Identity Crisis

"Brother, what are you thinking about?" Having just finished tending to Karen's nose, Mina asked curiously upon seeing her cousin staring blankly out the window. In the past, perhaps due to the death of his parents, her cousin had been somewhat withdrawn. After finishing middle school, he hadn't gone on to high school, staying home all the time and rarely interacting with anyone. Following this recent severe illness, although he still seemed a bit distracted at times, he was much more cheerful than before, and she was glad to talk to him. "Oh, just wondering whether I should go back to school." Karen gently rubbed the tip of his nose. The pain wasn't as sharp as before. With cotton balls plugged into his nostrils, he should be able to take them out before long. Earlier, he had actually been pondering what had just transpired in the basement and the scene in that nightmare. Was it an isolated incident tied to his own "body" and "psyche," or had he truly encountered something "supernatural"? After all, if it were the latter, the basement earlier had already met most of the conditions required to trigger it. But in the end, it was just a dream. No matter how terrifying a nightmare was, once one woke up, most of that lingering dread would quickly dissipate. After that, Karen spent more time thinking about his future path. He didn't believe that just because he was a "transmigrator," he could easily rake in piles of gold every day and kickstart a wildly successful life. However, having been a self-made striver in his past life, he had enough confidence to rely on his own abilities and competence to carve out a respectable living in this "new world." After all, whatever else the identity of "Karen" gave him—setting aside any advantages for now—it carried not an ounce of burden. That was plenty. "You used to hate going to school the most, Brother," Mina said with a smile. The old Karen had leaned somewhat toward being autistic, naturally disliking crowded places like schools. "School is very important, especially when you're young," Karen said earnestly. "Most people, once they grow up and become adults, regret it. They regret not working harder and enduring a bit more hardship when they were studying in their youth." "You sound just like Mom when you say that, Brother." "Heh." Karen shrugged. "Mina, pour me a glass of water, will you?" "Okay, Brother." His obedient cousin went off to pour the water. Karen opened the room's window. Fresh air rushed in, and he took a deep breath. Immediately after, he shut the window again—the wind was freezing. Turning around, Karen saw that Purr, the black cat, had appeared at the head of his bed at some point. It crouched there, feline eyes fixed on him, its neck tilting slightly now and then as if sizing him up from top to bottom. "Purr, tsk-tsk-tsk..." Karen tried teasing the black cat with the universal clicking sounds used for pets. Purr cocked its head, not biting. Karen stepped forward. The black cat showed no fear—no matter what, Karen was part of the family. He reached out and stroked the cat's head. "Meow..." Purr turned its head away, seemingly displeased with this affection. "Why did Grandfather give you such an awkward name?" Karen muttered to himself. "Purr... Purr... Ha, might as well call you Pu'er. Sounds much fresher right away." The black cat shifted its body, clearly showing no appreciation for this phonetically similar "new name." Mina came over carrying a glass of water and said, "Mom is calling around trying to find Dad." "Hmm?" Cell phones didn't exist in this era; using landlines to track someone down was rather inefficient. Besides, unless something unusual had happened, Uncle Mason was probably drifting that hearse of his through who knew which street. After handing Karen the water, Mina practicedly picked up a rag to wipe down the windowsill. Originally, the Inmeles household had employed two maids—one in charge of cleaning and chores, the other solely for cooking. But after Uncle Mason's family and Aunt Winnie with her daughter returned one after the other, Grandfather had dismissed both maids. Daily chores were handled by Mina, along with her younger brother Lunt and Aunt Winnie's daughter Chris, while daily meals alternated between Aunt Mary and Aunt Winnie. Everyone in the house had "work," making Karen the idlest one of all. From another perspective, this also showed that Grandfather Diss, always so imposing and stern, truly treated his eldest grandson differently from the others. Just then, Grandfather walked upstairs. Mina immediately stood straight, and Karen, holding his water glass, did the same. More often than not, whether a family had discipline depended not on so-called "upbringing" or "tradition," but on whether there was someone in the house who commanded awe and dread. Diss's gaze swept over his grandson and granddaughter, lingering a moment longer on the grandson. Saying nothing, he pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside. Only after the door clicked shut did the stagnant