Just after midnight, he decided not to think too much about it. The blue ballpoint pen with which he had written earlier lay now to the right of the crossword puzzle in the newspaper.The attic was narrow and messy. A man sat motionless on a broken wooden chair in front of a low table, with a round yellow lampshade with long tassels hanging from it.The fabric of the lampshade has faded with age, and the old light bulbs glow with a faint yellow light. The room is very quiet, but it’s not silent—there are actually three people breathing in the room, and there is even a vague and unrecognizable low sound coming from outside the house. The sound may be the traffic on the distant road, the distant ocean tide, or the metropolis The sound made by millions of people in their sleep.

The man in the loft is wearing a beige jacket, gray ski pants, a machine-knit black pullover, and brown ski boots.He sported a large, neatly trimmed beard, a shade lighter in color than his neatly brushed back hair.His face was narrow, with angular sides and prominent features.Under his stern face full of resentment and tenacity, there is an almost childlike expression, which looks vulnerable and distressing, and at the same time reveals a hint of cunning. The man has azure blue eyes, although the eyes are calm, but out of focus. He looked like a little boy who had suddenly grown old. The man has been sitting like this for almost an hour, his hands in his lap, his eyes fixed on the faded wallpaper of large flowers.

Then he got up and crossed the room, opened the wardrobe, raised his left hand, and took something off a shelf.It was a long, flat object wrapped in a white kitchen towel with a red border. A bayonet mounted on a rifle. The man drew out the bayonet, carefully wiped off the yellow gun oil, and put it into the steel sheath glowing blue. Although the man was tall and strong, his movements were extremely quick and gentle, and his hands were as firm as his eyes. He undid the belt, inserted the bayonet into the opening in the holster, then zipped up his coat, put on gloves and a tartan hat, and left the house.

The wooden ladder creaked under his tread, but the man's steps were light and soundless. The house was small and old, perched on top of a hill.It was a night with high winds and cold nights, with no stars and moon. The man in the fedora rounded the corner and wandered toward the back driveway like a ghost. He opened the left front door of the black Volkswagen, sat behind the wheel, and adjusted the bayonet so that it rested against his right thigh. Then he started the car, turned on the headlights, and headed north on the highway. The little black car raced through the dark night like a spaceship defying gravity.

The buildings on both sides of the road gradually became denser, and the city shrouded in lights gradually emerged, looking huge and desolate.All life in the city has disappeared except for the hard and cold exterior of steel, glass and concrete. Even the streets of the city center are deserted late at night, save for the occasional taxi, ambulance, and patrol car, and nothing else.A black and white patrol car whized by in front of his eyes. It is meaningless for the signal light to turn from red to yellow, to green, to yellow, and then back to red again and again. The black car strictly abides by the traffic rules and never speeds up. It slows down at all intersections and obediently stops at every red light.

Drive along Vassar Road, pass Grand Central Terminal and the new Hilton Hotel, then turn left to Northern Rail Plaza and continue north on Sol Street. There are colorfully illuminated trees standing on the square, and the No. 59 No. 1 bus stops at the bus stop. A crescent moon hung over the Place Saint-Eric, and the blue neon hands on the Bonia Building showed that it was one forty. At this moment, the man in the car just turned thirty-six. The man then headed east, driving along the Odin Road through the deserted Vassar Park, the cold white street lights in the park, and the intricate black shadows cast by thousands of fallen leaves and dry branches.

The black car turned right, went south along Dara Street for a hundred and twenty-five yards, and pulled to a stop. The man intentionally parked two wheels on the sidewalk in front of the stairs to the Eastman Dental Center. He stepped out into the night, closing the car door behind him. It was Saturday, April 3, 1971. An hour and forty minutes had passed in the day, and nothing in particular had happened so far.