Zhou Jin stared straight at him. “Why would it be you?” she asked.

Zhao Ping hadn’t noticed her reddened eyes or the glimmer of tears gathering there. Assuming she was looking down on him, he shot back with a sneer: “Why couldn’t it be me? Because I’m too ordinary? None of you ever gave me a second thought.”

“Come back with me and tell me everything, clearly and honestly!” Zhou Jin said.

“I’m not going back with you, Senior Sister. Do you dare to shoot me?”

Zhao Ping seemed to have long since seen through Zhou Jin’s nature. He grinned and suddenly spread his arms wide, walking briskly toward her.

As he drew closer and closer, Zhou Jin still couldn’t bring herself to pull the trigger.

She gritted her teeth, dropped the gun, and threw a punch straight at Zhao Ping’s face. His head snapped to the side from the impact. He pressed his tongue against his cheek, tasted blood, spat a mouthful of it out, and twisted away from the second punch Zhou Jin swung at him.

He lifted his foot and drove a heavy kick into her abdomen. The violent pain hit her like something had been pulped inside her, forcing a wave of nausea surging up toward her throat.

She came at him with another punch. Zhao Ping caught it — but Zhou Jin didn’t stop. She twisted her body, circling around behind him, and drove her elbow hard into his back.

The sharp, heavy blow sent Zhao Ping stumbling forward. While Zhou Jin hadn’t turned back around, he shot his hand out and seized a fistful of her hair.

The searing pain from her scalp made Zhou Jin let out a low grunt. She tilted her head back in the direction of Zhao Ping’s force, lips trembling from the pain, breath coming in sharp, rapid bursts.

Zhao Ping’s eyes were dark and sunken. “Senior Sister,” he said, “will you just let me go?”

Zhou Jin gritted her teeth, drew a small knife from her waist, and slashed it backward toward his face.

Zhao Ping had no time to dodge. The tip of the blade carved a line across his cheek, and blood welled freely from the cut.

He backed away from Zhou Jin, his gaze flicking toward the folding knife he had dropped on the floor. Zhou Jin caught his intention immediately, moved first, and kicked the folding knife away — then slashed at his arm again.

Zhao Ping pressed his hand over his arm with a flicker of surprise. “How did you—”

“You call me Senior Sister,” Zhou Jin said coldly, “and you didn’t know I took second place in the combat competition at Jingzhou Police Academy?”

Zhao Ping burst out laughing. “You don’t actually think I ever attended Jingzhou Police Academy, do you? Zhou Jin, I’m four years older than you — you’ve been calling me junior for nothing all this time.”

Backup had already arrived. Zhao Ping feinted toward the knife again, drawing Zhou Jin’s attention — then, in the moment she moved to intercept, he shot through the darkness like a leopard.

Zhou Jin gave chase without hesitation.

His original path had been downstairs, but the police had already evacuated civilians on the lower floors and were closing in from below. Left with no other option, he ran upward — all the way to the rooftop terrace. It was truly the end of the road.

He knew there was no walking away today. He turned around to find Zhou Jin and Tan Shiming already closing in with their team behind them.

Zhou Jin leveled her gun at him again. Her eyes were visibly redder now. “Zhao Ping — final warning. If you resist arrest again, I will actually shoot!”

She raised her hand and fired a warning shot into the air.

Though the night was dim, the lighting on the rooftop was somewhat better. Zhao Ping could at least make out Zhou Jin’s expression clearly — and he found it almost funny.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Senior Sister?” Zhao Ping said. “You want to take me back for questioning. What would you even ask? Whether I had some deep, unavoidable reason for all of this?”

“Zhao Ping, come back with us and let’s talk properly,” Zhou Jin said. “If something was weighing on you, you could have told me. We’re colleagues — we’re friends. No one looked down on you. No one ever thought you were ordinary.”

“Senior Sister, spare me the performance. What is there for you and me to talk about?” Zhao Ping smiled slightly. “I just wanted money. That so-called idealism of yours, those beliefs, that justice, that fairness — none of it has anything to do with me.”

He grew less and less calm, jabbing a finger at his own chest, his voice taking on a quality of accusation: “I came out of a village — a mountain village so poor it couldn’t get any poorer. Over decades, the whole village produced only one college graduate, and that was me.

I came to this city carrying my parents’ hopes and their pride, wanting to make something of myself.

I always believed I was someone special — why else would it have been me, and not anyone else, who made it out of that village?

I felt like the protagonist in so many stories — like I was stepping into a whole new life. But once I entered society and started working, I understood very quickly: the bottom-feeders are always bottom-feeders. There is no such thing as a rags-to-riches story.

In this world, without money, you are nothing.

Con artists, brawlers, rapists, drunk drivers who cause accidents — what haven’t those people done? But as long as they have money, they can make anything go away. One minute they’re being hauled into the station, the next they’re being seen off with the utmost respect, and they walk out laughing and chatting, making plans — whether to take a yacht out next, or fly to Europe for a holiday.

