These evaluation systems that could have affected my mood and influenced my self-esteem were gently yet firmly put down by me after I struggled again and again. You can say that I am not doing well, you can say that I am not ambitious, it doesn't matter. I finally understood that the value of life is not to win over others but to live like yourself.

After a day of classes, my greatest "retaliatory freedom" is allowing myself to be an ordinary person. Allow myself to lie down when the king of rolls is rampant, allow myself to be in a daze in boring meetings, and allow myself to walk a meaningless road slowly in a busy city. Allow myself to stop. Look, listen, and feel everything. […] Live slowly in a fast-paced world. Grow your own flowers on the ruins of meritocracy.

#Awaken, East Asian Kid #Post-Meritocracy #Self Reconciliation

This is, I think, a very exemplary work of his. Along with his later daily vlogs, he’d also write about relevant issues, like how he dealt with career anxiety, with social anxiety, with Asian biases, etc. So I answered Amy:

“Of course–I totally agree. I’ve looked at all his posts on Rednote, and he did seem like a very thoughtful person. Let me take a wild guess here, then–did he resolve a lot of your troubles as well? Like anxieties, mental issues, etc.?”

Amy nods. 

“Well, does that include problems with relationships, then?”

“Yes, but what do you mean?”

“Cuz I’m guessing that his suicide might be somewhat related to his sudden relationship with Clara. Not that I’m suggesting Clara did something wrong or you did. Nobody did anything wrong. But the thing is: see, to my knowledge, I don’t think he’s ever been in any relationships before Clara.”

“Yeah, well, actually,” Amy hesitated as she started fidgeting again. “Actually, I have the same guess.” 

“That it was related to Clara?”

“Kind of.”

“So he was single the whole time before then?”

“That’s what he told me, yes. See, the thing is, he got along with girls very, very well in college, and we thought he was gay. Also because he never tried to date any girls, never even showed any sign. And his fraternity was, you know–I feel like a lot of his friends were notoriously messing around.” 

“So he could’ve dated girls, but he didn’t.”

“Yes. He had plenty of choices. Like, literally. But he just kept his friendship with everyone. Even if I knew he was like a ‘party boy’ to a lot of people. You know, once he told me he thought he was asexual.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like he said he didn’t want to have sex ever. He told me if he were to love someone, it would be like a, what is it? Like a–”

“Platonic?”

“Yes, Platonic relation.” 

“Alright.” I chose not to disclose the fact that he had sex with Clara before committing suicide.  

“Yeah. If you search his posts, I think he’s posted about feminism, or something like that.”

After our conversation wrapped up, I did find this post Amy mentioned. It went:

Title: Feminism, and then?

Supporting women's rights is the foundation, but what happens after that?

I see many people, including me sometimes, under the banner of women's rights, begin to attribute everything to gender opposition, and begin to think that as long as they take the right stand, they can be exempted from self-reflection. But true freedom is not to fight against all men, nor to see the world as an endless war. True freedom is to choose to live as yourself after understanding the complexity. Not to live against anyone, not to live to please anyone, but to love yourself and the world soberly, and then, go your own way. When you truly become yourself, at that moment, you have already surpassed all labels.

Rereading these posts now, I cannot really link them up to how, back to my first section up there, I ended my first conversation with Simon that day. Earlier, I wrote that I halted the conversation when he started bombarding me, asking what Clara had confessed. Well, later, as I took stock of all these conversations with Clara and Amy, I decided to come back and brief him about how famous he was on social media, how good a person he was in Amy’s view, and how Clara thought highly of him. He was panting heavily as I was talking, but he didn’t say anything. So then I asked again:

“But this is just something that I want you to know, Simon–just something that I think could help you reason yourself. Because I am so very confused right now, and I, to be honest, need your help. To all this information–how can it lead to some weird vision of you seeing someone and make you talk things like Hopscotch?”

