Xiao Yang was alone in the department office, having pushed three chairs together to make a makeshift bed. He lay down with his arms folded across his chest and fell asleep quickly. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that a crisp knock at the door jolted him awake. Thinking another assignment had come in, he hurriedly straightened his clothes and went to answer it.

He looked up to find, to his surprise, that it was Jiang Hansheng. He was neatly dressed, not a hair out of place, yet he seemed utterly exhausted — his complexion growing ever more pale and cold.

Xiao Yang: “Professor Jiang?”

“Hello.” Jiang Hansheng extended his hand, casting his memory back with some effort. “Bai…”

Xiao Yang was a little taken aback by the gesture, but immediately reached out and clasped Jiang Hansheng’s hand in return. “Technician Bai Yang.”

Jiang Hansheng said, “I’m sorry to disturb your rest. I’d like to review the interrogation footage of Huang Song again.”

Tan Shiming had given instructions in advance that if Jiang Hansheng had any requests regarding the investigation — provided they didn’t violate regulations — the serious crimes unit was to accommodate him without question.

“We’re all in this together, Professor Jiang — no need to be so formal. Besides, you’re practically the serious crimes unit’s son-in-law.” Bai Yang teased as he ushered Jiang Hansheng inside.

Bai Yang sat down at the computer, pulled up the recording, and asked conversationally, “Why do you want to watch the interrogation footage again? Is there something that still doesn’t add up?”

Jiang Hansheng kept his thoughts to himself on that.

During the case briefing in the conference room, Jiang Hansheng had already sensed something unusual — there was a degree of inconsistency in the way Huang Song had described the sequence of the murder and the disposal of the body.

In group crimes involving two or more perpetrators, it was typically the person with greater physical dominance, or stronger compulsion to control, who occupied the leading role, while the others fell into a subordinate position.

It was plainly evident that Lai Zhengtian surpassed Huang Song in every dimension — age, build, temperament, and social experience — while Huang Song at the time was still just a high school student. From an analysis of Huang Song’s early history, his relationship with Lai Zhengtian had been one of complete and unquestioning submission.

Yet in the actual execution of the crime, while the primary perpetrator was inclined to flee as quickly as possible, it was the accomplice who first regained his composure, proposed a plan to dispose of the body, and moved to conceal the crime.

A textbook case of character in direct conflict with criminal behaviour.

Of course, in various types of cases, it was not unheard of for this kind of role reversal to occur — born from the accomplice’s deep admiration and long-cultivated deference to the primary offender, a powerful protective impulse could drive the subordinate to take charge of the crime scene and voluntarily shoulder responsibility.

But if Huang Song had truly wanted to protect Lai Zhengtian, why would he have given up his crimes so readily and completely during interrogation?

The interrogation footage of Huang Song played on the screen. After watching it through once, Jiang Hansheng asked Bai Yang to replay it at three times the speed.

“I heard he violated regulations and was dismissed from the force. After that, he went into business with Boss He.”

“Into what business? Gangsters talking themselves up — do you take me for a three-year-old?… And he was a cop, no less. Every trade’s got its filth.”

On the screen, Huang Song raised his head and glanced at the interrogator.

“What are you looking at? Keep talking!”

Huang Song quickly hunched back over, curling in on himself as though in self-defence.

Jiang Hansheng gestured for Bai Yang to pause, then replayed that same passage — once, and then once more.

Bai Yang was somewhat puzzled. He leaned sideways and looked toward Jiang Hansheng. He was lean and upright in his bearing, refined in appearance, and seemed at first glance like someone easy to talk to — yet in his silence, one could sense a certain cold, cutting sharpness beneath the surface.

Then suddenly Jiang Hansheng asked, “Do you see it?”

Bai Yang blinked. “See what?”

Jiang Hansheng tapped the screen, his eyes dark and still. “In your view, what is Huang Song’s state of mind right now?”

Bai Yang, like a student unexpectedly called upon, thought hard before answering.

He watched Huang Song, after being snapped at, curl himself back into his seat like a shrimp retreating into its shell. “He’s afraid of the police?” Bai Yang ventured. “That’s not unusual. Even if he runs with a rough crowd and is more streetwise than most kids his age, he’s still just a kid.”

“Quite the opposite.” Jiang Hansheng said. “He’s not afraid.”

At the moment the interrogator insulted Jiang Cheng as “filth,” Huang Song’s whole body had gone rigid, and his gaze had snapped directly to the officer — lasting no more than a second or two, but that was the most honest and instinctive reaction his subconscious could produce: fierce, white-hot anger.

Jiang Hansheng said, “Could you help me pull up Huang Song’s case history and family background?”

“Oh, that’s easy — we did a preliminary check before the interrogation.” Bai Yang said. “Huang Song’s prior record is mostly brawling and fights, nothing too serious. His family background is fairly straightforward: single-parent household, lives with his mother. But about six months ago, his mother fell ill — she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Her condition has been worsening steadily. She should still be hospitalised at the city’s People’s Hospital.”

Bai Yang let out a slow, quiet sigh. “No one’s notified his mother yet about any of this. For a son to end up this way — it’s hard on her.”

The light from the monitor fell across Jiang Hansheng’s dark eyes. He sat quietly for a moment, then said to Bai Yang: “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Bai Yang grinned, showing a flash of white teeth.

Before leaving, Jiang Hansheng stopped by the dormitory to look in on Zhou Jin.