And me? I was just a junior auxiliary officer. What did I do wrong, that I had to endure their attitudes — take their slaps across the face?

Senior Sister, have you never once stopped to ask yourself — what gives? What gives, that some people are born wanting for nothing, while someone like me might work their entire life and still never earn enough to buy a single car in their garage?

I refused to accept it.

I only have this one life. I wanted it to be full and rich — everything they have, I wanted too.”

When all was said and done, it came down to money. How could anyone make real money by being an honest, law-abiding police officer?

Zhou Jin’s expression twisted with something painful. She could no longer hold back. “So you sold out your colleagues? You sold out your friends?!” she snapped at him.

“What do I care whether they live or die!” Zhao Ping’s voice rose above hers. He declared it as if it were perfectly reasonable: “Yao Weihai and Meng Junfeng — their mistake was refusing to let it go, insisting on provoking those people. All I did was pass along a little information about the police. If it hadn’t been me, they would have found someone else. Yao Weihai and Meng Junfeng would have ended up dead either way!”

Tan Shiming was stricken with grief and fury. “Beyond all hope of redemption,” he said through clenched teeth.

He signaled his officers to move in and flank Zhao Ping from both sides for an immediate arrest.

Zhou Jin cut them off, turning to confront Zhao Ping: “I only have one question, Zhao Ping.”

Zhao Ping stared at her in silence.

“When my mentor and I were going through the records of every Major Crimes Unit member,” Zhou Jin said, “I saw that you once served as an auxiliary officer with the Special Forces unit. I’m asking you — on ‘8·17,’ five years ago, when the Special Forces were ambushed, was it you who betrayed them? Was it you who leaked the weapons transport route to Qi Yan?”

Zhao Ping seemed to find her ridiculous. “You’re giving me far too much credit,” he said with a laugh. “I was just a low-level auxiliary officer back then.”

Zhou Jin did not believe his denial. Her voice sharpened: “My brother — Zhou Chuan. Do you know him? Did you have a hand in his death? Did you?!”

Zhao Ping stared at her with an expression of disbelief. “Why do you still think your brother was killed by those criminals? He wasn’t, Senior Sister. That’s just the surface of it. Zhou Chuan did die from a gunshot — but do you know why he died?”

He laughed again, his teeth white and bare, his smile mocking Zhou Jin — and mocking Zhou Chuan.

“It’s because he was too good. Too outstanding. The top marksman in the Special Forces unit, with so many commendations to his name — at just over thirty years old, he was about to be appointed Deputy Captain of the Special Forces unit.

A position that others had spent years scheming and clawing for with every ounce of cunning they had — and he simply walked into it without a word. How could that be allowed? There was only one seat. He was sitting in it and wouldn’t get down. How was anyone else supposed to climb up?

Of course they had to pull him down. Better still to drag him into the mud, stamp on him a few times, make sure he could never rise again — only then could they get rid of the resentment festering inside them.”

Zhou Jin’s tears broke free and poured down her face. Her fingers trembled without her realizing it. “What are you saying…?” she whispered.

“That’s the way it was,” Zhao Ping said. “No help for it — who told Zhou Chuan to stand out so much, to invite so much envy?”

Zhou Jin heard the implication in Zhao Ping’s words — that internal conflict within the Special Forces unit had gotten Zhou Chuan killed. For a moment she could hardly believe it. Her expression grew increasingly agitated. “Who was it?! How do you know all of this? Because you were part of it, weren’t you?!”

“Senior Sister, don’t accuse me of things I didn’t do,” Zhao Ping said. “How could I have harmed him? Of everyone in the Special Forces unit, your brother was the person I admired most.”

The Special Forces unit had long maintained a tradition of hazing new recruits. No one could say exactly when it had started — the original intention was to teach newcomers to respect their seniors through a dressing-down, but over time it had devolved into thinly veiled bullying.

When Zhao Ping first joined the Special Forces unit, the team organized a shooting training session. Because of his exceptional marksmanship, Zhou Chuan wasn’t among the students — he was the instructor.

On the very first day of class, Zhao Ping arrived late. Zhou Chuan punished him with fifty push-ups.

Zhao Ping resented Zhou Chuan for it, cursing him under his breath for throwing his weight around.

When the session ended and everyone headed back to the changing room, the Special Forces members — perhaps sensing an easy target — decided it was time for some hazing. First they smacked the back of Zhao Ping’s head, making him go around bowing and calling each of them “big brother” one by one, then ordered him to strip and do push-ups on the floor while they filmed it.

Zhao Ping felt deeply humiliated. Burning with anger, he naturally refused — and glared at them with undisguised fury.

Seeing that he still dared to be defiant, they raised their fists to beat him. But the one who appeared at the door and stopped them was Zhou Chuan. “That’s enough,” he said. “Don’t push people too far.”

When Zhou Chuan stepped in, they all made way.

Zhou Chuan didn’t even glance at Zhao Ping. He walked to his locker, pulled off his shirt as if nothing were happening, then cast a mild look around at the rest of them. “Still staring? Looking for a fight?”

