Brian looked at the blazing fire, gesturing to Jason.
Jason shook his head in refusal.
Then, without waiting for Brian to speak again, he walked towards the darkness nearby.
He didn’t mind acting with Brian, as it was to show his gratitude.
But that didn’t mean he would leave with Brian.
The target was too big!
It was far better to be on his own.
Moreover, he was a writer, and he now had to rush back to write his manuscript.
As the car started, Kemi couldn’t hold back any longer and asked directly.
"Let’s say he’s my friend,"
Brian murmured after a moment’s thought.
"Then what do you do, Daddy?"
He didn’t want to lie to his daughter, but he also didn’t want her to know about his past occupation.
Silence became the final choice.
Confronted with such silence, the clever girl Kemi didn’t press further but changed the topic.
"Where are we going now?"
"Is it to Mommy’s place?"
"Your mother’s place isn’t safe either."
"You need a safe place."
Brian shook his head.
He knew very well what kind of person Emod was; a guy like that would never let the girls who escaped from him off the hook, he would seek revenge and find out who ruined his den. ⱤάΝo͍ＢЕ𝒮
So, he needed to strike first.
Before Emod made his move, he wanted to eliminate Emod.
But obviously, he couldn’t bring Kemi along.
Fortunately, he knew a very safe place.
Jason returned to Room 13 on the third floor of Apartment 3A.
The whole process was just as silent as when he had left.
After putting away the mask and machete and washing up, Jason, wearing only boxer shorts and slippers, with a pajama jacket thrown on, sat in his study.
Although he knew his writing skills were poor, faced with the "Main Quest," he had no choice but to bite the bullet and start writing.
At the top of the page, he quickly wrote "Chapter One."
Then, he remembered that the beginning of the book might need a "Preface."
He tore off the first page, crumpled it up, and threw it aside.
On the second sheet of paper, Jason carefully wrote a "Preface."
Two minutes later, Jason still hadn’t written a word.
He didn’t know what to write.
He didn’t even have an inkling how to begin.
But he wasn’t one to give up so easily.
So he persisted for another minute.
He stood up silently, gently pulled the chair to the side, then grabbed the manuscript papers on the desk and began to tear them furiously.
"Really can’t write!"
While tearing, Jason roared.
Then, he picked up the fountain pen, his eyes ruthlessly fixed on it.
"You’re a mature fountain pen, why can’t you write on your own?"
Of course, the fountain pen didn’t answer.
Only Jason’s yelling echoed throughout the room.
Naturally, such sounds penetrated the walls and reached the ears of the police monitoring next door.
"Should we check it out?"
"I feel like something has happened to the writer,"
A young detective asked.
"they’re all schizophrenics, they’re all mad,"
An older detective with experience, holding his coffee, said unhurriedly.
The young detective looked puzzled.
"Think about it, a writer is writing a book, creating a book, he pours his heart and soul into that book, that book becomes a new world!"
"But what about reality? He still has to return to reality, he has to interact with people, needs to eat, drink, sleep."
"Back and forth once, twice, three times, shuttling between two worlds. Any normal person could go mad."
"Not to mention writers, who stay up all night, with irregular schedules and diets, they’re even more prone to breakdowns,"
The older detective explained.
"Writers are really pitiful,"
The young detective couldn’t help but lament.
"Years of occupational hazards, along with various misunderstandings, put writers under pressures that most people can’t even imagine,"
The older detective nodded in agreement.
Once again, the young detective was confused.
The older detective didn’t immediately answer but sighed lightly before continuing,
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"Writers are those who devote almost all their energy to writing. They’re different from most people, with no holidays, no downtime, 365 days a year."
"If you have friends who are writers, you’ll have gone through this—"
"Can you come out to play? Sorry, I have to write."
"Come on, let’s eat out! Sorry, I have to write."
"Let’s have a date, go to the movies! Sorry, I have to write."
"Once, twice, at most three times later, writers basically have no friends left."
"People think they’re antisocial, aloof."
"They don’t realize how much writers want to go out, how much they want to dine out, how eager they are to date, but... they can’t manage it, they have to write."