The following morning, Zhou Jin slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze lingered on the pale white gauze curtains for a long moment before clarity returned to her.

The inner muscles of her thighs were sore and aching, her waist stiff and tender. She rolled over lazily.

Her eyes were half-closed when she suddenly sat bolt upright. “What time is it?”

“You’re awake?”

The sky had finally cleared. Warm sunlight spilled into the room. Jiang Hansheng sat at the desk, his hand resting against the edge of his laptop screen as he looked over at her.

“Nine thirty. I’ve already asked Captain Tan for leave on your behalf. If you’re tired, you can sleep a little longer.”

Someone had wiped her down while she slept — her skin felt dry and clean. She’d been changed into a men’s cotton button-down, one of Jiang Hansheng’s, wide and loose, the hem barely clearing her hips. It did nothing to hide her long, slender legs, and even less to conceal the kiss marks and bite impressions along her neck.

Fragments of the night’s recklessness drifted back to her, and Zhou Jin felt the heat rise to her face.

And yet those fragments seemed to exist only in her own memory. The room was neat and orderly, everything exactly in its place. The one responsible for it all appeared to have forgotten everything entirely — he sat at his desk in a white shirt and black trousers, his face composed and scholarly, wholly untouched by any trace of desire.

What a performance, Zhou Jin thought, pressing her fingers to the faint tenderness at her neck. He’s really something.

Jiang Hansheng was in a video conference, his microphone muted, listening to the other party. His gaze followed Zhou Jin as she climbed out of bed — the soft morning light settled over her, casting a luminous, almost pearlescent glow around her. She padded toward the bathroom, exhaustion written across her face, stifling a yawn.

Behind his glasses, Jiang Hansheng studied her with quiet, deliberate attention. Something warm stirred in his chest.

Zhou Jin felt his eyes on her. The gaze wasn’t sharp — just deep, and entirely unguarded. It made her uneasy. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” he answered, without hesitation.

Zhou Jin couldn’t take it. She fled into the bathroom.

She stood at the mirror brushing her teeth for a while, then pulled aside her collar. Her pale neck was marked with red — kiss marks. She tugged the fabric further open; her shoulder was covered in them too.

Her heart gave an unsteady flutter. She closed her eyes. In the small hours of the night, Jiang Hansheng had held her with those long arms of his — tender, yet with a stubborn undercurrent of something more forceful — her back pressed against his chest, the two of them as if melting into each other.

Even now, his low, roughened voice seemed to echo at her ear, carrying a distinctly masculine intimacy: “Zhou Jin, Zhou Jin…”

Her face went scarlet in an instant.

She couldn’t remember how she’d finally fallen asleep. Vaguely, she thought Jiang Hansheng had said something near the end.

What did he say? Zhou Jin wondered, but the memory refused to surface, so she let it go.

After washing up, she came back out. Jiang Hansheng had closed the laptop and taken off his glasses, and was reclining in his chair with his eyes shut.

“All done?” she asked.

He nodded. “A report from a case I worked on before — there was an issue with it. They needed to check some details with me.”

“You never mentioned any of that.” Zhou Jin smiled a little and asked, “You used to work in the Criminal Research Division at the provincial bureau?”

Jiang Hansheng’s fingers tightened slightly. “Mm,” he said, neutral.

“Director Wang Pengzhe is one of the most recognized criminal profiling experts in the country. I know of him.” Zhou Jin was already working the buttons of her top, having found her own clothes on the wardrobe rack — pressed smooth and neatly hung.

She pulled them on quickly.

She had been about to ask why he’d left the provincial bureau — it was, by any measure, a more promising career than an associate professorship at the university — but she stopped herself. He’d made his choice. He’d had his reasons. There was no need to press.

Instead she asked, “I don’t think I’ve ever asked — what do you teach at the university?”

“Criminal forensics and criminal investigation.”

“…Does that make us practically colleagues?” She laughed, thinking back to the surprise and awkwardness of running into him at the Major Crimes Unit.

They’d been together for three months, but between Zhou Jin’s demanding schedule, their dates had been few — a film here, a dinner there, or occasionally a trial hearing for a case her unit had handled, which Jiang Hansheng would attend with her just to observe.