Someone muttered quietly, “We were just messing around.”

Zhou Chuan pulled on a short-sleeved shirt unhurriedly, propped his hand against the locker door, and looked at that person. “Then come try it. Let’s see how fun it is.”

The person was left without a word to say. Sulking, he muttered, “Chuan-ge, we were doing it for you. This kid was late on his very first day — clearly he doesn’t respect you at all.”

“What am I, exactly? Why does it matter if someone doesn’t respect me?” Zhou Chuan had finished putting on his white short-sleeved shirt. He reached out and draped an arm around Zhao Ping’s shoulders. “This kid’s aim is exceptionally good — all of you could learn from him. If I ever hear about anyone giving him a hard time again, we’ll have a reckoning.”

Zhou Chuan’s features were open and striking — a thoroughly upright face. Even when he issued a warning, his delivery was unhurried and understated, devoid of any sharp edge. Just something cold and still underneath that made anyone who heard it feel an involuntary chill.

During Zhao Ping’s time in the Special Forces unit, he’d rarely had the chance to exchange more than a few words with Zhou Chuan. Yet he had never forgotten him.

Zhou Chuan was witty and good-humored, easygoing by nature, and commanded enormous respect within the unit. But none of that was the reason Zhao Ping remembered him.

The reason Zhao Ping remembered him was simple: Zhou Chuan was the first person who had ever told him his aim was good.

“Zhou Chuan was a good person,” Zhao Ping said. “But in a world like this — what use is being good? If he’d had even a little cunning, even a little shrewdness, he wouldn’t have lost his life.”

Zhao Ping’s eyes had reddened slightly.

“It’s such a waste. Such a terrible waste.”

The wind roared past his ears, and the wail of police sirens tore through the night sky — everything too loud, too chaotic, grating on Zhao Ping until he felt frayed and restless.

Zhao Ping looked at the police surrounding him on all sides, sealing off every exit, and knew that this time there was truly no escape — not even if he had wings.

Get arrested? Submit to interrogation, stand trial, and then spend ten-odd years behind bars?

He was nothing like those people born with silver spoons in their mouths. If he went to prison and came back out, how was he supposed to reintegrate into a society that would have moved on without him?

All those things he had wanted to chase — he still didn’t have them. And it would be very hard to have them ever again.

At that thought, Zhao Ping let out a long, slow breath — and felt, inexplicably, something close to relief.

The wind.

A free wind, sweeping in.

Acting on some sharp, wordless instinct, Zhou Jin lowered her gun and said: “Zhao Ping — come back!”

Zhao Ping spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and turned to embrace the wind. “I don’t want to look back anymore,” he said quietly. “And there’s nothing I regret. This is the path I chose. I intend to see it through.”

Zhou Jin sensed that something in his expression had begun to shift. She moved toward him directly, with quickening steps — and just as she broke into a run, Zhao Ping turned and ran toward the void of the night sky.

Zhou Jin launched herself after him and, at the very last instant, seized one of his arms. The dead weight of his falling body nearly dragged her over the rooftop railing with him.

Zhao Ping looked up, startled.

Zhou Jin’s tears streamed down in rapid succession. From the sheer force she was exerting, her face had flushed a deep red. She bit down on her teeth and yelled: “Don’t do something so stupid!”

The tears traced a path across Zhao Ping’s face — wet, slightly cool — and settled something inside him.

Over the years he had worked alongside Zhou Jin, Zhao Ping had quietly observed her from a distance.

She was Zhou Chuan’s younger sister. But aside from a slight resemblance around the eyes and brows, the two were completely opposite in temperament.

Zhou Chuan was like water — Zhou Jin was like fire. One gentle, one scorching. Zhou Chuan extended understanding and respect to everyone he met, while Zhou Jin despised evil and drew clear lines between right and wrong.

But now, at last, he could see where the two of them were the same.

The same tenderness.

At the same moment, the other officers came rushing over to help. Before they could reach him, Zhao Ping made a decisive choice and wrenched her wrist away.

Zhou Jin cried out in pain, and the sudden loss of force made her hand go slack — and in an instant, her grip was empty.

Zhou Jin’s eyes went wide. On instinct she leaned out to catch him again — but Tan Shiming, arriving just in time, yanked her back.

The two of them crashed heavily to the ground.

Tan Shiming was not as young as he once was. That fall sent a pain shooting through his lower back as though it had snapped clean in two.

“Director Tan — Director Tan, are you alright—”

Tan Shiming waved a hand to indicate he was fine, accepted an arm to lean on, and hauled himself upright.

Zhou Jin was still sitting on the ground. All color had drained from her face. She stared at her own hand with unfocused eyes, then moved her fingers — numb now from the pain.

She froze.

She remembered the last look Zhao Ping had given her. His lips had moved, forming a very short sentence.

The wind carried his voice up to her.

He had said: “Thank you.”

Zhou Jin raised a hand to cover her eyes, and let out a sob of grief: “I didn’t catch him. How did I not catch him…”