Chapter 2: Seven Names

The countdown timer sat in the corner of my laptop screen like a living thing.

71:13:22

71:13:21

I couldn‘t stop glancing at it. Every lost second felt like a small death. V had given me seventy-two hours to stop a murder, and all I had was an encrypted message and a riddle about my father’s favorite place.

Where would Dad go when he needed to think?

I closed my eyes, forcing myself back into memory. My father, Inspector Daniel Lin, was not a sentimental man. He didn‘t have a favorite café or a quiet park bench. His sanctuary was his work. When a case consumed him, he would disappear into the National Library on Jalan Tun Razak, requesting obscure psychology journals and forensic textbooks. Or he’d drive up to Bukit Nanas at midnight, staring at the KL Tower lights while he pieced together puzzles in his head.

But V‘s clue was specific: “your father’s favorite place.” It had to mean something more. Something connected to the case V killed him over.

I picked up Dad‘s notebook again. The red circle around Project Lighthouse stared back at me. On the next page was the list of victims Dad had connected: Professor Tan (victim 1), Mr. Rajan the stockbroker (victim 2), Dr. Sarah the psychologist (victim 3). Three names. Three dead.

But something nagged at me. When Dad investigated, he always dug deeper than anyone else. Three victims linked to a psychology project that ran for six months with dozens of volunteers? There had to be more.

I flipped through the notebook slowly, page by page, holding each one up to the window light. Nothing. I checked the back cover. Nothing. I was about to set it down when my thumb brushed against the inside of the front cover. The paper felt... uneven. Thicker in one spot.

Carefully, I peeled back the corner of the glued-down endpaper. A thin sheet of tracing paper was hidden underneath, folded into a tight square. I unfolded it with trembling fingers.

It was a list. Seven names, handwritten in Dad’s neat print.

Prof. Adrian Tan — deceased (buried alive illusion) ✗

Mr. Devan Rajan — deceased (drowning illusion) ✗

Dr. Sarah Wong — deceased (high altitude illusion) ✗

Ms. Amira Hassan — neuroscientist, UMMC

Dato’ Rahman Ishak — property tycoon

Inspector Chen Kai Ming — PDRM, Bukit Aman HQ

[Name scratched out] — whereabouts unknown

My breath caught in my throat.

Inspector Chen. Uncle Chen. The man who had been like a second father to me after Dad died. He was on the list. And the fourth name—Amira Hassan—was a neuroscientist. V‘s experiments required neuroscience to pull off brain-fooling illusions. She would know how the technique worked. She might even know who V really was.

I grabbed my phone and called Inspector Chen. It rang five times before he picked up, his voice groggy. “Ash? It’s almost midnight.”

“Uncle Chen, listen to me. You and five others were part of Project Lighthouse. Am I right?”

Silence. Long and heavy.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“Dad‘s notebook. There’s a list of seven participants. Three are dead. You‘re number six. Ms. Amira Hassan is number four. We need to find her before V does.”

A sharp exhale. “Ash, your father made me promise never to talk about Lighthouse. He said the more I knew, the more danger I’d be in. But if you‘ve found the list... we don’t have a choice anymore. I‘ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

---

Inspector Chen’s car smelled of old coffee and rain. He drove with both hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white.

“Project Lighthouse was supposed to be legitimate research,” he said, eyes fixed on the road. “A study on how the brain processes fear. They hooked us up to EEG machines, showed us disturbing images, measured our responses. But after a few sessions, things got... strange.”

“Strange how?”

“The lead researcher—a man who only called himself Dr. V—started using a combination of virtual reality, binaural audio, and mild psychedelics. He wanted to see if he could make the brain experience a terror that wasn‘t real. A drowning. A burial. A freefall. The funding came from a private tech company. When two volunteers had complete mental breakdowns, the project was shut down and erased from every record.”

“Who was the seventh person?” I asked. “The name scratched out.”

Inspector Chen‘s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. None of us ever met the seventh participant. V kept that person isolated. All I remember is... once, I saw a silhouette through a frosted glass door. Young. Slim. The posture of someone who had been broken and rebuilt.”

The car fell into silence. We were heading toward University Malaya Medical Centre, where Amira Hassan worked. The dashboard clock read 11:47 PM. The countdown on my laptop, now closed but burning in my mind, had dipped below seventy-one hours.

When we arrived at the hospital, the neurology wing was eerily quiet. A janitor mopped the corridor with slow, mechanical strokes. We found Amira Hassan in her office on the third floor, hunched over a microscope, a cup of cold tea beside her. She was a small woman in her late forties, with sharp eyes that held too much knowledge.

