I can see the hidden tags of everyone around me. The security guard at my building has [Retired War Hero] floating over his head, and the local delivery guy is an [Undercover Billionaire’s Son]. On my way home late one night, an elderly woman collapsed on the pavement. I knelt down to help her up. She offered a warm, gentle smile and pointed toward the dark recesses of the alley. I glanced in that direction for a brief second, but when I turned back… Her tag had changed. It was now a solid black bar with blood-red text: [Serial Killer, Prey Hooked]. A blade was already pressed firmly against my lower back. But there was one thing she didn’t know. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone jogging past the mouth of the alley. The tag floating above his head read: [Retired Special Forces, Night Run]. In this city, no one’s secrets can stay hidden. At least, not from my eyes. 1 Working late until one in the morning, I dragged my exhausted body out of the office. The late March wind still carried a bitter chill, making me shiver under my coat. My name is William. To anyone else, I was just a completely average, unremarkable office worker. But I had a secret. I could see things. Floating above everyone’s head was a glowing line of text. A tag. For most people, the tags were painfully ordinary: [Overworked Corporate Slave, Wants to Quit], [Stay-at-Home Mom, Anxious], or [College Student, Crumbling Under Finals]. But occasionally, I saw something different. Take Arthur, the security guard at my apartment complex. He was in his fifties, always smiling, and loved gossiping with the local residents. His tag read: [Retired War Hero, Participated in Top-Secret Operations, Records Sealed]. The first time I saw it, I nearly dropped my groceries. Then there was the delivery guy who brought my food every day. He rode a beat-up scooter, his skin baked dark by the sun. His tag: [Undercover Billionaire, Heir to a Massive Fortune, Day 47 of Experiencing the Real World]. I used to think my eyes were glitched. But over time, I realized the tags were never wrong. It was like a cheat code, granting me a god-eye view of this city. I never planned to do anything with it. Until tonight. I was taking my usual route home, walking down Oak Avenue, turning into Linden Passage, and heading toward the back gate of my apartment complex. Linden Passage was narrow, flanked by old brick residential buildings. Most of the streetlamps were broken, leaving only one flickering bulb at the far end to cast a dim, yellow glow. I kept my head down, scrolling through my phone, my footsteps echoing off the damp brick walls. Then I saw her. A silver-haired elderly woman, sitting on the pavement. Actually, she had fallen out of her wheelchair. She was sprawled on the cold ground, her wheelchair tipped over beside her. Above her head, two tags floated: [Helpless], [In Pain]. Instinct took over, and I quickened my pace. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” I knelt beside her, reaching out to help. She looked up, her deeply wrinkled face folding into a warm, grandmotherly smile. “Thank you, sweetie,” she croaked, her voice trembling as if it might give out at any second. “Where do you live? I can carry you back.” She reached out a withered, bony hand, pointing deeper into the shadows of the alley. “Just… just up ahead…” I followed her finger, peering into the pitch-black darkness of the alley. There was nothing but shadows. A sudden prickle of unease ran down my spine. I turned my head back to look at her. In that exact split second, her tags changed. [Helpless] and [In Pain] dissolved like ink in water. Replacing them was a solid black bar with blood-red lettering: [Serial Killer, Victim No. 23, Hooked] My blood froze. Before my brain could process the words, a sharp, icy sensation bit into the small of my back. The unmistakable coldness of steel pressed through my thin cotton shirt, right against my kidney. “Don’t move.” Her voice was entirely different now. No longer trembling, it was low, steady, and sharp, like a viper baring its fangs. “Be a good boy, and it won’t hurt.” Every muscle in my body locked up. Cold sweat erupted across my back, soaking my shirt. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, threatening to burst from my chest. I could feel the tip of the blade digging slightly deeper. [Unlock the next chapter to see if William can escape the serial killer’s blade, and discover how his unique ability helps him survive the night!] Just a fraction of an inch more, and it would puncture my skin. “Stand up. Walk inside.” Her other hand gripped my jacket. I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to think. Tags. Look at the tags. I stared desperately into the darkness of the alley. There, crouched behind a dumpster, was a shape. His tag read: [Accomplice, Body Disposer, Tools in the Van] Two of them. I was cornered. There was no escaping. If I went forward, I would run right into the accomplice. If I went back… Wait. