Spider

As it turns out, Derek's sense of time seemed to be worse than his understanding of a word. Jason, who had just climbed the rock wall and fell down in an awkward position, thought resentfully that the guy's so-called "little time" was equivalent to more than half a day in reality, and it had consumed more energy than expected. He took a hopeless look at the top of the wall, unbuckled his harness, and jumped down, ready to have a good sleep and conquer it tomorrow.

Derek was still talking in private with the owner of Atlantis. Perhaps their conversation had moved from polite pleasantries to substantive negotiations, but Jason wasn't interested in that. He had already met "Captain Jack" — he was a handsome Chinese man who owned a transnational travel agency. Moreover, as Derek had said, he appeared to be a businessman with a clear and strong mind, without the mysterious or strange temperament he'd imagined. Jason's enthusiasm cooled down quickly, and he was now lazily moving into the VIP room and directly into the bed.

Just as he was drifting off to slumber, he felt someone enter the room, walk over to the bed, and plant a kiss on his forehead. He knew it was Derek who had come back, but now he was so sleepy that he didn't even have the strength to greet him. Hence, he just grunted, rolled over and went back to sleep. He faintly heard Derek's chuckle in his ears, the sound of his coat being removed, and the bathroom door being softly closed.

It was unknown how long it took, but Jason suddenly woke up.　

Because there were no lights on, the room was dimly lit. Only the light from the bathroom seeped through the slit between the door and the frame.

There was silence all around.

It shouldn't be so quiet, Jason thought. Derek is still in the bathroom, at least there should be the sound of water, right? Did he fall asleep in the bathtub? He jumped out of the bed, walked over barefoot, opened the bathroom door, and froze there in shock!

He covered his mouth and nose, suppressing the fearful cry about to rush out of his mouth and staggered to the panic button on the wall, powerfully pounding the red button with his fist until it sank deep into the wall. Then he slid his back down the wall, buried his head in his knees and curled into a ball.

Very soon, several security guards broke in, followed by a cacophony of calls. A group of medical personnel rushed in with first aid equipment.

"Don't touch him!"

Jason looked up and saw a young, slender Asian man separate from the crowd and enter the bathroom. He remembered seeing this man next to the ship owner — it was the vice president of the travel agency.

The man reached out and touched Derek's wrist — who was in a painful half-kneeling position with his other hand still on the washstand — then touched the damped washstand and the pipe below. A string of small white sparks spurted out from his fingertips, making a slight crackling sound.

"220 volts. His pulse has already stopped, and the time of death was probably four hours ago," the young man said indifferently. His pale and pretty face turned to Jason. "Were you the first to find him?"

"...Yes." Jason stared incredulously at his thin fingertips: What did he just say? 220 volts? How could he touch it directly with his hand and still look as if nothing had happened?!

"You seem to have a close relationship with him. In this situation, most people would subconsciously pounce on the other, check out what happened, or try to wake them up by shaking and crying, before finally remembering there's a panic button. But you didn’t even touch the hems of his clothes," he said in a tone that was purely factual and unquestionable. "I have no interest whatsoever in the reasons why, but congratulations on making a rational choice, otherwise I'd be looking at two corpses now."

"Cut off the power, and call the police," he instructed the man next to him and walked out of the room without looking back.

"Alright, let us simulate the scene of the incident." Officer Brett wiped the tiny beads of sweat on his head with his handkerchief and couldn't help sighing. This is the most difficult case he has taken in his thirty years of work — it wasn't the difficulty of solving the case, but the identity of the deceased. That's the second son of the Berardi family! And he had received an overseas phone call a few hours ago, and the other party warned him very clearly that if he couldn't give a true and accurate explanation, all four members of his family, including everyone concerned, would've to take a bullet in the head! What did they call this? Oh, 'Sicilian revenge'! Why the hell did he get into such a bad job?

"Mr. Jason Spencer, you are Mr. Berardi's... Uh, lover. You were sleeping in the room, correct?"

"Yes." Jason said listlessly. He still hadn't recovered from the blow. How unfair, his honeymoon lasted less than a week.

"And then Mr. Berardi came into the room, took off his coat, put it on the chair and walked into the bathroom — did he lock the door when he came in?"

"I think so... I'm not sure. I was dazed off sleeping."

"So, from the time Mr. Berardi went to the bathroom until you saw him lying on the floor, did you notice anyone come in or any unusual activity in the room?"

"Didn't I say I was sleeping! Sleeping!" Jason grabbed the blond hair on his forehead and shouted a bit violently. He was in a bad mood now. "Perhaps Mr. Officer can't understand the meaning of the word because of long-term insomnia. Allow me to tell you, it's when people ain't awake! Unconscious! And even if someone did come in, I wouldn't know unless they put my fingers into the wall socket!"

"Officer Brett, I believe I can provide some evidence on this," the ship's owner said. Jason already knew him very well: the president of Macau Travel and Entertainment Co., Ltd., He Yuenfei. At the same time, the man handed over a video tape. "This is a twenty-four-hour surveillance video of cabin one's aisle. I already had someone watch it, and no abnormalities were found. Of course, you may verify it yourself."

Brett took it over and handed it to his men. "Thank you very much for your cooperation. As the owner of the crime scene, I can fully understand your urgency to clear the suspicion, Mr. He."

The young vice president beside He Yuanfei let out a grim sneer. He didn't look like he wanted to be here at all. His eyes flashed impatiently, as if he was wasting time on one of the most boring things on Earth. I don't like the look in his eyes, Jason thought. It makes me unable to find an angle to look at. This guy is a deviant! Oh, and his boss actually looks at him with soothing and pleasing eyes! I bet they are a couple!