She looked up when we entered. Her expression didn‘t change when she saw Inspector Chen. It was the look of someone who had been expecting bad news for years.

“It’s started again, hasn‘t it?” she said. No greeting. No surprise.

“The fourth experiment is in less than three days,” I said. “We think you’re the target.”

Amira removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I‘ve known it would be me eventually. After your father died, I went into hiding—teaching, avoiding the public eye. But V doesn’t forget.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a thick manila folder. “I‘ve been gathering everything I could on his technique. It’s called FTI—Fear Transference Induction. He uses a combination of targeted electromagnetic pulses, infrasound, and a synthesized compound administered through the air. If you inhale it and are exposed to the right triggers, your brain will generate a reality more terrifying than anything you’ve ever experienced. Your body reacts. Your heart stops. And there‘s no weapon to trace.”

“You know how to stop him?” I asked.

“I know how his experiment works. But stopping him...” She looked at me with something like pity. “Your father nearly did. He was close to finding V’s identity. That‘s why he was killed. V fears being known more than anything else. It’s why he hides behind puzzles and codes. He wants to feel superior, untouchable.”

I pulled out the list from Dad‘s notebook. “The seventh participant. Who is he?”

Amira hesitated. She exchanged a glance with Inspector Chen. “That’s the terrifying part, Ash. Your father believed the seventh participant wasn‘t a victim at all. He believed the seventh participant became V.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“That’s impossible,” Inspector Chen said. “V was the lead researcher. How could he also be a participant?”

“Because the original V—the scientist—died six years ago. The project‘s records were falsified. Your father discovered that the seventh participant was a teenager at the time. Someone brilliant. Someone who was pushed too far in the experiments and... broke. But instead of shattering completely, he rebuilt himself into something else. He adopted V’s identity. He continued the research. Only now, he‘s not just studying fear—he’s using it as a weapon.”

A teenager. Six years ago. That meant V could be in his early to mid-twenties now. Young. Smart. Obsessed.

My phone vibrated. The same impossible number: 0000000000.

Well done finding the list, Ash. You’re faster than your father. But you‘re still too slow. The fourth experiment is already complete. Check the rooftop of the hospital.

The countdown continues—for experiment five.

—V

Amira saw my face go pale. “What is it?”

I was already running.

The stairwell was a blur of concrete and emergency lights. I burst onto the hospital rooftop, the KL skyline stretching before me in a sea of neon and shadow. The air was cold. And at the center of the roof, lying perfectly still on the ground, was a man in an expensive suit.

Dato’ Rahman Ishak. The property tycoon. Name number five on the list.

His face was frozen in a silent scream. His body showed no injuries. But his hands were clenched so tightly that his fingernails had drawn blood. And his left hand—stiff, posed deliberately—was holding up four fingers.

Not three. Not Amira.

Four.

V had skipped a name. He‘d killed the fifth person on the list, not the fourth. A statement. A warning.

I don’t follow your logic. I make my own rules.

Inspector Chen and Amira reached the rooftop behind me, both breathing hard. Chen knelt beside the body, his face a mask of professional composure that I knew was barely holding.

“The fourth experiment,” I said, my voice hollow. “He killed Dato‘ Rahman instead of you. Why?”

Amira stared at the corpse, her expression unreadable. “Because he wants me alive. I’m the only one who understands his technique fully. I‘m the only one who can explain it to you.” She turned to me, and for the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes. “He’s not just playing with you, Ash. He‘s training you. He wants you to understand his work. To appreciate it. He’s looking for a successor.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

“And your father,” she continued quietly, “refused. So V killed him. Now he‘s testing you to see if you’re different.”

My phone screen lit up again. The countdown timer had reset.

47:59:59

Beneath the numbers, a new line of text appeared:

The fifth experiment will be public. Location: your father‘s actual favorite place. I wasn’t lying about that. Come find me, Ash. Let‘s see if you have what it takes.

—V

I looked at the four-fingered corpse, then at the city glittering below. Somewhere out there, a young man who had once been a broken teenager was preparing his next move. And he believed that I—the son of the man he killed—might be worthy of carrying on his work.

I shoved the thought down into the darkest corner of my mind.

“I‘m going to stop him,” I said. “Not join him.”

But as we descended the stairwell, Amira’s words echoed in my skull. He wants you to understand his work.

And the worst part? Part of me already did.

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