It's easy to play Captain Hindsight. Clues look random until you know the ending. But when you work backward from the answer, everything aligns perfectly.


"Mister?"


Lily's timid voice snapped him back to reality. Max realized he was standing there looking intense while still holding her bag of vegetables.


"Oh. Uh, you probably didn't know," Max said, forcing a friendly smile. "We're neighbors. I'm in Apartment 3B." He pointed upward.


Lily's mouth formed a perfect, surprised 'O'. "So you're the one the Landlady talks about? The... guy next door?"


Max's smile twitched. "You mean the creepy guy next door? Yeah, I heard her. How else would I know your name?"


Lily paused, then covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. "She doesn't know you, Mister. I think you're a nice guy."


Max smirked. He'd just been friend-zoned by a middle schooler. "We're practically the same generation. Why does she get to be Vivian and I'm stuck with 'Mister'?"


"So... should I call you by your name?" Lily tilted her head.


"No," Max said flatly. "You call her Ma'am."


"Hehe!"


They walked up the stairs, chatting like old friends. But just as they disappeared onto the landing, a shadow re-emerged from the darkness below.


The figure watched the empty staircase, and a slow, twisted grin stretched across his face.


...


Max didn't chase him.


You can't arrest someone for a murder that hasn't happened yet. Imagine dragging that guy to the police station. Officer, I swear, this guy is a killer. He's just waiting two days to actually do it.


Max would be the one locked up in the psych ward.


So, he played it cool.


According to the story, this killer was smart enough to forge evidence and frame a stranger. That meant he was brutal, but also forensic-savvy. A dangerous player. If Max spooked him now, the hunter would just switch targets to Max.


Right now, Max had the advantage. The enemy was in the light, and Max was in the shadows.


The killer thought Max was just a scapegoat. He didn't know the scapegoat was a wolf in sheep's clothing.


The prey had just become the hunter.


...



"Here you go." Max handed the groceries over.


"Thanks, Mister!" Lily took the bag, but she didn't turn to the door. She just stood there, watching him quietly.


Max paused, and then he understood. He chuckled, pulling out his own keyring. He walked over to Apartment 3B and unlocked it.


"See? I didn't lie to you. You've got good instincts, munchkin."


She looked innocent, but the kid had street smarts way beyond her years. It made Max marvel, but it also stung a little. Kids who are loved get to stay kids. It's the lonely ones who grow up too fast.


Seeing that Max really lived in 3B, Lily finally offered a shy smile. She fished out her key and clumsily opened her own door.


"Lily! Why are you so late?" A woman's voice shrieked from inside. "Go make dinner, I'm starving to death in here!"


"Okay! I'm coming!"


Bang!


Lily's door slammed shut, leaving Max standing alone in the hallway, totally dumbfounded.


Lily didn't just buy the groceries; she had to cook them too?


Who exactly did this woman think she was?


Max's imagination immediately went into overdrive. He pictured a wicked, overweight stepsister lounging on the sofa, shaking her leg and stuffing her face with potato chips, while little Lily stood on a stool in the kitchen, struggling to stir a pot in an apron three sizes too big.


Wait a minute. Was this woman actually the stepmom's kid?


This was a real-life Cinderella story!


Though, honestly... Max wouldn't mind having a sweet little sister like that.


He stared at the door of Apartment 3B. Lily's shy smile floated through his mind, and he felt a sudden surge of resolve. He was going to save this girl.


A kid with such a tough life shouldn't have to die a miserable death like the one written in the book.


Of course, Max could just walk away. Dealing with a ruthless, cold-blooded killer was basically a death wish. If he just moved out of this studio apartment, the murder case and the prison sentence would vanish from his future.


It was the simplest, safest, most direct way to change his fate.


But... Max couldn't do it. He couldn't get past his own conscience.


Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic, but the sentiment stood. If this mess started because of him, he had to be the one to finish it.


......


Max went back to his room.


He fished The Hustle out from the bottom of his wardrobe. To his disappointment, the book hadn't changed at all. The handwriting hadn't even started to fade.


Max frowned.


Maybe just knowing who the killer was wasn't enough to change the future?


Or maybe this book's "update" feature had a cooldown period? Did he need to let the butterfly effect flap its wings for a while?


He did the math. He'd received the journal last night, and the first "update" happened around noon today.


Was noon the refresh time?


Note to self: Check that.


Max decided he needed to monitor the book to figure out its update frequency. Daily? Weekly? Monthly? If the updates were rare, he had to be careful with how he used them.


He flipped through The Hustle again, looking for clues. He was starting to figure out how this magical journal worked.


Doing nothing changed nothing.


So, he had to make a plan to twist fate before the journal updated. Then, he'd check the journal's "future" feedback, correct his plan, and repeat the process until he wasn't destined to die in a cell.


It was basically the PDCA cycle—Plan, Do, Check, Act.


If the product isn't perfect, you adjust the parameters and run the cycle again.


Sure, usually that applied to manufacturing widgets, not preventing murders, but the principle was the same.


Thanks for the life lessons, Professor Lane.


......


Thirty minutes later, Max had extracted the key data points about the murder from the text.


Just when I was riding high, ready to conquer the world... Lily died!


Street surveillance, fingerprints on the door, the murder weapon, bloody clothes, hair, skin cells...


Everything pointed to Max.


No witnesses. No alibi. No sympathy. The court of public opinion had declared him guilty before the trial even started.


Max analyzed the timeline. The murder happened after he made his first fortune—shortly after the stock market crash.


The evidence against him was overwhelming.


"Street surveillance..." Max rubbed his chin and grimaced.


"Don't tell me the cameras caught me walking with Lily today?"


It was the first thing the cops would check. He was the neighbor, a stranger, and he'd been seen with the victim. That put him at the top of the suspect list.


Even him helping her with her bag would look like "grooming" to a cynical detective.


Did the killer know this? Was Max chosen as the scapegoat because the setup was just too perfect?


"But what about the prints? The weapon? The clothes?" Max muttered. "I certainly didn't plant those myself."


He frowned, deep in thought, until a possibility clicked in his mind.


That left one final keyword: Public Opinion.


A brutal murder of a six-year-old girl? Max didn't need a PhD to figure out how the public would react to that. They'd want blood.


Doxxing, online witch hunts... With the internet whipped into that kind of frenzy, the pressure from the media would be enough to crush the judicial process flat. Even the police would be desperate to close the case just to make the screaming stop.


And if the cops rushed it? Any little doubts or flaws in the evidence would be swept under the rug by the tidal wave of public outrage.


Max felt a chill slide down his spine. Was that the plan? Was that why the killer used such brutal methods? To weaponize the internet?


If so, this wasn't just some thug. This was a mastermind—insidious, cunning, and terrifyingly knowledgeable about how criminal investigations and the media worked. Max was just a regular guy. Facing a monster like that? Yeah, he was terrified.


Maybe I should buy myself a life insurance policy, he thought grimly. Double coverage.