Chapter 45: Victim Files

The entire nursing building is shaped like a Chinese character 回.

According to the signs on the walls, the first floor is the recreation hall and dining area, the second and third floors are the residents' rest areas, and the fourth floor is the doctors' offices and surgical zones.

But it didn't list the specific offices of each doctor; Roger feared exposing himself, so he didn't go upstairs directly.

He hid in the public restroom until he heard the white woman's footsteps, then slowly followed her.

"Ding!" Seeing the white woman step into the elevator, Roger climbed the stairs floor by floor.

Along the way, he heard loud noise from the second and third floors—elderly people laughing and chatting, TV broadcasts, the clack of billiard balls.

He could also see nurses accompanying the elderly.

Clearly, it was evening rest time; everyone was returning to their rooms. This novel is originally published on TianTian Kan XiaoShuo -> ttks. tw, offering you a reading experience with no errors and no disordered chapters.

But this also gave Roger an opportunity.

After all, if those familiar people saw him, he'd be overwhelmed trying to keep up appearances, and might slip up.

He rushed up to the fourth floor and stood in the shadow of the stairwell, watching the white woman slip cash into the crack beneath a door.

Her movements were cautious, afraid of being seen by others.

Only when she returned to the elevator did Roger climb up the stairs.

"Tap-tap-tap."

The footsteps were sharply audible in the silent corridor.

The air reeked of disinfectant; the offices at the near end had all doors tightly shut, while the surgical room at the far end glowed with light—as if a procedure was underway.

The walls displayed various promotional slogans for Margaret Nursing Home; the most prominent read "Safeguarding Your Health," with a large sign showing an elderly woman in a wheelchair shaking hands and laughing with a young female nurse.

"How ironic."

Roger muttered sarcastically, then pulled out a pair of medical disposable gloves from his pocket and put them on, using a key to unlock the office door.

"Click."

The lights turned on.

Blake's office was only about five square meters, but everything necessary was there.

A TV mounted on the wall, a single black leather armchair, a coffee machine and record player in the corner, and a desk piled high with books and documents.

Roger walked to the desk, picked up the dollars the white woman had placed there, and shoved them into his pocket.

If it's free, take it.

Then he sat in the ergonomic chair and scanned the desk with his eyes.

Soon, he found a file.

"Rustle."

Opening the plastic cover, Roger focused his gaze on the photo in the file.

The girl in the photo wore a white low-cut strap top and a black shirt—it was Zoe.

"Bone marrow donor: Zoe Winter."

"Bone marrow recipient: Pauline Stanny."

"Testing loci: HLA-A, donor genotype *02:01*24:02, matching recipient genotype *02:01*24:02."

"Testing loci: HLA-B…"

"Final conclusion: High-resolution HLA typing for A, B, C, DRB1, DQB1 shows full 10/10 match between donor and recipient."

Roger wasn't a medical student and couldn't understand those technical loci or genes; but just from the conclusion, he knew Zoe's bone marrow matched this woman, Stanny, extremely well.

No wonder they assigned Zoe to care for Stanny's daily needs—it was to observe the girl up close.

"But what kind of fetish is this? Doesn't she feel shame—or even guilt—facing an innocent victim? Fucking shit!"

Roger suddenly recalled a famous internet performance art: raising a piglet from birth, documenting its life daily, playing with it, then killing and eating it when it reached adulthood.

Though it sounded cruel, at least that performance art kept the barrier of species.

But these Meilijian aristocrats had dropped all pretense—they now treated lower-class people as disposable goods.

"No, perhaps in their eyes, girls like Zoe exist only to provide fresh organs."

Roger sneered, stood up from the chair, and began rummaging through the office.

Ten minutes passed; he successfully found a few hundred dollars in cash and two expensive watches.

But he took only the cash, not the watches.

Because cash was easier to fence; watches could be tracked by police.

Besides these items, he found several related documents—all transplant compatibility reports for organs or bone marrow.

One Black woman caught his attention.

"Delia Cole."

Looking at the smiling woman in the photo, Roger suddenly remembered the bloated corpse floating in the Du Wa Mi Shi He.

"How pitiful."

Another white girl named Clay also matched the tall corpse Roger had seen in Aodisi's garage.

After reading all this, Roger felt a chill down his spine and overwhelming rage.

He slid the files under the record player in Blake's office to prevent them from being taken, then prepared to turn off the lights and leave.

But just then, hurried footsteps approached—sounding as if they were coming straight for him.

Roger calmly removed his gloves, picked up a fork from the drink bar, and slipped it into his sleeve.

"Dr. Blake, are you still in?"

A young man's voice called from outside the door, followed by a knock.

Roger hesitated, then replied: "I'm here."

"Oh, great!" The young man pushed open the door and stormed into the office.

"Doctor Blake, I thought you'd already clocked out."

The young man's hairstyle was the classic slicked-back formal look—appearing natural, yet requiring daily meticulous grooming.

From this alone, you could tell the guy was quite detail-oriented.

But his dark circles were deep, and his breath carried a strong smell of smoke.

Roger glanced at him, then lowered his head, pretending to search: "I came back to pick something up. What's the matter?"

The young man raised an eyebrow: "I'd like to apply to visit tomorrow's surgical patient, and perhaps give her some psychological counseling."

"Psychological counseling?" Roger lifted his head, his gaze falling on the name tag pinned to the young man's spotless white coat.

Tristan Sullivan.

"That's right," Sullivan said with a smile. "You know, I minored in psychology at Harvard. I think I can help ease her pre-surgery nerves, so she doesn't resist too fiercely tomorrow and scare Ge Lifei Tai Tai."

Beneath his mask, Roger smirked with mockery: "Sounds plausible."

"My psychology grades were all A's," Sullivan said proudly, then suddenly turned to Roger and spoke at breakneck speed: "Doctor Blake, are you sick? Why are you suddenly wearing a mask? And your clothes seem a bit tight—you should change."

This damn attention to detail!

Roger explained: "I've got a sore throat—haven't you noticed my voice is hoarse? As for the clothes, I recently hired a muscle-building trainer. Seems to be working well."

"No wonder! I've been looking for a trainer too—mind recommending one?" Sullivan, distracted by the fitness topic, flexed his arm: "Though my build's already pretty solid."

"Hmm, sure," Roger shrugged.

Sullivan smiled: "Then let's head down together—I haven't forgotten Ge Lifei Tai Tai's rules."

What rules did Ge Lifei Tai Tai have?

Roger had no idea what the man was referring to, but he absolutely could not walk with Sullivan. Otherwise, if they took the wrong path, it would surely raise suspicion.

"You go ahead—I'll join you once I find what I'm looking for," he tried to shoo Sullivan away with this excuse.

But Sullivan shrugged: "That won't do. Rules are rules—I wouldn't dare anger Ge Lifei Tai Tai."

Get this riddler out of Meilijian!

Roger gritted his teeth, thought for a moment, and came up with a plan.