57 The Disappearance of the Doomsday Girl, Part 2

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GPS stands for Global Positioning System. As its name suggests, GPS theoretically covers nearly the entire surface and near-Earth space of the globe. At least, that is what I found when researching online.

Yet now, my phone cannot receive any GPS signal from Mazuoya.

How should I interpret this? Has Mazuoya moved into an area with poor signal? Or is there a problem with the device?

First, I must rule out the wristband’s battery life issues. The red GPS wristband on Mazuoya’s left wrist has a maximum standby time of three months, and when I put it on her, the battery was fully charged. Secondly, it’s unlikely that water damage from showering caused a malfunction—I specifically confirmed when purchasing that the wristband’s waterproof rating is very high.

Perhaps she discovered the wristband had a problem and immediately destroyed it… But is that really the case? Considering the gentle tone she used when we parted, it’s hard to imagine she had already realized my true intentions toward her.

All my preparations have failed. I am truly tasting the bitterness of helplessness.

No, I must not give up yet!

I have to fight until the very last moment.

With this resolve, I shift into my fire elemental form again, concentrating my energy to summon a large fireball, which I launch high into the sky.

The fireball explodes at altitude, scattering into thousands upon thousands of “fireflies,” like a burst of fireworks shooting in all directions.

Though Mazuoya has vanished from my sight, perhaps she has not left Saltwater City yet. Next, I will conduct a thorough carpet search of the city until I find her. It’s a foolish and inefficient method, but it’s all I can do now.

In my fire elemental form, the more flames I gather around my body, the stronger my physical attributes become. Strength, speed, perception—even the speed of consciousness processing can be considered part of “physical performance” and thus improve.

Therefore, even the thousands of images transmitted by these “fireflies” I can now process. Strictly speaking, however, this is not truly “simultaneous and precise” processing. Perhaps because my mental structure remains predominantly human, my consciousness still suffers from focus limitations.

Ordinary people without superpowers might understand this difficulty. Suppose someone shows you three sheets of colored paper, each with a line of text. You can instantly distinguish their colors, but to read the words, you must look at each sheet individually.

I can only roughly handle the images from different locations at once, filtering for any that show a person wearing clothing similar in color or height to Mazuoya, then focusing my attention to examine each one carefully.

Saltwater City is a city after all. While thousands of “fireflies” may seem many, attempting a carpet search of an entire city is a daunting task. Even worse, the city includes complex indoor areas, which are far harder to search.

I searched until dusk, then into the deepening night under a silver moon, my mind growing numb—I still found no clues.

Meanwhile, I kept monitoring the GPS signal, since she might have moved to a poor signal area… but the GPS signal never appeared. Relying on that was hopeless.

I reluctantly exited my fire elemental form to give my stiffening mind some time to regain flexibility.

Looking around, it was now late at night. Cicadas sang nearby, and the streets were illuminated with colorful nightlife lights. This abandoned building felt like another world entirely. A cold wind brushed past me for no apparent reason. I turned and headed downstairs.

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Passing through the corridor downstairs, I glimpsed the room where Mazuoya and I first met. Inside were still traces of her blood, now a black stain indistinguishable in form. Nearby lay a lone scaffold, likely knocked over by her accidently, which made noise and drew me to her side.

On the way home, I pushed through the crowd and bought two portions of spicy grilled pig’s trotters. Then I entered my apartment and unlocked the door.

The lights were off. Mazuoya had a bad habit—if I didn’t turn on the lights before going out, she wouldn’t turn them on after nightfall, leaving the room pitch-dark.

I told her she could eat anything from the fridge freely, yet she never took anything herself. She would only eat if I took it out and handed it to her. If I bought only one portion of food, she wouldn’t accept it; either I had to buy one for myself too or split it evenly with her.

