Within less than a month, the internal review into the matter of Zhou Jin’s allegedly improper conduct during interrogation had reached its final conclusion — no serious disciplinary violations were found. The entire team received a formal written reprimand.

Zhou Jin was still not fully awake when she received Tan Shiming’s call.

She had spent so long working at relentless, uninterrupted intensity that she had barely noticed the toll it was taking — but the moment she finally let herself rest, the accumulated exhaustion seemed to seep slowly out from between her very bones. Her body ached and turned soft at the slightest provocation, and even her mind had grown sluggish.

That day, Zhou Jin slept until nearly noon. She surfaced from beneath the covers with heavy eyes and shuffled over, still half-asleep, to take Tan Shiming’s call.

He gave her a brief summary of the review’s outcome, then told her to report to the Major Crimes Unit that afternoon.

The moment she heard it, Zhou Jin was wide awake. She shot upright in bed. “Really?”

Jiang Hansheng had just stepped out of the bathroom. He saw her — alert now, eyes bright and smiling — and could tell she’d heard something good.

In the reception area of the Major Crimes Unit.

Tan Shiming glanced up at the man sitting on the sofa, then turned back to his call with Zhou Jin. “Is Professor Jiang with you?”

Zhou Jin: “Yes.”

“Put him on.”

Zhou Jin was a little puzzled, but she held the phone out toward Jiang Hansheng and murmured, “My mentor wants to talk to you.”

Jiang Hansheng raised an eyebrow, took the phone, and said, “Captain Tan, this is Jiang Hansheng.”

Silence from the other end. No response for a long moment.

Jiang Hansheng: “Hello?”

“— You little wretch! Quite the nerve, hanging up on me!”

A thunderous roar came through the receiver — rich, full, and furious — and Jiang Hansheng’s eyelid twitched involuntarily.

Zhou Jin heard every word with perfect clarity, and her expression shifted to one of surprise. Even Jiang Hansheng’s own father had never dressed him down quite like that — as though he were scolding a wayward grandson.

Jiang Hansheng pressed his lips together, closed his eyes for a moment, and then, after a long pause, called out with weary resignation: “Teacher.”

“Oh, now you remember to call me Teacher.”

The person sitting in the Major Crimes Unit office was none other than Wang Pengzhe.

His hair had gone grey and white, but it was slicked back with pomade — combed into place with meticulous precision — which gave him an air of particular sharpness.

Where Tan Shiming was strict and Yao Weihai was composed, Wang Pengzhe possessed a quality that was rarely seen in people of his station: a complete absence of worldly pretension.

He sat with his legs crossed, no grand presence about him whatsoever. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth — he just held it there, unlit, never actually smoking it.

When someone came over to light it for him, he’d let out a couple of easy chuckles and wave them off. “I’m trying to quit. I just like the smell.”

No one would ever guess that this particular old man was the director of the Provincial Bureau’s Criminal Research Division.

Upon learning that his teacher was right there in the Major Crimes Unit office, Jiang Hansheng asked, “What brought you here?”

“Official business — I’ll explain in person,” Wang Pengzhe said, his tone turning serious. “…Bring Zhou Jin along. It’s about time I met the girl.”

Jiang Hansheng glanced over at Zhou Jin, still in bed, and agreed, “Alright.”

When he hung up, Zhou Jin immediately asked, “Was that your teacher — Director Wang?”

Jiang Hansheng nodded. “He’s come to Haizhou. He’d like to meet you.”

Zhou Jin tensed at once. “Then — then should I prepare anything?”

Their marriage had been arranged by their parents, and Zhou Jin had never been particularly nervous about meeting elders. But from the exchange she’d just overheard between Jiang Hansheng and Wang Pengzhe, she had an instinctive sense that the two of them were close — far closer than Jiang Hansheng and his own father.

It was clear from his voice: Jiang Hansheng held Wang Pengzhe in deep regard.

Jiang Hansheng noticed her nerves, and his mood lifted. He went over and sat down beside her. “No need to prepare anything. My teacher is a kind person.”

Zhou Jin wasn’t entirely convinced by his reassurance. “I heard him call you a little wretch.”

Jiang Hansheng paused. “…Consider it a term of endearment.”

Delivered with his characteristically earnest expression, the remark was all the more amusing for it.

Zhou Jin burst out laughing — which only made Jiang Hansheng more flustered.

“Would you stop laughing?” he said.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop — little wretch —” Zhou Jin teased him under her breath. When she saw his brow arch, she looped an arm around his shoulders and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “When you see your teacher, please put in a few good words for me.”

She hadn’t given it much more thought than that. Without lingering, she hopped out of bed and went to brush her teeth and wash her face.

She left Jiang Hansheng sitting there, momentarily motionless. He curled his knuckles and pressed them against the warm, faintly damp spot on his cheek, and slowly, quietly, began to smile.

That afternoon, Zhou Jin reported to the Major Crimes Unit.

Most of the office had cleared out — which almost always meant a new case had come in. Zhou Jin assumed it was connected to the “8·17” case, and when she found Tan Shiming, that was the first thing she asked about.