She was still asleep. She’d have to follow up on Guan Ling’s case during the day — taking Huang Song to identify the crime scene — and by the looks of it would be spinning like a top all day long without a moment’s rest.

Jiang Hansheng drew her blanket up around her, then bent down to press a kiss to Zhou Jin’s forehead.

There were some things he didn’t want her to know about yet, not until they’d been confirmed.

He left the serious crimes unit alone, went home first to bathe and change, and once he’d restored himself somewhat, drove to the Guoshan police substation to ask once more, in careful detail, about the case on Funing Street from a year ago.

When Jiang Hansheng emerged from the Guoshan substation, dark clouds had already crept across half the sky from the far edge of the horizon. The damp wind was cool, pushing into his shirt and trousers.

Rain again.

Jiang Hansheng stopped along the way at a flower shop, picked up a bouquet, then drove to the People’s Hospital.

He inquired about the inpatient ward. As he waited for the elevator, the sound of rain outside was already gradually growing louder.

The hospital was crowded, the elevator lobby a swirl of noise and movement. As the elevator in front of him opened, the one to his left arrived on the ground floor at the same moment.

The crowd exchanged in an orderly flow — those inside first, then those waiting.

Jiang Hansheng possessed an unusually sharp awareness. In the instant before he stepped into the elevator, the air seemed to detonate into a split-second of silence — and within that silence, amid a blur of surrounding faces, he felt the distinct and unmistakable weight of a gaze.

Like a needle pressed into the back of his neck.

Jiang Hansheng’s brow tightened slightly. He scanned the area around him in a rapid sweep, but couldn’t pick out any face that struck him as unusual.

The elevator doors were already closing. He had no time to think further and stepped straight in.

Jiang Hansheng had come to visit Huang Song’s mother, Guo Li.

He entered the room and took in the ward at a glance. There were only two beds — a sign that Guo Li was receiving quality care. Even so, her complexion was a pallid, sallow grey, carrying the air of someone worn down and defeated beyond her years. Her lips were dry and cracking, and she looked thoroughly haggard.

When Jiang Hansheng introduced himself, she stared at him blankly for a moment before inviting him to take a seat.

Guo Li spent a long time steeling herself before she managed to ask, her voice strained: “Tell me plainly — has my son gotten himself into trouble again? What has he done this time?”

Since she pressed for an answer, Jiang Hansheng told her what he could of Huang Song’s situation, without disclosing any details of the investigation.

After she heard it, Guo Li understood that what Huang Song had done this time was nothing like before — it wouldn’t pass as easily.

She bent her head and covered her face, weeping. Her voice broke with it: “It’s my fault. I didn’t raise him right… Back then, his father walked out on us without a backward glance. I was afraid that if I remarried, someone might mistreat him, so all these years I’ve been raising him alone…”

“I had no other way. All I could do was push myself harder and harder — working, always working… I never even managed to cook him a proper meal…”

Guo Li cried for a while before gradually quietening.

Jiang Hansheng passed her a tissue and said quietly, “For him to grow up means learning to take responsibility for what he has done.”

Guo Li nodded, wiping her tears. “I understand.”

Jiang Hansheng said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“Based on what the police have gathered, your financial situation has been very difficult. I imagine it would be hard to cover the costs of your hospitalisation and treatment here.”

Particularly in a room of this standard.

“Yes.” Guo Li acknowledged it, then quickly offered an explanation. “But I’ve been fortunate — a blessing from heaven. A man came and said his company was doing charitable work, and that they would cover my treatment costs going forward. That’s why I’ve been able to hold on until now. Though I know, really, that I might not recover…”

Jiang Hansheng’s brow lifted slightly. He continued, “Would you be able to tell me who this person is?”

Guo Li thought back, then shook her head. “I don’t know. He never said, and he never let me ask…” In the very next breath, Guo Li suddenly looked up and pointed toward the door of the ward. “Oh — he was just here. He left just before you arrived.”

Jiang Hansheng’s brow creased sharply.

The image from the elevator lobby flashed through his mind in an instant. He understood at once, exchanged a hurried farewell with Guo Li, and strode out of the ward at a near-run.

Outside the hospital, a fierce storm had overtaken the entire city.

A black curtain of rain had descended completely over the skyline. Raindrops hammered against the umbrellas of passersby in a relentless, breathless torrent.

Jiang Hansheng thrust open his umbrella and pushed out into the downpour, his gaze sweeping in every direction — but nowhere could he find the face he was looking for.

Just as disappointment began to set in, a long, deliberately off-key whistle sounded from behind him — dripping with contempt and provocation, cutting through the noise of the rain with startling clarity.

Jiang Hansheng turned.

His hand slowly closed into a fist.

He pressed his lips together lightly. His silhouette in the dark night was utterly cold — no emotion readable anywhere — save for the single, bright, blade-like gleam buried deep in his eyes.

Jiang Cheng stood in the wind and rain, a black umbrella resting carelessly against the curve of his shoulder and neck. A few stray drops had caught in his hair.

“I remember you now.”

Jiang Cheng’s tone was still that same unhurried, flippant ease — voice lazy and unhurried — yet beneath the flippancy there was none of the old free-spiritedness. What remained was sharp, and dark.

Like the taunting circling of a hungry wolf before it lunges.

Jiang Cheng smiled, and there was nothing kind in it. “The little dog from No. 23 Gardenia Lane.”

Jiang Hansheng’s expression remained cool and unyielding. “It’s been a long time.”