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure running past the mouth of the alley. He was moving fast, wearing a running vest and shorts, wireless earbuds tucked into his ears. But it was the tag glowing above his head that made my heart leap: [Retired Special Forces, 12 Years of Active Service, Lap 3 of Night Run] My chest tightened. Now. This was my only shot. If I missed it, I would be Victim Number Twenty-Three. “Please… don’t kill me…” I whimpered, letting my voice shake violently as my body trembled. “I have money… I’ll give you everything I have…” “Shut up,” the old woman hissed. “Keep moving.” Her focus was entirely on keeping me quiet. The knife point shifted, just a fraction. In that tiny window of opportunity, I screamed. “HELP! MURDER!” I poured every ounce of strength I had into that shriek. The sound bounced off the brick walls, deafening in the narrow space. At the same time, I wrenched my body sideways and slammed my right elbow backward. My elbow collided hard with her wrist. I felt the blade swipe across my hip, a searing flash of heat and pain. But I didn’t care. I bolted toward the mouth of the alley. “Get back here!” The woman roared behind me, her voice completely stripped of any elderly frailty. From the depths of the alley, the accomplice sprinted out, his heavy footsteps thudding against the pavement. But my eyes were fixed on the runner. He had stopped. He pulled out an earbud, turning his head toward the alley. Below his tag, a new line of text flashed in bright yellow: [Threat Assessment: Target Acquired, Engaging Combat Mode] He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t evaluate. He charged. His speed was terrifying, almost inhuman. I barely registered his movement. He blurred past me, a rush of cold wind hitting my face. Behind me, a sickening thud echoed. “Agh!” The old woman screamed in pain. I stumbled, turning around to see the runner gripping her knife hand. With a clean, brutal twist, he locked her wrist and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her clear off the ground. The knife clattered to the pavement. Seeing this, the accomplice skid to a halt, turning to flee. Without even looking back, the veteran grabbed the tipped-over wheelchair and hurled it with one hand. The heavy frame spun through the air, slamming squarely into the accomplice’s back. The man crashed face-first onto the concrete with a pathetic groan. The entire fight took less than five seconds. I slumped against the brick wall, panting heavily, my hand clutching my bleeding hip. It burned like hell. But I was alive. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. I looked up at the veteran. He held the struggling old woman pinioned to the ground, casting a cold, expressionless gaze over his shoulder at me. “Call the police,” he said. Just one word. Or rather, a command. My fingers trembled so violently I could barely input the numbers on my phone screen. But my eyes remained locked on the old woman’s head. Her tag had updated: [Serial Killer, 22 Victims Deceased, Furious, Failed Mission] Twenty-two. Twenty-two people had already died by her hand. I was supposed to be the twenty-third. If not for that runner, I would have ended up as a cold statistic on a morning police report. I pressed the call button. 2 The police arrived in minutes. Two cruisers blocked the mouth of the alley, their flashing red and blue lights illuminating the dark brick walls. A young officer led me to the side to take my statement, while several others secured the scene. The retired soldier, who introduced himself as Marcus, was surrounded by another group of officers. He remained entirely stoic, his answers brief and precise, like a soldier delivering a mission report. My hip had a nasty gash. It wasn’t deep, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding. The paramedic applied a butterfly bandage, telling me I wouldn’t need stitches. I nodded absentmindedly, my eyes scanning the officers on scene. Tags. I was reading their tags. Most were perfectly normal: [Detective, 3 Years on the Force, Overworked], [Patrol Officer, Anxious to Get Promoted]. But one man’s tag made the hair on my arms stand up. He was a middle-aged detective in his late forties, wearing plain clothes, casually puffing on a cigarette as he walked over. His tag read: [Mole, Receiving $50,000 Monthly from the Syndicate, Responsible for Destroying Evidence] My breath caught in my throat. I nearly crushed the paper cup of water in my hand. The corrupt detective walked over to the old woman, knelt down to inspect her, then stood up and whispered a few