To my surprise, life actually started looking up after that.

  Maybe I scared everyone too much during my little episode, because not only did the doctor re-stitch my wounds, but for the next week, no one asked me a single question. Even the hallway outside my room was quieter than the rest of the hospital. I wasn’t that badly hurt—compared to that poor bastard of an attacker, my injuries were more like a scratch. The stab wound in my thigh had miraculously avoided any arteries or tendons, and the rest didn’t even need stitches. They were already starting to scab over.

  On top of that, my mom transferred me a generous sum of “take care of yourself” money—which, in her language, probably meant “stay the hell away” and “don’t go digging for answers.” The government gave me financial compensation too, along with some insurance payout I didn’t even remember signing up for. Honestly, watching the numbers in my account grow was the best medicine I could ask for.

  Three days after the sedatives, I no longer needed painkillers. I could hobble to the bathroom with a crutch and had finally been cleared to use electronics. That’s when I caught up on everything—news reports, gossip videos, comment sections.

  The attack had blown up online. Under intense public pressure, a special investigative team had already released their full report while I was still unconscious.

  The culprit who killed five people and severely injured one (me) was just an ordinary man. He had average parents, a normal childhood, went to an average school, landed an average job. Even the clickbait vultures couldn’t find anything scandalous to twist. Before he suddenly snapped and started killing people in a shopping mall, he was the kind of guy who made people feel safe precisely because they never noticed him. The report chalked it up to a breakup with his girlfriend, but I seriously doubted a one-year online relationship could mess someone up that bad.

  What bothered me more was this: I spent hours digging through every trace he’d left on the internet—Reddit threads, friend comments, even course schedules from school. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to suggest he had ever studied another language.

  So what the hell was he chanting before he died?

  My performance must’ve been too convincing, because every time someone brought up the attack—whether it was a nurse checking my wound or the doctor giving me discharge papers—they’d all speak to me in that careful, pitying tone, like I was a fragile survivor teetering on the edge. Then they’d immediately change the subject.

  Still, I appreciated the concern. My strange name even caught the attention of a few professors—they emailed to check in on me, which, surprisingly, was touching.

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  The wound healed faster than it had any right to. I was out of the hospital in five days and back home. Everything was exactly as I’d left it—same furniture, same silence—but maybe because of what I’d been through, the place felt slightly off. Getting stabbed by a stranger tends to wreck your sense of safety.

  This was my place. I mean that literally—the house is under my name. A gift from my mom when she sent me overseas for university. A parting gift for the daughter she’d essentially written off. Honestly, I don’t mind being measured in monetary value. I even think my mom was pretty generous about it. But whenever I get too comfortable here, that question creeps back in: why did my stepfather give her so much money?

  Anyway, I’ve lived here for five years. I’ve sublet rooms to a few short-term tenants—Chinese students who couldn’t find proper housing. I charged them standard dorm rates and tried to be a professional landlord. Thankfully, the last one moved out at the end of last semester, and I hadn’t had to deal with another unlucky soul yet. Which was probably for the best—I wouldn’t want anyone rooming with an emotionally unstable landlord.

  I propped my injured leg up on a pillow, half-reclining on the bed as I replied to the concerned emails from my professors—two of whom had taught me last term. I also applied for special consideration on our group assignment, citing the... rather compelling circumstances. I doubt anyone would reject it.

  I hadn’t missed anything important. Well, except for an email that came in yesterday. Someone had messaged my uni inbox about the spare room. A biomedical grad student, apparently. His “I’m writing this from an overpriced pet-friendly hotel and really need your help” actually won me over. The tone was earnest. He even attached a student ID—Rafe Spencer—and a photo of his emotional support dog, Otto. A well-groomed black golden retriever that looked impossibly polite.

  I searched Rafe up on Teams. No photo, but the email and student number matched. He mentioned a mutual acquaintance who’d rented my spare room for his visiting mom a year ago.

  Everything checked out. I mean, come on—I can’t be unlucky forever, right?

  That’s what I told myself as I replied. I explained my “unexpected medical situation,” said I understood if he needed to find somewhere else, but also confessed I’d love to have a dog around the house. I mean, who wouldn’t want to wake up every morning and kiss a fluffy dog on the head?

  “If you don’t mind my situation, you and Otto are more than welcome to move in,” I wrote at the end.

  After clearing out the backlog of tasks that had piled up during my coma, I could barely keep my eyes open. I didn’t even bother putting the tablet away—I just crashed face-first into the pillow and fell asleep.