Just because I wrote "Zhu Xian," the school beauty sent me razor blades.

April.

Xie Wanyin lay on the table, her chin resting on her textbook of "History of Modern Literature," her eyes staring blankly out the window.

It has been a month since "Zhu Xian" ended.

During this month, she tried reading other books. She couldn't get into cultivation novels, the scope was too narrow; she couldn't get into urban novels, they were too vulgar; she couldn't get into time-travel novels, they were too unrealistic.

She's like someone who's just broken up with their boyfriend; everyone looks like their ex, so she can't stand anyone.

"It's over," she muttered to herself. "I've got a disease called 'Zhu Xian Syndrome'."

Shen Qingci, applying a face mask across from him, didn't even look up: "You have plenty of illnesses, one more won't make a difference."

"You don't understand." Xie Wanyin listlessly swiped her phone screen. "I need a new source of emotional support, otherwise I'm really going to fail my final exams—"

Her fingers suddenly stopped.

On the screen, a push notification popped up from the Red Eggplant Literature Network.

[The author you follow, "Old Man of Akina Mountain," has released a new work.]

Xie Wanyin paused for a second.

Then she sprang up from the chair and kicked over the trash can next to her.

"Holy shit! Holy ...

Su Zhiyuan, Gu Zhiwan, and Shen Qingci all peeked out from their respective positions at the same time, with identical expressions: What's wrong with them now?

"You old scoundrel!" Xie Wanyin held her phone high. "You old scoundrel has released a new book!!!"

The three people paused.

"That old scoundrel from Mount Akina?" Gu Zhiwan raised an eyebrow.

"What else?"

Su Zhiyuan, Gu Zhiwan, and Shen Qingci exchanged a glance.

I immediately opened my phone to check.

The screen displays the cover of a new book—not a landscape background reminiscent of fantasy novels, but a black and white photograph: an old-fashioned steam train traveling through a blizzard, its headlights piercing the darkness.

Book Title: Murder on the Orient Express

The introduction consists of only one sentence—

A blizzard, a lone train, a dozen strangers, and a body stabbed twelve times. The snow has blocked the roads, making travel impossible. The murderer is in this train carriage; he or she may be sitting innocently beside us right now. Does the so-called perfect murder truly exist?

Dorm 404 was silent for three seconds.

"Suspense?" Gu Zhiwan raised an eyebrow. "The old scoundrel has stopped writing fantasy novels and switched to suspense?"

"Never mind, let's take a look first." Xie Wanyin had already opened the first chapter.

The story begins in Istanbul.

Hercule Poirot, the famous detective, decides to return to London on the Orient Express. The train is luxurious and comfortable, and its passengers are a diverse group: Princess Dragomirov of Russia, a wealthy American businessman, a Hungarian count, a Swedish schoolteacher, a British colonel, an Italian driver, an Austrian maid…

Shortly after boarding the vehicle, Cassetti received an anonymous threatening letter.

He approached Poirot, his expression extremely tense. He told Poirot that someone wanted to kill him and begged Poirot to protect him.

Poirot did not accept his request.

As night deepened, the train entered the mountains of Yugoslavia. A sudden blizzard buried the tracks, forcing the train to stop.

Then, a scream shattered the silence of the carriage.

"Cassetti is dead." Xie Wanyin scrolled through her phone screen. "He was stabbed twelve times."

"Twelve cuts." Gu Zhiwan tapped her fingers on the edge of the bed. "Not one cut to kill, twelve cuts. What does that mean?"

"The killer harbored deep-seated hatred," Su Zhiyuan said softly. "Every cut was driven by emotion."

"Or," Shen Qingci hugged her knees, "each cut came from a different person."

All three of them looked at her at the same time.

Shen Qingci was taken aback for a moment: "I... I was just saying."

"Possibly." Su Zhiyuan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Twelve cuts, twelve people."

Poirot began his investigation.

He interrogated every passenger, inspected every carriage, and compared timelines and testimonies.

More and more doubts are emerging—

The broken pocket watch stopped at 1:15 a.m.

A threatening letter that was burned.

Train conductor Michel's testimony was contradictory.

An embroidered handkerchief in Princess Dragomirov's room.

Mrs. Hubbard claimed to have seen a "dark shadow".

Poirot's reasoning ability is astounding, but each clue is like a loose thread that pulls out an even bigger fog of mystery.

"Polo is too strong," Xie Wanyin said, biting her nails. "But why do I feel like... he's being led by the nose?"

"Because all the clues appeared at just the right time. There was just the right shadow, just the right handkerchief, just the right letter that was half burned," Gu Zhiwan analyzed.

Su Zhiyuan stared at the screen, her voice calm: "Every single one seems to have been meticulously arranged. Wherever Poirot investigates, the clues appear there."

"You mean, someone made arrangements in advance?" Shen Qingci asked.

"It doesn't seem like a solo setup," Su Zhiyuan frowned. "It's possible that everyone is cooperating and acting. But why would they do that?"

She paused for a moment, then said, "I can't guess the truth yet, but I feel that everyone in the carriage is hiding their own secret."

Xie Wanyin shrank her neck: "What you just said gives me the chills."

Poirot gathered everyone together.

He presented two lines of reasoning to everyone—

Article 1: The murderer is an outsider who disguises himself as a train conductor to board the train, commit murder, and then escape by jumping out of the window.

Article 2: The murderer was not one person, but twelve people.