Tan Shiming said, “This is a different case — a homicide. As for ‘8·17,’ we’re still waiting on developments. Deputy Director Yao is overseeing it personally, and it’s not my place to ask too many questions. That said, Director Yao has indicated his position hasn’t changed — he still doesn’t want you directly involved in the operation.”

Zhou Jin said, “I handled the interrogation of Lai San’er without any misconduct. Doesn’t that count for anything—”

“Zhou Jin. Director Yao has his reasons. Besides, the Major Crimes Unit has other cases to investigate. This isn’t a place where you get to act on personal motives — you still have your actual duties to answer for.”

Tan Shiming’s reprimand left Zhou Jin feeling both aggrieved and ashamed. “So I can only wait?”

Tan Shiming: “You can only do what you’re supposed to do.”

“…”

Zhou Jin knew there was nothing unreasonable about what Tan Shiming was saying.

The “8·17” case loomed in front of her constantly. There had been moments when she thought: even if she were suspended, even if she never worked as a police officer again, she would keep investigating.

But Tan Shiming had promoted her, believed in her, and poured a lifetime of investigative experience into teaching her — and none of that had been for the sake of a single case’s truth.

The emotional pull — she couldn’t control that.

And perhaps that was precisely why Yao Weihai didn’t want her directly involved in “8·17.” He worried she would let her emotions interfere with the operation. He also worried about her safety.

“I understand.”

Zhou Jin drew a slow, deep breath and steadied herself quickly. “What’s the case? I’ll take it. I can go to the scene right now.”

Tan Shiming watched her straighten her back and tilt her chin slightly upward — the picture of someone ready to take on whatever came, no complaints — and couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose I didn’t teach you for nothing.”

Zhou Jin looked puzzled by his answer. “What do you mean?”

Tan Shiming stood. “A homicide has occurred at Lishui Residential Complex on Lanjing Street in Liyang District. The local station and the Major Crimes Unit both received the report simultaneously. Based on the preliminary examination of the crime scene, this case has been confirmed to be connected to three other homicides that took place over the past two months in Jingang and Ningyuan. All four cases carry the same criminal signature.”

Zhou Jin’s brow furrowed. The realization came quickly: “A serial killer?”

Tan Shiming nodded. “Director Wang Pengzhe came down from the Provincial Bureau specifically because of this case. And he asked for you by name to be part of the investigation.”

“Why me?”

Tan Shiming: “That I don’t know. He’s in the conference room right now — you can ask him directly.”

Zhou Jin: “…”

For the moment, she genuinely didn’t dare.

Wang Pengzhe was in the Major Crimes Unit’s conference room when Jiang Hansheng found him — leaning back in his chair, snoring away quite contentedly.

At the sound of footsteps, Wang Pengzhe snapped his eyes open. When he saw it was Jiang Hansheng, he broke into a grin. “Oh, the distinguished Professor Jiang himself. What an honor.”

He stood, and with exaggerated enthusiasm, seized Jiang Hansheng’s hand and shook it.

Since leaving the Provincial Bureau, Jiang Hansheng had only been in contact with Wang Pengzhe on holidays and special occasions. The two of them hadn’t seen each other in a long while. But the moment they were face to face, it was the same as always — one of them preternaturally composed for his age, the other with all the sprightliness of someone growing younger by the year.

Jiang Hansheng calmly retrieved his hand. “If there’s nothing serious to discuss, you’re welcome to go back to sleep.”

Wang Pengzhe sank back into his chair at once, pressing a hand to his forehead with a theatrical sigh. “Every time I think of you, I get a headache. How could I possibly sleep?”

Jiang Hansheng: “You were just snoring.”

“And whose fault is that?” Wang Pengzhe raised his eyebrows, shifting into a tone of accusation. “I told you to lie low here, live a quiet life — and look at you. You’ve gone and made yourself the police force’s star attraction.”

“…” After a brief pause, Jiang Hansheng said with complete gravity and sincerity: “Teacher, I have very much wanted to live a quiet life. It’s everyone else who won’t leave me alone.”

Wang Pengzhe was rendered speechless.

Three days earlier, Wang Pengzhe had received a call from Jiang Hansheng.

This student of his, though he’d had his moments of youthful fire, had always met adversity with unshakeable calm.

But that day, Jiang Hansheng’s voice came through the phone, and Wang Pengzhe heard the alarm in it almost immediately.

“The pocket watch,” Jiang Hansheng said, keeping his voice low. “…Teacher, they placed the pocket watch on Zhou Chuan’s headstone.”

The moment Wang Pengzhe heard those words, he was bolt upright and fully alert.

Anyone who had worked alongside Jiang Hansheng in the Criminal Research Division knew that he habitually wore a pocket watch at his chest.

Pocket watches were old-fashioned things — not exactly in step with the times — and for precisely that reason, it tended to draw attention.

When colleagues asked him about it — what era did he think he was living in, carrying something like that around — Jiang Hansheng would simply smile and say nothing.

Wang Pengzhe didn’t know the reason either. But he could see that Jiang Hansheng treasured the watch deeply. Whatever it meant to him, it clearly meant a great deal.

In the end, however, it had been lost.

Lost in the worst possible place it could have been.