Quem roubou meu cérebro?

A pair of heavy sunglasses hid Zhou Mo’s eyes; a wide-brimmed bucket hat shadowed most of his face. Although bundled up rather tightly, Zhou Mo lounged with a cup of milk tea on a park bench, lost in thought over matters of life-and-death importance for someone who had only recently crossed into this world.

When would he die?

And—more pressingly—

Who had stolen his brain?

The culprit showed no scruples: Zhou Mo could understand losing his brain, but to take his eyes as well was truly excessive. Had his eyes remained, he would likely have found himself a suitable burial plot by now and lain down at the scene of the crime, at most leaving behind a strange and chilling urban legend. But now, even his eyes were gone; such a demise was hardly dignified. He didn’t relish the thought of his eyelids, limp and hollow, gaping open and glaring at the coffin lid after death.

Was there any difference between that and dying with one’s eyes open in unresolved grievance?

More importantly, Zhou Mo’s brain contained things vital to him—things more precious than life itself.

So, before his own death was finalized, Zhou Mo intended to take back what belonged to him.

………………………………

Having just arrived in this new world, Zhou Mo was hazy on most details, retaining only the final memories of the body's previous owner at the moment of murder.

Just over half an hour ago, someone cracked open his skull at home; Zhou Mo remembered every moment of the process with disturbing clarity.

First, there had been two men—one tall, one sho