Chapter 9: Prey

  That note reading "Next: the talkative cop" hung like an invisible curse over everyone's heads, especially Samuel Jones's.

  The air was so heavy it could almost drip water.

  Leon Schmidt's door returned to deathly silence, as if the note just now had been merely a collective hallucination. But the cold words on it were undeniably real.

  Samuel Jones's face changed from iron-gray to a kind of hard gloom. He took a deep breath, slowly smoothed out the crumpled note, folded it neatly, and put it in his pocket. As a law enforcement officer, he knew well that panic and losing composure were the greatest enemies.

  "Very good." His voice unexpectedly stabilized, his gaze sweeping over everyone's varying expressions. "It seems our 'friend' hiding behind the door either wants to spread fear as the killer's accomplice, or he himself is the next target wanting to redirect disaster, or... he really does know something."

  He paused, his eyes becoming sharp: "Whatever he is, he's achieved his goal. We're now more afraid, more suspicious of each other." He looked at Carmen Ortiz. "Thank you for the attempt, Ms. Ortiz. At least we've confirmed he can hear us, and enjoys playing this kind of psychological game."

  Carmen nodded slightly, her expression still calm, but a trace of gravity appeared deep in her eyes.

  "So what do we do now?" Pierre Chan's voice was somewhat dry. "He... he's referring to you, Officer." He seemed to instinctively want to distance himself from Samuel.

  "I know." Samuel gave Pierre a cold look before turning his gaze to the note, his voice carrying a hard, resigned edge. "It’s written clear as day—'Next: the talkative cop.' No room for ambiguity. It wasn’t left in a public space; it was handed right to us, pointing straight at me like an execution order."

  He straightened his posture, scanning the others with a razor-sharp intensity.

  "If we treat this as a bluff, we’re gambling with my life. So we operate on one fact alone: I am the next target."

  "But that’s not necessarily all bad," Samuel continued, his tone shifting to the analytical cadence of a seasoned officer. "Once a hunter marks a target, their focus and actions revolve around that mark. It gives us a rare chance to anticipate their next move."

  His analysis made everyone slightly calmer.

  "So we actually have some time." Kenneth Ryder picked up on this, looking at Samuel appreciatively. "The killer is toying with us, but he's also exposed that he's watching our movements, possibly even among us right now, listening to our discussion."

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  Everyone's gazes instinctively examined each other again.

  Irina Petrova suddenly spoke: "Since he predicted the target, then we'll turn the prediction into a trap." She looked at Samuel. "You need to be bait. Publicly display your weakness and fear, lure the killer to strike at you during the next darkness. And we," her gaze swept over Kenneth, Anya, finally lingering briefly on Charles and Carmen, "we need to set up positions. Not huddled together like now, but strategically dispersed, covertly observing, waiting for the killer to reveal himself."

  This was a bold and dangerous plan. Placing Samuel in clear danger.

  Samuel was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded: "Acceptable. This is currently the most proactive plan. Better than sitting and waiting for death." He looked at Irina. "You seem very experienced."

  Irina remained expressionless: "The railway company security department has dealt with all kinds of trouble. Used to it."

  The plan was preliminarily set—observers, counterattackers, trackers, and the disguised "prey" each began preparing for their roles.

  Anya Sharma proposed using the car's limited resources to set up some simple energy fluctuation monitoring points, which might capture abnormal activity. Kenneth Ryder suggested using the compartment structure to create visual blind spots for ambush.

  Charles didn't offer many suggestions. He was more observing and memorizing. Lily Tang still clung to him, seeming to regard him as her only shelter. Sophia Rossi scoffed at all these plans but didn't explicitly oppose them, just watching with interest as if appreciating a theatrical performance. Pierre Chan appeared worried, holding reservations about any plan that might trigger conflict.

  The following time passed in an extremely eerie atmosphere. Samuel began deliberately displaying anxiety and tension, occasionally glancing at Leon's door, his breathing becoming rapid—quite convincing acting. The others followed the rough plan, beginning to seemingly casually move positions and divide observation areas.

  Anya and Kenneth discussed technical details in low voices. Irina and Carmen seemed to be assessing the environment and personnel in some professional manner. Charles stayed with Lily at the boundary between the observation car and compartment area—a position that could observe most of the situation while also being relatively easy to move from.

  Leon's door had no further movement.

  Sophia had somehow obtained a glass of what looked like red wine, slowly sipping it, her gaze flowing between Samuel and Leon's door.

  Time became slow and torturous again. The flowing data galaxy outside seemed to dim considerably.

  [Dear passengers, the train is about to enter 'nighttime' stable operation mode. Lighting will be appropriately dimmed. Good night.] The system notification sounded again.

  The lights gradually dimmed, like dusk descending.

  Everyone's hearts rose to their throats. Night (metaphorically) had come again.

  Samuel Jones, according to plan, sat alone in a somewhat isolated seat in the observation car, hands clenched, head lowered, perfectly portraying someone crushed by death's prophecy.

  Irina, Kenneth, Anya, and Carmen each occupied different shadow areas. Charles and Lily also hid behind a decorative column. Pierre Chan hesitated, then chose a position near the exit. Sophia still sat at the bar, swirling her wine glass.

  The trap had been set.

  The hunters held their breath and waited.

  The prey—or rather, the person playing prey, the police officer—tensely awaited the deadly strike that would come from who knew where.

  Darkness hadn't completely fallen, but the light was enough to conceal many movements.

  This time, would the killer come? In what manner?

  Was the target really still Samuel Jones?

  Was Leon's prediction truth or deception?

  The train moved forward in the dim light, every tiny tremor pulling at everyone's taut nerves.