He was a quiet person by nature, sparse with words, and disinclined to talk about himself. When they were together, it was usually Zhou Jin who spoke and Jiang Hansheng who listened, with his full attention.

He didn’t answer her now — he only looked at her, the corners of his mouth curved in a faint, unhurried smile.

“I’m heading back to the unit. Will you be going in today?” Zhou Jin searched the entryway for her shoes, scanning the shoe cabinet several times without finding them.

Jiang Hansheng came over and retrieved them from the lower shelf, then crouched and loosened the laces for her.

Zhou Jin bent to pull them on. Jiang Hansheng stood before her and answered, “I’m waiting on an email reply. I’ll head over to the Physical Evidence Examination Division around noon and take another look at the Guan Ling case.”

The moment the case was mentioned, everything else emptied from Zhou Jin’s mind. “Alright,” she said absently. “See you then.”

Jiang Hansheng gave a quiet laugh.

She glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” His eyes held nothing but warmth. “I just think it’s good — having you here.”

Back at the Major Crimes Unit, Yu Dan looked up the moment Zhou Jin walked in. “Professor Jiang is alright, isn’t he?”

Zhou Jin took a beat to catch up — Yu Dan was asking about Jiang Hansheng’s injury. She’d forgotten to check. Though, given how he’d spent the night, he was clearly fine.

She nodded. “He’s fine.”

Yu Dan folded her arms and gave her a look. “Getting married is a pretty big deal, you know. Not a word to any of us. If it weren’t for this case keeping everyone busy, no one would’ve let you off so easy.”

Zhou Jin shifted, a little sheepish. “It happened fast. We just registered — no ceremony.”

“Once this case wraps up, you and Professor Jiang owe us a dinner.”

“Absolutely.” She agreed, then tilted her chin toward the interrogation room. “Has Lai San’er said anything?”

Yu Dan let out a long, weary sigh. “Don’t even get me started. Two teams took turns at him through the whole night. Lai San’er won’t budge — says he didn’t kill Guan Ling.”

“The manager at Shangye Hotel is a witness. And he still won’t admit it?”

“The manager only confirmed that Guan Ling was going to meet Lai San’er that night — he didn’t witness the actual act. Lai San’er is flatly denying everything. Says he was home in bed all day, never went out.”

That was to be expected.

Lai San’er had no fear of the police, which spoke to his nerve. Without hard evidence placed in front of him, he wasn’t going to break.

And this was no simple murder — the weapon used was a service firearm. The moment he opened his mouth, it would drag in someone far more powerful lurking behind the scenes.

Lai San’er wasn’t that foolish.

“The nerve of him,” Yu Dan said. “He claims he knows his rights — that the police can only detain him for forty-eight hours, and if there’s no solid evidence by then, we’d better release him with our apologies. Otherwise he’ll file a complaint with the city bureau.”

Inside the interrogation room, Lai San’er was proving utterly impenetrable.

The officer handling the interrogation had finally lost his composure and slapped the table, telling him that even if the murder charge didn’t stick, his role in organizing and facilitating prostitution was ironclad — he’d best not get too comfortable.

Lai San’er had raised both hands and wagged his head with a smirk. “Then charge me. You’ve got evidence, I’ll own it.”

Picturing that insufferable expression, Yu Dan swore under her breath. “Who the hell gave him that kind of confidence?!”

It was a throwaway question — but something flashed through Zhou Jin’s mind.

Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng knew the Phoenix Fire Bar’s owner He Wu. Which meant he very likely knew Lai San’er as well. There could be some connection between them.

It was only an instinct, a flicker she wasn’t ready to act on. She turned it over briefly, then said, focusing on the Guan Ling case, “…The crime scene is a fair distance from the city center. If Lai San’er actually went there, he’d have needed a vehicle.”

Yu Dan laughed. “Spoken exactly like one of Captain Tan’s students — you two think the same way.”

She explained: “Unfortunately, it rained for a few days before, and the scene was badly compromised — no tire tracks. But we’ve already identified a black Volkswagen registered in Lai San’er’s name. Xiao Yang and the others are going through traffic camera footage now.”

Zhou Jin looked around. “Where’s my shifu?”

“Tracing Lai San’er’s network of contacts. Should be at Phoenix Fire right now.”

Zhou Jin grabbed the car keys. “I’ll head over.”