words to the officers holding her. Beneath his tag, a new line appeared: [Currently Verifying: Does the witness know too much?] He was looking at me. It was a casual glance, the kind a seasoned cop might give a bystander. But I knew better. It was an evaluation. I immediately lowered my head, feigning severe shock. My hands were already shaking, so I didn’t have to act that part. “Hey there, son,” he said, walking over. His voice was warm and fatherly, a comforting smile plastered across his face. “You look pretty shaken up. Tell me, what did you see tonight?” I looked up at him. His smile was flawless. If not for the glowing text above his head, I would have trusted him completely. “I… I was just walking home,” I stammered, shifting my gaze away nervously to look like a terrified victim. “I saw the old lady fall. I went to help… and then she pulled a knife on me…” “Just that?” He eyed me closely. “You didn’t see anything else? No one else?” “No… no.” I shook my head rapidly. He stared at me for two agonizing seconds. Then, he smiled. “Alright. Go home and get some rest. We’ll contact you if we need anything else.” He patted my shoulder and walked away. The touch of his hand felt like a cold snake slithering across my skin. I watched his retreating back, staring at the glowing letters: [Mole, Receiving $50,000 Monthly from the Syndicate, Responsible for Destroying Evidence] The old woman wasn’t working alone. She was backed by an organization, and they had a plant inside the police department. A serial killer who had claimed twenty-two victims without getting caught… now I knew why. I clenched my fists. I couldn’t say anything. Not now. If I accused him right here, with zero physical evidence, I would only expose my ability. An ordinary guy who could see everyone’s secrets would be silenced instantly. After the police finished their preliminary report, I declined a ride to the hospital and walked back to my apartment. As I passed the security gate, Arthur, the retired military badass disguised as a guard, noticed the bandage on my hip and stood up. “William? What happened to you?” “Nothing, Arthur. Just scraped myself.” I forced a smile. His tag flickered: [Retired War Hero, Senses Danger, Hesitating to Press for Details]. He didn’t push, but he poured a hot cup of water from his thermos and handed it to me. “Stay out of those dark alleys late at night.” “I will.” I took the cup. The heat stung my palms, but it kept me grounded. Back in my apartment, I locked the door, bolted it, and wedged a chair under the handle. Then, sitting on the edge of my bed, I pulled out my phone. I searched for local serial disappearances and unsolved murders. The result was zero. Not a single article. Twenty-two people were dead, and there wasn’t a whisper of it in the news. My fingers froze over the screen. This was impossible. You don’t lose twenty-two citizens without someone noticing, unless someone was systematically suppressing the information. The mole wasn’t alone. The detective’s tag said “Responsible for Destroying Evidence,” not “Sole Operative.” I stared at the ceiling. I was just an ordinary guy making forty thousand a year, and I had stumbled upon a highly organized, protected syndicate of killers. What was I supposed to do? Report it? To whom? What if the person who picked up the phone was another mole? Go to the media? Tell them I can see floating tags over people’s heads? They’d lock me in a psych ward. I lay awake all night. My hip throbbed, but the headache of my reality was far worse. 3 The next morning, I went through the motions of life like a zombie. I brushed my teeth, squeezed onto the morning train, and clocked in at the office. Sitting at my desk, I stared at the Excel spreadsheet, unable to process a single cell. The old woman’s face replayed on a loop in my mind. The contrast between her sweet grandmotherly smile and those blood-red words made my stomach turn. “William!” my supervisor’s voice barked. “Where is the third-quarter report? The client needs it by two!” “Right… almost done,” I muttered, typing mechanically. Tags from my coworkers drifted across my field of vision. [Looking for a New Job], [Struggling to Decide on Lunch], [Lost Ten Grand in the Stock Market]. Ordinary, mundane lives. Suddenly, I felt like I was living in a completely different dimension. They were stressing over lunch, and I was trying to figure out how to avoid being liquidated by a syndicate. At lunchtime, I went down to the corner convenience store to grab a sandwich. As I turned the corner, I stopped. A man in a grey windbreaker was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, pretending to wait for someone. His tag: [Syndicate Scout, Task: Confirm Survival and Daily Routine of the Witness] My brain went numb. They were already tracking