Simon Pang slowly raised his head, for the first time in our conversation. He leaned forward from his chair, putting a fist on the table, and revealing his face from his messy, curled hair. As his eyes met mine, I could finally see, now, the most confusing details of the entire case: that his left eye was missing, with only a huge stab wound there, as if a knife had carved deep in; and that there was an almost identical knife stab on his left chest. There is utterly no use in mentioning it earlier in my note, as it would bring nothing but more confusion. But they were there all the time when we rescued him, and Clara clearly knew nothing of them. Nor did we. 

“I see him… the all-container… the father… the undead God.” He said.

And that concluded my first conversation with Simon. 

IV.           Shunyata Deshmukh

Our interrogations after that proved to be super smooth and fruitful. Everyone said what they were asked before we temporarily closed this case. Several hours after Simon left, his colleague, Shunyata Deshmukh, came to join us after getting off his work. He, like Simon, also worked as a quantitative engineer at the same firm, and as we contacted the firm, he volunteered to come over and talk. His family was from India, but he is a US citizen. He graduated from Wharton, UPenn, after which he joined the company with Simon, and since then, he’s been perhaps Simon’s best friend at the company. He was wearing a Patagonia vest and khaki pants.

“Thank you so much in advance, Mr. Deshmukh. Did I get your name correctly? Yes. I’m sure you must have something to tell us. I’m all ears.” I sat there looking at him, who looked prepared.

“Yes, sir. Simon–he saved my life. That’s basically all I wanna say.”

“Well, could you dive into it?”

“I mean, he couldn’t have done that to himself; it must be somebody else who was pushing him.”

“What was he like?”

“Sir, do you know about our work?”

“I can’t say I know much.”

“It’s a desperate job. It’s stiff and absurd.”

“That contrasts with what I’ve heard. From what I’ve heard, quant engineers are extremely competitive and are paid very well.”

“That’s why he’s a genius, no? He’s the only undergraduate in the team, and I’m the only master’s. Everyone else had a Ph.D. But it is not what you think. Before joining, you thought it was the best thing you could get as a Math student. Or as a CS student, say. But you see the truth after you joined. Every day you wake up at 7:30, commute for one hour, you know, Manhattan, and sit in your little grid.”

“Little grid?” I interrupted.

“Little grid. Soundproof, identical for everyone. Even your boss sits in his little grid. Then you face your four monitors for the entire day, filling yourself with green and red data. It’s all numbers then. You read numbers, calculate numbers, write numbers, and try to control numbers. Then, if you’re lucky, you’d go get some food. But for food, it’s number again, you know, calories and fat. Then you talk numbers with others and try to make some numbers together. Then you do the same thing again, possibly fixing some wrong numbers. Then it’s 9 PM. You listen to some numbers on your way home. Then maybe you go to the gym and try to get some numbers off yourself.”

“But what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong, hmm? But you do that exact same thing for months, years, five years, even ten years, before any possible big change. You may think it’s different things every day, no? Because the market is nonstop. Well, sort of, yes and no. Your models change, the data you’re seeing changes, and everything theoretically changes. But there’s no change at the bottom for you. You can’t exactly foresee any changes. Make this change, and you don’t actually know what’s gonna happen. You can only interpret numbers and changes. Everything happens within a millisecond, but you are trying to use your hand to catch it like a fish.”

“Simon,” I said, “did he feel the same way as you do?”

“That’s what I’m gonna say. See, I knew Simon the first day we joined the team. We both had very clear goals then. The thing is, without a clear goal and years in the making, you cannot possibly make it there. But I was desperate after one year. Plus bad things were happening in my family. So one day we drank together at my home, and I told him that I felt my life was meaningless and wanted to end it.”

“What did he say?”

“He dared me to raise a gun at my head. I had one at my apartment, so I took it out. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not even raise it. He then said I misunderstood the problem.

“It’s not that life is meaningless, so we have to end ourselves, Shun,” Simon said.

My hands were shaking with the gun, and I couldn’t say anything. He took over my gun.

