"I…" The man in the white coat looked unnervingly calm—so much so that not even the corpse on the table seemed to faze him. "My name is Zhao Haibo. I'm a physician—you could probably tell just by looking at my scrubs."
He tugged at his stained lab coat and went on. "Before I arrived here, I was in the middle of an operation on a woman with an intraventricular tumor. The mass had been growing aggressively for months and had already begun to cause mild hydrocephalus. If we didn't perform a craniotomy soon, her life would be in grave danger."
"I opted for a frontal-lobe approach, using CT guidance to pass directly into the ventricle. Every time we perform this kind of surgery, the risks are tremendous, but that woman chose to take the gamble—she wanted to be there for her young son."
"In the operating room, even the slightest draft is forbidden to keep conditions sterile. Yet no one could have anticipated something more powerful than the wind would strike."
"As the earthquake hit, I had just removed the patient's skull flap and begun cutting the dura mater. At that stage, any misstep could crush the brain tissue and leave devastating damage."
"Without hesitation, I decided to halt the procedure and replace the bone flap—otherwise, with debris raining down, her survival was in serious doubt. But I underestimated how difficult that would be. I could barely stay on my feet—how could I precisely reposition a tiny piece of bone?"
"The nurse beside me was shoved off balance, and everyone in the OR struggled to stay upright. In the chaos, I covered the patient's head with a sterile drape and turned to lead an evacuation—but a rolling instrument cart struck my leg, sending me sprawling to the floor."
"Before I could rise again, the ceiling above cracked and collapsed. I lost consciousness immediately."
Everyone listening exchanged uneasy glances. His account had been laced with so many technical terms that if even one were fabricated, none of them could have spotted it.
"Dr. Zhao, where are you from?" the burly man asked casually.
"I don't feel compelled to answer that," Zhao replied. "My story is over."
The burly man opened his mouth, then said nothing.
"Is… is it my turn?" a bespectacled student stammered. "My name is Han Yimo, I—"
"Wait." Goat Head interrupted, startling Han Yimo. Puzzled, Han Yimo turned back. "What's wrong?"
"It's intermission," Goat Head said with an uneasy grin. "We'll break for twenty minutes now."
Everyone looked bewildered. A "break" at this moment? Qi Xia glanced at the clock on the table—it was 12:30, exactly thirty minutes since the game began. "So it's mandatory," he thought. "At 12:30, whoever is speaking must pause for twenty minutes…"
But a twenty-minute break after only half an hour of play? Qi Xia frowned—this was beyond his control. The game's organizer was clearly a madman; there was no point overthinking it. Instead, he repeated to himself, "My name is Li Ming, I'm from Shandong," until he could say it by heart.
The group fell into an awkward silence. Though it was a "break," the atmosphere grew heavier.
"May… may we speak?" the burly man asked Goat Head.
"Oh, of course. It's free time—you're at liberty to talk," Goat Head nodded.
The burly man turned back to Zhao. "Dr. Zhao, where exactly are you from?"
Zhao's expression darkened. "You seem to have resented me from the start. Why must I tell you my hometown?"
"Don't get me wrong, I harbor no ill intent," the burly man replied evenly. "The more details you share, the more credible your story becomes. Since everyone else has named their home province, why hide yours?"
"Sometimes talking only leads to mistakes," Zhao said with a cold snort. "If the rules are absolute, my testimony poses no problem—and frankly, I trust none of you."
"That's a bit unfair," the burly man said. "Nine people here, only one is the liar. If you cooperate, we can unmask the liar together. Your silence only makes you more suspicious. I've asked twice—will you still refuse?"
His interrogation style was sharp; in a few sentences, he'd backed Zhao into a logical corner. The implication was clear: only a liar would refuse to trust others.
But a neurosurgeon is no ordinary man. Zhao snorted again and countered, "Fine. You go first—tell me who you are and what you do."
Surprised, the burly man hesitated. "Alright, fair enough. I have nothing to hide. My name is Li Shangwu, and I'm a criminal detective."
At that, all eyes turned to him. The word "detective" brought an unexpected sense of security.
"You're a cop?!" Zhao exclaimed, stunned.
No wonder he'd probed so persistently and advocated saving everyone—perhaps he truly intended to lead them to safety. Zhao's tone softened. "In that case, I apologize for my earlier attitude. I'm from Jiangsu."
The tattooed man, Qiao Jiajin, frowned. "Dr. Zhao, do you trust Detective Li?"
Hearing this, Zhao looked at Qiao Jiajin in confusion. "What are you getting at?"
Qiao Jiajin tapped the table lightly. "This isn't 'speaking time' right now. In other words… anyone can lie."