me. My knees buckled, and I nearly lost my balance. But I couldn’t run. Running would scream guilt. I took a deep breath, walked into the store as if I hadn’t noticed him, grabbed a turkey sub, paid, and walked back out. As I passed him, I even glanced his way. He looked back. His tag updated: [Target Behaving Normally, No Anomaly Detected, Continue Observation]. Cold sweat drenched my spine, but I kept my face blank. Back at the office, I locked myself in a bathroom stall, hovering over the toilet, covering my mouth to muffle my heavy, ragged breathing. They were investigating me. The old woman was locked up, but her organization was still active. They wanted to know how much I knew before they dealt with me. I was still their twenty-third target. I had survived the night, but in their eyes, I was marked. I had to act. I opened my contacts. I scrolled through the names, but there was no one who could help. My parents were out of state, my friends were average desk workers, and the police were compromised. My finger hovered over the screen, then stopped. Marcus. The veteran who had saved me. I didn’t have his number, but I remembered his tag: [Retired Special Forces, 12 Years of Active Service]. More importantly, he had given a statement last night, meaning his file was in the system. But I couldn’t ask the police for it. I had to find him myself. Last night, he was on his third lap of a night run. That meant he had a set route. Linden Passage was on that route. He couldn’t live too far away. Tonight, I would find him. 4 I didn’t go straight home after work. I took the train three stops past my apartment, got off, immediately boarded a train heading the opposite direction, hopped off a stop early, and walked through a series of winding side streets. I knew where the security cameras were near my apartment, and I avoided them entirely. These counter-surveillance tricks were things I had frantically searched online during my lunch break. I didn’t know if they worked, but they gave me some peace of mind. By seven-thirty, the sun had set. I stood near the entrance of Linden Passage, buying a hot dog from a street cart, chewing slowly while keeping my eyes on the corner. People passed by, their tags a colorful mix of daily drama: [Late Picking Up Kids], [Walking the Dog, Actually being Walked by the Dog], [Regretting an Argument]. I waited for an hour. Eight-forty-seven. A figure jogged into view. He wore a black dry-fit shirt and olive shorts. His stride was perfectly measured, his breathing steady. His tag: [Retired Special Forces, Jogging, Lap 2, Feeling Optimal]. It was him. Marcus. I stepped out of the shadows, intercepting him. “Marcus!” He halted, his sharp eyes locking onto me. He recognized me instantly. His tag updated: [Target Saved Last Night, Wound Should Be Clotted, Why Is He Here?]. “You’re the kid from last night,” he said. “Yeah. I’m William.” “How’s the hip?” “Fine. Just a scratch.” “Good.” He pulled out an earbud, took a sip from his water bottle, and watched me closely. “Why are you looking for me?” I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. How do you tell someone you can see floating text over their head? Normal people would call the asylum. But I had no other options. “Marcus, I need to tell you something. You’re going to think I’m crazy.” “Try me.” “I can… see things.” “What kind of things?” “Information. Above people’s heads. Like floating tags that reveal their real identity, what they’re doing, and sometimes what they’re thinking.” Silence. His tag updated: [Processing Information, Assessing Mental State, No Sign of Delusional Behavior]. Three seconds passed. “Prove it.” He didn’t laugh. He didn’t walk away. Just two words: Prove it. I took a deep breath. “Your name is Marcus. You’re a retired Special Forces operator with twelve years of active service. This is your second lap tonight, and you currently feel ‘optimal.’” His pupils dilated slightly. It was a minuscule reaction, but I caught it. His tag updated: [Alert, Information Accuracy Anomalous, Classified Data Accessed, Assessing Threat Level]. “Did you run a background check on me?” “I don’t have the clearance to find any of that, Marcus. Your years of service, the number of laps you’ve run tonight, how you physically feel… there’s no database on earth that logs that stuff.” He stared at me for ten solid seconds, performing some internal calculations I couldn’t comprehend. Then, he screwed the cap back onto his water bottle and slipped it into his running belt. “Tell me why you’re here.” The bottom line of his tag read: [Tentative Trust, Maintaining Guard, Continue Listening]. I told him everything. How the old woman’s tag had switched from [Helpless] to [Serial Killer]. The accomplice waiting in the dark. The twenty-two dead victims. And the