“See, I’ve tried it before, and then I realized. It’s not that we underestimated life–it’s that we underestimated death. Life is already bare. Meaningless. Vacant. But death is much more than the opposite of life.”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head.

“I was saying that you can totally live a life without a goal, but you cannot consciously die without one. You know, that’s what they meant by ‘living towards death’. It’s not that one should live a rich life; rather, one should live a rich death.”

“But how could you persuade yourself to work like this? What you’re saying is far away.”

“I didn’t persuade myself. I feel precisely what you have been feeling–that this job is absurd and stiff. I guess what we are really feeling is that the future is utterly suspended. Isn’t it, Shun? Like the numbers are dead. Inanimate. Everything is automated. There is no life. And we are just small little optimizers trying to formulate a reason. But that’s precisely the reason why I chose this path when I was at Cornell. I think I just felt like it was like a game with death, a game of death, which is way more interesting than a game of life.”

And then we just sat there, quiet, for a long time. At length, I said:

“Then I feel like these numbers, these data–they are holy. Magical.”

“Why?”

“Because they are totally automated, no? They have lives already. And by looking at them, I felt lifeless and helpless. Isn’t that God?”

“Well,” he said, “you’ve got a point, man.”

Shunyata was telling this story in front of me in such a calm manner, as if it just happened yesterday. So I asked him:

“What came after that, then?”

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s what I have to say.” Shunyata stared at me. “He took my gun then. Or rather, I gave him. I said I don’t want it.”

V.             Max[1] and Linnet[2]

I was about to talk to Simon or Clara, who had just recovered, after my conversation with Shunyata ended, as I thought I had everything needed to bring this case to a close–or, at least, a temporary close. I already knew that it was no ordinary case, and some ‘superpower’ was involved–but we are no ordinary law enforcement agencies, and we accept precisely only supernatural cases, things that they cannot solve or possibly explain. But my friend, Detective Hrung Neer, told me that many people answered our call and were waiting to be interviewed. So I did a quick round of interviews with each of them, and as I had guessed, they didn’t provide substantial information on this case, other than some extra descriptions about Simon. However, just for the record, I’d like to briefly cover what Max and Linnet told me, for they were roommates with Simon for the entire four years in college. We three talked in the room together.

“We feel like we could provide some information if you need any,” Linnet said. “But based on the people I just saw who were also in the room, I feel like you already had enough information.”

“Well, one could say it’s never enough,” I replied. “You can always feel free to tell me what you think is worth mentioning.”

“Well, we uh–” Linnet said, looking at Max. I knew he was asking him like, “Could we say this now?” and Max acquiesced. “We just feel like Simon was really–you know, like a lot of reasons could have led to his suicide. It’s not out of nowhere.”

“He was internally a very controversial figure if you know him enough.” Max took over the topic, “We felt like it could just be because he was tired of living this life, although, of course, this isn’t the proper way to say this, and he definitely needs treatment. It might look like he was living a really fantastic life since college. But he really drew a lot of hate on him, you know? Just because of the life he was leading.”

“Like he was into all things,” Linnet continued. “He joined two fraternities. A professional one and an Asian one. He was also very strict on his academics, I think he’s got a GPA of, like, four?”

“Around 4.1, I think?” Max said.

“Yeah, he told us before. Like 4.14 or something.”

“Yeah, which was insane.”

“So he was into his studies, and he was super committed to his planned career. He prepped for his interviews like crazy. Then he partied a lot, and he especially liked to hang out with those, you know, those elite white guys.”

“We’re not suggesting that they are bad, sir.”

“Yeah, no, we’re not. But I think you know what I mean. And I think he’s still keeping that lifestyle after college, from what he told us when we met, and also from his social media. And then, you know, he loved to post all this stuff straight to his social platforms–like how successful he was, you know? And what’s more, he loved to write about this and that using this educational tone of his, and he said it was his insights on those topics…”

“Anyway, we just wanna say that people hated him because of these. People hated him for basically everything he did. I’ve heard words attacking literally every one thing he’s done. That he’s proposing anti-meritocracy just for his own profit; that he’s acting like a gay just to get along with girls; that everything he said about social anxiety was fake because he was already trying so hard to get along with ‘upper-class’ people; all kinds of stuff.”