air in the hallway seem to resume circulating. Karen breathed a sigh of relief. Looking down at Mina, he saw her doing the exact same thing. "Grandfather always seems so busy every day," Karen remarked. "Yes, there's a lot to do at church, and Grandfather often goes away on business," Mina replied. As they spoke, Grandfather's door opened from within. Diss stepped back out, having changed into "priest's" vestments and carrying a black case in hand. "I will not be back for lunch," Diss said. "Oh, alright, Grandfather," Mina replied at once. Diss walked downstairs. Before long, Karen looked through the window and saw Grandfather entering the courtyard downstairs. The attire Diss wore clearly carried religious connotations, yet it seemed slightly distinct, giving off a strongly specialized, specific feel. To outsiders, Diss serving as a "priest" might seem helpful for expanding the family business—after all, that status made it easy to gain the trust of churchgoers, thereby bringing in more business for the family. Yet Karen didn't believe things were quite so simple. It was only when Grandfather pushed open the courtyard gate and stepped outside that Karen suddenly identified the source of that "feel." "Our grandfather is a bit like Uncle Nine." "Brother, who's Uncle Nine?" "A priest who specializes in hunting vampires." "Oh, I see. From a play?" "Yeah, exactly. Mina, does all of this need to be mopped?" "Yes, and the stairs too." "Let me help you." "But your health, Brother...?" "I'll be fine." Karen began helping Mina mop the floor. After finishing the floor, he moved on to the stairs. When it came time to refill the bucket, Karen went down to the courtyard, where a large spigot allowed him to draw water faster. At that moment, Uncle Mason returned in his modified "Nutshell" car. Ron and Paul pushed down a gurney carrying an elderly person; under the white sheet, Karen caught sight of white hair. Uncle Mason ran into the courtyard ahead of them, failing to notice Karen drawing water in the corner as he headed straight for Aunt Mary. "Father was looking for you," Aunt Mary said. "Where is Father?" Uncle Mason's eyes darted around evasively. It was the guilty look of someone who had done something wrong and feared being reprimanded by an elder. Out of professional habit from his previous life, Karen noted these details. "Father just left," Aunt Mary said. "Well..." Uncle Mason seemed to heave a huge sigh of relief before quickly adding, "No problem, no problem. I'll go look for Father outside. Maybe he's at church." "Mm, go on then." Uncle Mason immediately hurried outside, not even bothering to take the car. Aunt Mary didn't notice her husband's odd behavior, for her attention was focused on the elderly man just delivered from the nursing home. Soon enough, Aunt Mary's shriek rang out: "Good God, why is there still shit on him?!" ... Having failed to carry out instructions, Paul and Ron were ordered by Aunt Mary to clean the body. Facing an enraged Mrs. Mary, neither dared resist in the slightest. Paul wheeled the gurney down to the basement first, while Ron walked over to Karen. "Young Master Karen, I need to borrow the bucket and mop." "I'll help you carry them down." "No need, no need." Ron rolled his neck. He was tall and somewhat stout; though not very old, he already sported a prominent beer belly. "We can handle it." Karen asked with a smile, "So why didn't you have the caregivers at the home clean his body?" That should have been the job of the nursing home staff: to perform an initial cleaning of the deceased client's body. After all, if the family came over and saw their loved one still soiled, it wouldn't look good. "Don't laugh at me, Young Master," Ron scratched his head bashfully. "I asked out the caregiver who was looking after Mr. Mossan to go see a movie in a couple of days." So that was it... Ron's face flushed slightly red as he continued, "She said she likes watching movies and eating popcorn, and that she could feed me by hand during the film. So... so I didn't want the hand that feeds me popcorn to have just wiped that stuff off a corpse. Do you know, Young Master, a couple feeding each other popcorn at the movies is truly the sweetest thing. In the dim lighting, when she pops a piece of popcorn into your mouth, you can even lick her fingers with your tongue... Oh, heavens, that's just marvelous!" "Keep dreaming," Paul's voice drifted over. He had already moved Mr. Mossan into the basement and was now coming up to fetch rubber gloves and washing powder. "Paul, I know you're just jealous of me!" "Jealous of you? Give me a break, Ron. In this world, aside from Mrs. Hughes, the owner of Hughes Crematorium, no other woman would ever look twice at you." "Nonsense!" Ron pointed at Paul in outrage. "Mrs. Hughes?" Karen asked, somewhat intrigued. It sounded like the crematorium owner was a wealthy woman; why was Ron so worked up? "Haha," Paul chuckled first, then explained, "Young Master Karen, you probably don't know this, but before a body is pushed into the furnace