Poirot's voice echoed through the dining car—

"On the night of the operation, Edward Cassetti drank a drugged beverage after dinner and fell into a deep sleep, completely unaware of what was happening. The twelve men took advantage of his sleep to carry out their revenge."

"Dr. Constantine was not the perpetrator. He only agreed to modify the autopsy report out of compassion to help cover up the truth. He did not participate in the murder that night."

"Each of you will receive one cut, making a total of twelve cuts."

"If it weren't for this blizzard, the train would have stopped at the next station. You could have simply handed the train conductor's uniform to the police, said the killer had escaped off the train—and that would have been the end of it."

The carriage was deathly silent.

Twelve people, twelve faces, no surprise, only silence.

Dormitory 404 also fell silent.

Xie Wanyin's eyes reddened: "They...each of them stabbed us in the back?"

"Twelve people, one knife each," Gu Zhiwan said in a low voice. "That's why the depth, angle, and force of the cuts are all different."

Poirot revealed everyone's identities.

They were not strangers to each other; they were all people deeply wounded by the same tragedy.

Cassetti's true identity is that of a notorious kidnapper. Three years ago, he abducted young Daisy Armstrong, and after receiving the ransom, he still cruelly murdered her.

Daisy's mother suffered a devastating blow, went into premature labor, and tragically passed away; Daisy's father, the respected Colonel Armstrong, shot himself in utter despair.

The twelve Avengers in the train carriage each have their own backstories:

Daisy's maternal grandmother, Mrs. Hubbard; Count Andrei, who participated in the revenge for his wife (Daisy's aunt); the governess, Marie de Bernam; Princess Dragomirov of Russia—who was the godmother of Daisy's mother, Sonia; Hildegard Schmidt, who had worked as a cook in the Armstrong household and was now a maid to the princess; Michel, the train conductor and brother of the maid Susanna, who tragically committed suicide; the private detective Hardman, who was in love with Susanna; McQueen, whose father died of grief after being devastated by the case; Colonel Arbasnot, a close friend of Colonel Armstrong; Masterman, the former orderly of the colonel; the family driver, Foscarelli; and Miss Olsen, the Swedish nanny who cared for Daisy.

Mrs. Hubbard, as the maternal grandmother, was the initiator of the entire revenge plan. Dr. Constantine was not among the revenge team members; he was merely a local doctor brought in to perform the autopsy, and later, out of remorse, altered the autopsy report.

They patiently prepared for two years, chartering an entire train carriage, intending to impersonate outsiders and commit crimes to escape. However, a sudden blizzard stranded the train in the wilderness. This group of people, hurt by fate, personally executed the unpunished demon.

"Oh my god!" Xie Wanyin covered her mouth. "They're not the murderer...they're the jury."

"A jury made up on their own." Su Zhiyuan's voice was somewhat hoarse. "The law didn't punish Cassetti, so they took matters into their own hands."

"What will Poirot choose?" Shen Qingci trembled. "He's found out the truth—"

"Knowing that these twelve people are not bad people, don't forget that he is also a law enforcer," Gu Zhiwan continued.

Late at night, Mary brought Poirot a cup of hot tea.

"Remember the woman in Turkey who was stoned to death?" Her voice was soft. "You said that justice is perceived differently by everyone. Even knowing she would die, she still chose that path—we are the same."

"When I was shut out of justice, I felt abandoned by God. Later I learned: follow your heart and do what you believe is right. Even if that justice is controversial, it makes me whole again."

Poirot remained silent for a long time.

The police arrived the next day. All the passengers stood in the snow, awaiting Poirot's verdict.

Poirot twirled the cross necklace in his hand. At the crossroads of reason and emotion, in just a few steps, his inner world underwent a transformation.

He walked up to the police officer and handed over the train conductor's uniform.

"The killer was an assassin sent by the Mafia, who disguised himself as a train conductor to board the train and commit the murder, then escaped. These are the clothes he left behind."

The police unconditionally trusted the famous detective.

Poirot glanced back at the twelve men.

They did nothing wrong—they were good people before they became murderers.

Poirot turned and walked away alone into the vast, snowy landscape. He clutched the cross necklace tightly, his eyes reddening.

This time, he followed his heart.

But this also means that the principles he upheld have been shattered.

After watching the ending, dormitory 404 remained silent for a long time.

Shen Qingci sighed softly, "So Mary was right. The law abandoned them first; those with nowhere else to turn have no choice but to seek justice themselves."

"What's most heartbreaking isn't that everyone committed murder, but Poirot's choice," Su Zhiyuan said solemnly. "He devoted his life to the law, yet in the end, he wove a lie himself—knowing everyone was guilty, he couldn't bear to judge a group of kind people driven mad by desperation."

Gu Zhiwan lowered her eyes: "This ending offers no sense of satisfaction from solving a case, only a feeling of oppression. The villains going unpunished is a tragedy of the world, the good people seeking revenge is a tragedy of humanity, and Poirot's compromise is a tragedy of faith."

Outside the window, the April night breeze blew in through the half-open window, carrying a slight chill.

Xie Wanyin stared at the ceiling, her voice very soft: "Sisters, I have a question."

"What?"

"If we were one of those twelve, what would we do?"

The dormitory fell silent once again.

After a long while, Su Zhiyuan finally spoke.

"I have no idea."

"But I know," she said, "that story the old scoundrel wrote will stay in my heart for a long time."