“Like he was just a pretentious guy trying to climb up the stairs and drew attention on social media. People had often talked about his relationship with Amy. Many people believed they were into some kind of a situationship, I think.”

“Yeah. But you could see how tormented he was with himself when he was alone. When we were living together, he was often like screaming in his room.”

“Well, did you do anything?” I asked.

“Of course. We felt like he was just torturing himself. We tried to talk him out of it. We told him all the rumors and slanders flying around him. We tried to ask if anything was wrong with him or if he needed any help. We even tried to get him an appointment with Cornell Health.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He basically said it was totally ok with him. He said he knew what was going on, and he knew what he was doing.” Max answered.

“But he was a good guy, sir,” Linnet said. “We got along very well with him. All the time.”

VI.           Finale

Before I talked to Simon, I went to Clara for one final thing that I wanted to confirm. She was lying on the bed in the room we prepared for her. When I came in, she looked peacefully at me, breathing slowly. 

“Clara,” I said.

She blinked.

“I will just ask one final question, and then I will leave.”

She nodded.

“When you were on the rooftop with him, and it was raining heavily,” I asked, “you said it was too blurry to see. Did you really see him shooting himself four times?”

Clara closed her eyes and thought for a while. Then she slightly shook her head. 

“But did you say to me that he shot himself because you heard four gunshots?”

She nodded.

“Thank you,” I said as I left. 

I immediately called my friend Hrung thereafter. “Hrung,” I asked, “when did Freya and John shoot each other that night?”[3]

“Around 12:10 AM I think.” He said.

And they shot four times in total, in Freya’s room at the Dahlia Hotel, which was on the top floor.

At least something was clarified–I thought to myself as I made for the interrogation room, where Simon was already waiting for me. He looked much healthier as he was sitting straight by the table, staring at me as I walked in.

“Simon: I will now present everything I know to you about your case, after which you could choose to answer my question or not. Either way, I think your case will be temporarily closed after this and will not be opened again until we are done with another case. I said this because I know no complete explanation of what was going on; but I am confident enough to say that I know more than you probably do so far, and that maybe what I’m about to say could help you as well.

“Last Saturday evening, you watched Aurobora’s live show with Clara, whom you just met four days earlier. Then you went to the Dahlia Hotel and made out in your room, after which Clara went to wait for you in the bathroom. However, you took the gun you received earlier from Shunyata, whom you befriended since the first day of work, and went to the rooftop. 

“You put the gun inside your mouth, as Clara found you on the rooftop. You then pulled the trigger before Clara could get to you. But to your surprise, also perhaps Clara’s, a gunshot was heard, but you felt nothing changing. You then pulled the trigger three more times, and three more gunshots were heard. But you were still alive. This was because another murder took place precisely at the same time, and almost in the same space where you shot yourself. As for the details of that murder, I’m afraid I cannot disclose more to you. But four gunshots were made in that murder, and of that we are 100% sure. You didn’t successfully shoot yourself, Simon. As you pulled the trigger, you heard precisely the four gunshots coming from that other murder case. But as for the cause of those four bullets we found and the wounds you got after the gunshots, I do believe that they are all tied to the person you saw. I believe you saw him appearing right behind Clara before you could make sense of anything from the gunshots–I believe you saw someone dressed like a Clown.”

“I saw him. I saw him.” Simon murmured after me. “I saw him appearing right behind Clara, dressed like a Clown. It was a smearing rain. He was standing tall like an upright chopstick. But his head bulged like a balloon. It was hilarious. He was staring–”

“He was staring at you directly, smiling,” I said.

“…smiling,” Simon said. “Then he spoke. His words soothed, and I was totally blank to receive.”

