Chapter 1: The Devil in the Numbers

The rain in Kuala Lumpur always comes without warning.

My name is Ash Lin, and I‘m eighteen. I should be stressing over exams like every other senior at my school in Cheras. Instead, I’m kneeling in a back alley in Bukit Bintang, staring at a body covered by a white sheet. Rain hammers against the police tape. Red and blue lights bounce off wet walls like ghosts.

“Ash, you shouldn‘t be here.”

Inspector Chen—my dad’s old partner—sounds exhausted. But he doesn‘t send me away. He knows why I came.

Three months ago, my father died of a heart attack while investigating a serial case. That case was never solved. And now, it’s started again.

“Same method?” I ask.

Inspector Chen hesitates. Then he lifts a corner of the sheet.

The victim is a man, about thirty, in a sharp suit. No visible injuries. No blood. But his face—his face is frozen in absolute terror. Like he saw something that broke his mind before his heart stopped.

His left hand is stiff. Five fingers. Bent into a clear shape.

The number three.

“Third one,” Inspector Chen says, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. “First victim held up one finger. Second, two.”

“He‘s counting down. How many does he plan to kill?”

“Or he’s sending a message.”

I pull out my phone and zoom in on the crime scene photos. The victim‘s right hand is clenched tight. Using a pen, I gently pry open his fingers.

Inside: a crumpled piece of paper. One line of printed numbers.

101 108 108 32 104 97 105 108 32 116 104 101 32 103 114 101 97 116

ASCII code. The thought hits me instantly—Dad taught me this. Every letter has a corresponding number in a computer. 32 is a space. This string can be converted.

I do the math in my head. 97 is a. 98 is b. 99 is c. 100 is d. 101 is e...

e-l-l... h-a-i-l... t-h-e... g-r-e-a-t...

“All hail the great.”

I whisper the words out loud.

Inspector Chen frowns. “What does that mean?”

My phone vibrates.

A notification. Anonymous message. The sender number reads: 0000000000.

Ash Lin, did you like the clue I left for you? Your father solved my first two puzzles. So he had to die. Now it’s your turn.

—V

The blood in my veins freezes.

My father didn‘t die of a heart attack.

He was murdered.

By someone who calls himself V.

“Can you trace this?” I hand my phone to Inspector Chen.

He calls the tech team, but I already know it’s useless. Someone who can send messages like this isn‘t going to get caught by a simple trace.

Back home, I spread every case file across the living room floor. My father’s notebook is among them—his last research before he died. On the first page, in his handwriting:

“The killer isn‘t murdering people. He’s running an experiment. Each victim is a test subject.”

I flip through the pages. Dad had drawn a complex web of connections. The three victims seemed completely unrelated: Victim 1 was a university professor. Victim 2 was a stockbroker. Victim 3 was a psychologist.

But on the last page, Dad circled one common thread in red ink:

They had all participated in a psychology research study called “Project Lighthouse” six years ago.

And the project leader—the man who ran the experiments—disappeared when the project ended.

No one knew his real name.

The files listed him only by a code: V.

I stare at the ASCII message again. All hail the great.

“The great” what?

I open my laptop and search for “Project Lighthouse Kuala Lumpur.” Almost nothing. The project seems to have been scrubbed from the internet entirely. But buried in an ancient forum cache, I find a single post from six years ago:

“Project Lighthouse recruiting volunteers. Explore the limits of human fear. Do you dare face your deepest terror? Generous compensation. Contact: V@pinnacle.my”

The limits of fear.

And then it clicks. I call Inspector Chen immediately. “How did the victims actually die?”

His voice is heavy. “The autopsy reports just came in. Victim 1 showed extreme adrenaline overload—his body reacted as if he was being buried alive. But he died in his own living room. Victim 2 had all the physiological markers of drowning. But he died in his office, completely dry.”

“And Victim 3?”

“Victim 3... is even stranger. His body showed symptoms of extreme high-altitude exposure—oxygen deprivation, freezing temperatures, air pressure trauma. But he died at ground level.”

No external injuries. Yet their brains believed they were dying in extreme environments—and their bodies followed.

“He‘s using some kind of method to make their brains think they’re in a life-threatening situation,” I say. “This isn‘t murder. This is an experiment. He’s perfecting a killing technique that requires no weapon.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because my father was close to figuring it out. V killed him to silence him. And now...”

My laptop screen flickers.

A black window opens. Green text types across it, letter by letter.

Correct analysis, Ash. As a reward, here’s your next clue: The fourth experiment will take place in 72 hours. Location—your fath

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