A report was brought over, and Brett flipped through a few pages. "Well, it turns out that Mr. He was right. There are no suspicious fingerprints, shoe prints, hair, skin fragments, nor signs of external intrusion. If I had read more detective novels, I might have come to an inference like this — you see," he walked into the bathroom, closed the door and quickly pulled it open again, "ten square meters, the perfect room for murder. Oh, maybe a little larger..." he looked towards the door between the bedroom and the aisle, "eighty square meters?"

Jason jumped up in a rage. "To hell with this, what's this guy talking about! It's the upmost shamelessness! An innocent person gotta bear the accusation of suspected murderer because some police officer who never passed the reconnaissance course is worried that his case solving rate won't reach the full bonus level? Oh my God, don't you just blow a thunder down!"

"Be quiet, young man!" the police officer reprimanded. "Although my courses in the Police Academy were straight A's, that doesn't mean I have to come up with a Sherlock Holmes-like conclusion to every case to improve my reputation in the police community!"

Jason snorted, and reluctantly shut his mouth.

The police officer continued, "Yet there's a fatal hole in this reasoning. Frankly, we all know who Mr. Berardi is, and I don't think a... " he glanced at the handsome blond, "boy who looks like the cover of an entertainment magazine could take him down without any trace of struggle."

"So, I prefer another inference..." He plopped down on the floor of the bathroom and went about his business, his bloated figure making the space inside look smaller than it actually was. A few minutes later, he popped his head from beneath the washstand and held up the small object he was flicking in his hand, which looked like a glass bottle, "a regrettable accident."

"What's that? Eye drops?" Jason asked.

"Take a look at the logo above, would you? It's a bottle of glyceryl triacetate. Simply put, it's nail polish that cures nail fungus, one of the little items ladies carry around, but it's practically leaked out now." The police officer shook the two remaining drops of liquid at the bottom of the bottle. "We can still assume its little journey, though. Uh, from a lady’s cosmetic bag, put on the shelf in the bathroom, and forgotten by the careless owner and remiss cleaner. And then? We know that no matter how large a ship is, it can't avoid shaking when sailing on the sea, so this little round thing fell into the corner of the floor at a moment calculated by God, and the unfastened lid also fell off. The next coincidence may not happen once in a hundred years: Mr. Berardi stepped on the glyceryl triacetate that came out — it appears as a colorless and transparent oil, which is not visible to the naked eye — he slipped, and unfortunately kicked the wall panel under the washstand. Oh, that must've been so painful."

"By the way, did I mention that a hole was kicked through there? I guess the factory that made the wall panel must be a jerry-building expert, and the one who installed it an idiot. The back it's packed with electrical wiring, heating equipment, jacuzzi regulators, automatic rod dryers, and a great pile of enjoyment-oriented electrical products." Brett stared at He Yuanfei, whose brown eyes were filled with severe moodiness.

"I guess you're not familiar with ship construction, officer." The latter shrugged helplessly, ignoring the accusation in his eyes. "Except for the hull, we must use hard fiberboard on inner walls, or the ship would accompany the Titanic as soon as it approached the water surface. I think it were to happen that way, you'd have more headache. Furthermore, there are tens of thousands of live wires on board, each of which is inspected and controlled by the network control center. The installation position and current allocation are in full accordance with the computer-set program. Trust me, it's more dedicated to its duty than any electrical engineer. Of course, you can't ask it to deal with the damage from external, karate master-like forces, right? In this case, the short circuit is not to blame, officer. "

Brett sighed, admitting that he had no way to refute what the other man had said. "In short, the rubber outer ring of an electrified wire may have been tattered long ago, so it couldn't resist a kick. The broken part touched the sewer pipe, and metal and water became the best electrical conductors. When our Mr. Berardi got up, he naturally supported himself on the washstand, which caused me and my whole family to be threatened with a bullet in the head! What the hell is wrong with this world, being a police officer is really not a human job!"

Jason tried to show a very sympathetic and understanding look. He turned his head to discover the handsome ship owner trying to make the same expression, while his vice president remained on the sidelines silently sneering.

"Very well, case closed! Everyone!" Officer Brett clapped his hands a few times and shouted at his men, "get the report out as soon as possible, fax a copy to the Berardi's household, tell them I'm deeply saddened by this unfortunate accident, and may the Lord bless his soul as it returns to paradise!"

Although the conclusion was a bit sloppy and theoretically required some meticulous and conclusive evidence to support it, it was undoubtedly the most suitable outcome for this case. Sometimes, letting it fit was right. Brett held the brim of his hat: he shall retire next month — does he want to trouble himself?

"I'm back, dear. I'm starving."

Adrian cursed in a whisper. He sat up reluctantly, groped for his glasses on the bedside table and put them on. "It's 4:30 in the morning! Damn it, I didn't lie down until three o'clock! Can't you choose a normal time to come back next time? Now you'd better get your ass back to your room and go to bed and leave that fucking stomach alone!"

It was rare that Jason didn't snap back this time, he just took his coat off with a slow and tired movement. It was quiet in the bedroom as if he could hear his deep breathing. This isn't common, Adrian thought.

Holding his shoes, Jason crawled over to lie down beside him, and covered his face with the sheet. After a while, a soft and vague voice came from under it, "I fell out of love, Adri."

"Oh, that lucky devil got his ass kicked by you again? Then, I think the rest of his life will be a tad easier," his roommate said, unmoved.

"...No, I was abandoned."

Adrian was silent for a moment, and then whispered, "That guy is really a bastard."

Jason didn't answer. He seemed to be asleep or unwilling to speak again.

"Good night, Jason. You'll wake up to a new day." Adrian moved gently out of bed and walked out of the room in his pajamas.