“He said–”

“ ‘You’ve found me, child. You’ve noticed me. But it is not the time yet. It’s not the time for death. For you’ve noticed the larger grid. You’ve noticed that which is all-embracing, and you’ve lived on it. And hence you shall live. 

“ ‘You shall be my spirit. Be my guest. Be my container. Did you see, child? Did you see the world?’ 

“I see! I see! It’s him! It’s him! I saw him! He's right! He’s right there!” Simon exclaimed.

“But something happened to him,” I said.

“Something happened–then he was attacked from nowhere. Something pierced through his left eye. But I felt the pain. I screamed, and he disappeared.” 

“Then we arrived.” I said, “For we heard four gunshots, and you screamed so loudly at this point. We thought they were all from the rooftop. That’s the whole thing. And that’s all I know.”

Simon sat back in his chair and went still, gazing into the air. 

“You’re free to leave, Simon. We’ll make sure to get you enough treatments for your wound and help you as needed in the future. But that’s it. That’s all I have.”

He hesitated, then slowly made for the door. But by the door, he turned and asked:

“You said you had a question. What was your question?”

“Why did you try to kill yourself? You were better than most people. People thought highly of you, and you had a great job, with great friends. You had people admiring you, and you killed yourself with a gun that you used to save someone. Why did you try to kill yourself?”

 “I don’t know,” Simon answered without facing me. “But I guess you’re right. I guess you’re right.” 

As he said these words, he exited the room. That would be the end of my story, then–I should note that: at that point, Simon’s case was temporarily closed and merged into the same case involving the Clown, which is still going on right now. After Simon left my room, nobody ever saw him again. Never. He vanished. Nobody knows where he went. I will not spend another few paragraphs noting the consequences of his disappearance and how we, the administration, reacted to it. 

Nor do I want to end this story here. Instead, I would like to note an additional event that took place during the interrogation, right after the first time I questioned Simon, right after he yelled at me that he saw God, and I coldly ended the questioning. I arranged for someone to wait outside the room and talk to him. That person would be the next person I was about to speak to, but she was from another case. You could call it a coincidence, but I did it with the purpose of making him talk more the next time. It proved to be successful. Here is roughly how Simon met and interacted with her, according to what she told me thereafter.

VII.         Freya

Simon exited the room, and it was a long passage, with lights coming in from the other end. He couldn’t make clear what was in between, but he could make clear a tall, slim figure standing on the other end. It didn’t take him three seconds to recognize who she was, even without seeing the face, for he knew it was Freya. 

She was there, wearing nothing but a piece of white cloth covering her whole body. She was leaning against the wall, and Simon silently joined her. 

“Why could you even be here?” Simon asked in a low voice.

Freya looked at him for a while.

“Why could you even be here?” She retorted.

“I tried to kill myself. Well, I did kill myself. I just didn’t die.”

“I killed two people in one night.”

“What?” 

“That’s what they told me. I don’t know. I don’t even know who I am.”

“You’re Freya.”

“And you are?”

“I am Simon.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s kinda funny.”

“Mmm?”

“You killed two men so easily. I couldn’t kill myself. We’re of the same age.”

“Well, guess we all have our ways with things,” Freya said. 

“Why are you not surprised?”

“Surprised by what?”

“I killed myself and didn’t die. I’m missing an eye. And I was somehow stabbed in the chest.” 

“Why do I need to be? That’s some fun stuff happening to you.” 

“Have they questioned you?”

“About to. What?”

“Do you know about this place? And who are they?”

“Not quite. They told me it was a place to heal and recover. It’s called Panocadia or something. I just walked around, and it looked pretty nice. Well, you’re free to explore it now.”

“Great.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess I’m going in.”

“Bye.”

“Mmm!”

Simon went for the light, as Freya walked into the dark passage.

And that was the end of Ottar Hildisvine’s account of Simon Pang. 

[1] What happened to Max before? This is an earlier story I wrote about Max.

[2] What happened to Linnet before? This is an earlier story I wrote about Linnet. 

[3] Freya’s Story.