to be cremated, it has to be sprayed with gasoline to accelerate combustion. Thin people usually need more gasoline, or else their bones won't burn down. But with fat people, their own body fat helps the fire burn. So Mrs. Hughes from the crematorium loves bodies built like Ron's best—because he saves on fuel." "So that's how it is." "Damn you, Paul! How dare you mock me like this in front of Young Master Karen!" "Come on, let's get downstairs and get to work, or Mrs. Mary will lose her temper again." Bickering back and forth, Ron and Paul grabbed their supplies and headed down to the basement. In the parlor, Aunt Mary lit a cigarette. Her mood was no longer so foul. Paul had shared a piece of good news: the elderly man named Mossan actually had children, and they would be coming over later. Not being a welfare case meant there was decent profit to be made; even the lowest-tier package offered a margin. Aunt Mary's "salary" depended on the household's "business performance." After deducting operational costs and public reserves, the remaining profit was distributed to family members as stipends. The accounts were managed by Aunt Winnie. This was also why, though everyone in the family feared Grandfather, none spoke ill of him behind his back: he was stern, but by no means a stingy, greedy old man. Karen returned to the second floor to help his cousin Mina wipe down the furniture. As they were nearly done, he heard Ron and Paul coming up from the basement below. They had finished cleaning the body; now it was Aunt Mary's turn to step in. Since the family might come by in the afternoon to arrange the memorial service, making the old man look presentable beforehand was essential. However, a guest seemed to have arrived at the house. Karen heard Aunt Mary calling up to him from downstairs: "Karen, come down and attend to Mr. Hoffen." Setting down his rag, Karen first searched his memory for "Mr. Hoffen." He was an elderly gentleman, a retired university philosophy professor with a comfortable pension and a dignified life. A good friend of Grandfather's, he often came over for tea and conversation. In addition, he harbored a keen interest in divination, and had once gifted Karen an exquisite deck of playing cards—not tarot cards, but the kind used for games like Dou Dizhu. Karen first went to the second-floor kitchen, brewed a cup of tea, arranged some simple refreshments, and carried the tray down to the ground-floor living room. Mr. Hoffen was tall but gaunt. In gaunt people, facial features tended to be more sharply defined, making emotional expressions all the more direct. When Karen saw him, he noticed that Mr. Hoffen's gaze was locked dead onto him. Even the pet Golden Retriever lying beside Mr. Hoffen seemed to sense its master's emotional turbulence. It stood up slowly, yet looked rather bewildered, unsure of what was wrong. Only when it spotted Pu'er crouching by the foot of the stairs did it instinctively find something of interest and attempt to walk over. Yet with just a sweep of Pu'er's feline eyes, the big Golden Retriever instantly wilted and shrank back down onto the floor. "My apologies, Mr. Hoffen. My grandfather went out, but I believe he should be back soon. My uncle has already gone to look for him." Karen set down the tea and offered the customary polite remarks. Unexpectedly, right at that moment, Mr. Hoffen lunged forward, grabbing Karen's wrist. His face pressed in close, his breathing turning extraordinarily rapid and ragged. In a suppressed yet uncontrollable voice charged with agitation, he asked: "You are not Karen... Who... who on earth are you?" In an instant, a jolt of alarm surged through Karen's mind. The crisis stemmed from the fact that this man had seen right through his identity at first glance, leaving Karen—who had spent the past two weeks building his psychological defenses—completely off guard. Karen instinctively took two steps back, trying to put distance between himself and Mr. Hoffen. As ill luck would have it, Mr. Hoffen, who was still gripping Karen's wrist, was dragged along and lost his balance, stumbling forward unexpectedly. He reached out to brace himself against the tabletop, but his hand unfortunately found no purchase. His body pitched forward, and his forehead struck squarely against the edge of the table. Thud! A dull impact echoed out. Immediately afterward, Mr. Hoffen toppled backward, the back of his head crashing hard and unimpeded onto the tiled floor. Smack! Karen stared in utter shock at the scene before him. This old man, who had just bluntly called into question his very identity, was already exhaling more breaths than he drew. What was more, beneath his head, a large pool of bright blood was beginning to seep across the living room tiles. At that moment, Mina, still busy on the second floor, seemed to have heard the noise. Standing at the top of the stairs, she called down: "Brother, what happened downstairs?" Karen licked his lips. Slowly straightening his posture, he answered: "Mr. Hoffen had a stroke and fell."