most critical piece. “One of the detectives on the scene last night is a mole.” His expression finally cracked. It wasn’t shock. It was something far darker, a cold, lethal intent. His tag synchronized with his emotion: [Anger, Defense Mechanism Triggered, ‘Mole’ Keyword Triggers Trauma Memory]. “Are you sure?” “His tag was explicit. He receives fifty thousand a month from the syndicate to destroy evidence.” “What does he look like?” “Late forties, square jaw, a distinct mole on his left earlobe. He was wearing a blue windbreaker, plain clothes.” I wasn’t normally observant, but under that kind of adrenaline, every detail had been etched into my brain. Marcus was silent for half a minute. “There’s more,” I added, telling him about the scout in the grey windbreaker from lunch. “They’re already tracking my routine. His tag said they want to see if I’m a threat.” Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Were you followed here tonight?” “I took some counter-surveillance detours, but I can’t be one hundred percent sure.” He scanned our surroundings. “Follow me.” Without another word, he set off. He didn’t run, keeping a casual, walking pace so we wouldn’t draw attention. But he didn’t take us toward any main streets. We wound through the courtyard of an old apartment building, cut through an underground parking garage, emerged on the other side, and took two sharp turns. Four times during the walk, he stopped abruptly, listening to the silence. Eventually, we reached a low-profile garage door at the back of a commercial block. He rolled up the shutter, revealing a modified garage space. Inside was a matte black pickup truck. In the corner sat a military cot, a mini-fridge, and several heavy-duty storage bins. A map of the city was pinned to the wall, marked with several red ink circles. “Sit.” He grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and tossed one to me. As I sat on the cot, I realized my legs were shaking. Now that the adrenaline was fading, sheer terror was setting in. “This ability of yours,” he said, taking a sip. “When did it start?” “Three months ago.” “How?” “I don’t know. I woke up one morning and it was just there. I thought I was losing my mind at first, but everything I saw turned out to be real.” “Does anyone else know?” “No. You’re the first.” He nodded slowly. “This syndicate… have you seen any other members besides the three you mentioned?” “No. Just the old woman, the accomplice, and the scout.” “Did their tags show the organization’s name? Scale? Headquarters?” I racked my brain. “No. Just their roles and immediate tasks.” “So your ability has limits. You can see immediate status and core identity, but not the entire organizational structure.” He analyzed it with military precision. “But it’s more than enough,” he added. His tag updated: [Formulating Plan, Requires More Intelligence, This Kid Is a Critical Asset]. Critical asset. I let out a bitter laugh. I had lived twenty-six years, and the first time anyone called me a “critical asset” was when I was being hunted by a serial killer syndicate. “William,” he said, looking me in the eye. “Are you scared?” I wanted to play tough. But my shaking hands betrayed me. “Terrified.” “Good.” His tone was flat. “People who aren’t scared don’t last long.” He pointed a finger at my eyes. “But you need to realize something. This ability of yours… eventually, others will notice. When that happens, it won’t just be one syndicate after you. Anyone with a secret to hide will become your enemy.” The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I was just trying to survive the next twenty-four hours. But he was looking at the bigger picture. “So,” he walked over to the map on the wall. “You can either hide, play the victim, and pray you don’t make a mistake before they find you.” “Or…” He turned to face me. His tag changed, revealing a line that hadn’t been there before, activated by some deep-seated emotion: [Discharge Reason: Betrayed by a Mole, 7 Team Members KIA, Vengeance Unfulfilled]. I suddenly understood his reaction to the word mole. And I understood why he believed me. He wasn’t naive. He had been waiting. Waiting for a pair of eyes that could see through the lies. “You work with me,” he said. “Your eyes, my hands.” “We cut out every rotten piece of garbage hiding in the shadows of this city.” I stood up. “I’m in.” “But on one condition.” “Name it.” “We start with the cop. The mole.” My voice was surprisingly steady. “The old woman killed twenty-two people because he buried the evidence. As long as he’s active, reporting this to anyone else is suicide.” Marcus looked at me. The corner of his mouth twitched, a soldier’s nod of approval to a new brother-in-arms. “Done.” “Let’s start with him.”
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