“I said that? Sorry, I wasn’t really in the right mind back then. It wasn’t directed at you.”

  I scrawled my name—Dai Li—onto the line, apologizing as I wrote. Honestly though, I figured a little profanity was entirely justified, given the circumstances.

  “It’s okay, Ms. D...” Officer Dale, who looked both stern and sympathetic, didn’t manage to get through my last name. “How are you feeling now?”

  I almost instinctively reached for my passport to prove it was my real name. “I’m fine. Other than the pain from the wound, I feel normal. You can call me Li, or Liv—that’s my Starbucks name.”

  The female officer visibly relaxed. Her voice softened, as if she were talking to a child. “Liv, while you were unconscious, we contacted your mother...”

  “She has a new family now. I’d rather not bother her with something this trivial.” I cut her off sharply—like something inside me had taken control—but quickly pulled myself back. “Do I need a legal guardian to handle this?”

  I didn’t die. Thinking about it now, the whole thing feels like a weird life experience. One of those once-in-a-lifetime events no one expects to go through. But for now, I had to get through this.

  “No, of course not!” Officer Dale was quick to reassure me, like she was afraid I’d panic—after all, I was the only surviving victim of the attack. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise. I just want to confirm a few details, if you’re able to remember them.”

  Time to show a bit of fear and confusion. I recalled the differential equations from high school—the ones that cost me my grades and made me feel like an idiot.

  “Uh? Oh… I’ll try.”

  Waking up from who-knows-how-long a coma gave my voice a natural dryness. It helped with conveying emotion. The anesthetics were still affecting my concentration, which clouded my thoughts. All of that was true, and unfortunately real—but I still needed to pull off this conversation.

  “Do you remember where all of this happened?”

  My drug-hazed brain creaked and groaned into motion as memory slowly stirred. No need to fake this part. I genuinely had to piece together the timeline from a chaotic blur. “Maybe… I was at the mall. I didn’t have any classes that day. When was it... Thursday, right?”

  “Don’t worry. Take a deep breath. No need to force it,” Officer Dale said gently. She poured a glass of ice water, added a straw, and held it up to my lips. “This isn’t a formal interview. We can stop anytime if it’s too much.”

  “I’m fine. I need to remember this.” I decided to show a little determination.

  “Okay. That’s good. These are just simple questions—do you remember where exactly the attack happened?”

  I took a sip of the water and finally felt like speaking didn’t hurt so much. “Mirrors… There were mirrors everywhere. A fitting room? I’m not sure.”

  Truth is, I remembered it far too clearly.

  The overwhelming stench of blood hit me like a wave. A twisted face suddenly appeared through the crack in the door. It looked like some kind of wild animal, contorted into a snarl, barely distinguishable as human—features lost beneath a film of sticky, reeking pink fluid.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Unfortunately, I knew that smell: blood, saliva, sweat—all from a man who clearly hadn’t showered in at least a week and must’ve been rolling in trash. I didn’t even want to think about how a walking biohazard like that got past mall security.

  “It’s okay. Don’t push yourself. What did that person do?”

  My breathing grew erratic. The finger clipped into the pulse oximeter spasmed. My voice came out hoarse and sharp. “He… lunged at me. Like he was trying to tear me apart... Why?”

  More images flooded back. That disgusting thing hadn’t used the knife at first. Instead, he tucked the blood-slick blade into his waistband and grabbed my throat, slamming me against the mirror. I had no idea why he did that.

  “And you?”

  “I… I fought back! He got hurt!” Luckily, this country didn’t really have a thing like “excessive self-defense,” especially not when the attacker was a bloody lunatic with a knife. I told the truth, though the rush of memories was so intense I could barely track what I was saying.

  The crushing pressure on my neck blurred everything. My survival instinct kicked in. I pulled the wooden hairpin from my bun and drove it at the closest target—his right eye.

  As the pressure eased slightly, my brain told me to push the thirteen-centimeter wooden stick—blunt-ended, safe enough for airport security—deeper. I twisted it into the gooey socket, like using a paper straw to dig aloe chunks from the bottom of a drink.

  As he let go of my throat and clutched at his eye, I dropped to my knees, gasping for air. I never realized just how sweet the air in a mall could be—at least, that’s what I thought in the moment. As clarity returned, I reached for the belt above my head.

  I needed the knife tucked into the back of his waistband. It felt like my final life’s mission.

  Then I ended up grappling on the floor with a blood-covered man who reeked and screamed into my face.

  If I actually exercised or went jogging, maybe this would’ve been easier. But adrenaline leveled the playing field.

  “Yes, he was hurt. You protected yourself. That was very brave. Do you remember anything else?” the officer whispered softly, almost right into my ear. “Anything unusual?”

  And now came the fun part. I imagined a swarm of tarantulas crawling up the bedsheets and IV tubing, across my skin and into my mouth, flailing to shake them off.

  Real emotions are what convince an audience. I got so into the performance I didn’t even notice the urgent beeping nearby. The officer did.

  A nurse rushed in, pinning me down while cold fluid was pushed into my veins.

  I wasn’t going to die with questions unanswered. In the darkness, I recalled that sweltering, suffocating ten hours in the bathroom years ago, the checklist I’d rehearsed endlessly in my head, and sank—driven by the need to survive—into a recovery sleep.