At first, she wouldn’t turn on the TV either, until I told her she could learn how society functions in this era by watching news programs. Then she began turning it on when alone, but she never watched entertainment shows, only politics. Her viewing time was short, most of it spent reading the books and magazines in my home, her expression serious.

Only during meals did she unconsciously reveal a childlike, innocent happiness, smiling while cherishing the ordinary food I made as if it were a delicacy. Whenever I saw her enjoying her food so heartily, I felt those mealtimes shimmered with light, wishing time would slow down.

Silently, I pressed the hallway light switch. Mazuoya always stayed in the living room. As the dark room flooded with white light, it felt as if she might appear beneath it—jumping off the sofa and running in small steps toward me. I’d hand her one portion of the spicy trotters; she’d grumble about being treated like a child, yet obediently accept the food.

But that scene did not appear. The living room was empty; no one sat on the sofa. Silence filled the space.

I slowly stepped into the living room, tossed the plastic bag with food onto the dining table, then sat on the sofa, mimicking Mazuoya’s habit of zoning out. I didn’t purposely recall or think of anything, just hoped to clear my mind for a moment.

Less than a minute passed before I couldn’t sit still—I peeked into the bedroom. Of course, Mazuoya wasn’t there; I just wanted to look. Afterward, I paced around the apartment, memories of living with her surfacing bit by bit.

After a while, I came to the fridge again. On top was an old backpack, tucked close to the wall, hidden so well that without prior knowledge, no one would notice it. Inside were some items, including the tattered patient gown Mazuoya once wore and the real gun loaded with four bullets.

I returned to the sofa and opened the backpack. The gown and gun were neatly placed inside. I took out the gown and unfolded it.

Unlike its original bloodstained state, the gown had been lightly washed—not by me, but probably by Mazuoya when she secretly washed it during her first shower at my place. It was obviously not cleaned thoroughly. Afterward, I never washed it again, instead using my powers to dry and sterilize it before storing it away.

Could I meet her again?

What would become of me afterward? Would I just slip back into the days when I never encountered the supernatural?

Was she doing well outside? She didn’t understand mobile payments, carried no money, no phone or ID—what would she do if hungry? Where would she sleep at night?

With an unresolved ache in my heart, I packed the patient gown back into the old backpack.

That’s when I noticed something was wrong.

The old backpack contained more than just the gown and the gun—there were other secret items, including Agent Kong’s charred finger.

I had placed it in a glass jar inside the main compartment at the bottom of the backpack.

The glass jar was still there, but as its name implied, it was now truly an empty jar.

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It was completely empty!

I immediately took out the empty jar and thoroughly searched the backpack, even turning it upside down and shaking it, but there was no sign of the charred finger.

Impossible. I remember clearly placing the charred finger inside the jar, sealing it tightly so it couldn’t have fallen out. After that, I never took it out nor removed the backpack from the fridge’s top. The finger couldn’t have vanished on its own.

Unless someone took it!

Who?

In these past few days, only Mazuoya and I have been in this home. If it wasn’t me, it must have been her.

It also couldn’t have been a thief; otherwise, other valuables would be missing, and I would have noticed signs while wandering around.

Even if a thief had broken in, found the backpack atop the fridge, discovered the loaded gun inside, and still only took the charred finger—leaving the jar in place—that’s hardly plausible.

Mazuoya must have found the backpack; I only have myself to blame for not hiding it deeply enough. But now the question is… why did she take the charred finger?

Did she realize the finger’s extraordinary origin?

But why leave the gun behind? Not long ago, she wanted to retrieve the gun… Wait, she said that even if she left, her influence on me would last several days… Was she intending to leave the weapon for me?

Could I use the charred finger as a clue to analyze her subsequent whereabouts?

I kept pondering and analyzing the empty jar.

Perhaps the exhaustive carpet search with thousands of “fireflies” had worn me out, and now with my mind racing, I soon felt drowsy and inadvertently fell asleep.

Then, I had a dream.

A dream shrouded in gray mist…