Jiang Hansheng undid his mud-stained shirt, leaving only a black T-shirt underneath. The dark color made his complexion look all the colder and paler, his features more sharply defined.

He steadied himself and explained to Zhou Jin, “I mistook him for someone else.”

Zhou Jin asked, “Who did you mistake him for?”

“…”

The mere appearance of a pocket watch had been enough to shatter his composure and reason entirely — even Jiang Hansheng himself found that humiliating.

He had no answer to give.

Zhou Jin pressed further: “Is this something that happens often? When you lose control of your emotions, do you become violent?”

Jiang Hansheng’s mind was in turmoil. He ran a hand into his hair and pushed it back, sending a faint sting across his scalp. With his forehead no longer shielded, the sharp edge buried in his nature became slightly more visible.

He furrowed his brow lightly and said, his voice low and rough: “Zhou Jin, I’m not a criminal.”

Despite Jiang Hansheng’s habitual restraint — the kind that made his emotions nearly impossible to read — Zhou Jin still caught the faint note of grievance beneath his words.

Zhou Jin said, “I don’t think of you as a criminal. I just don’t want to be deceived by someone close to me again.”

One Jiang Cheng had been more than enough. She didn’t want to one day “accidentally” discover that Jiang Hansheng harbored some side of himself she couldn’t accept.

Silence was the only reply.

Zhou Jin didn’t push him. She said, “The things you don’t want to talk about — I won’t ask. I just want to know one thing: when you had your hands around Yan Bin’s throat, what exactly were you thinking?”

“Protecting you.”

He answered without a moment’s hesitation, and Zhou Jin was caught off guard.

After a moment, she understood what he meant. “You said you mistook him for someone else — you thought he was going to hurt me?”

“Yes.”

Zhou Jin ventured a guess: “Does it have something to do with your previous work?”

Jiang Hansheng said, “I can’t answer that question right now.”

“…”

The rain continued to fall in a quiet, unceasing patter against the car windows, deepening the silence inside the cabin.

Zhou Jin tilted her head back, resting the back of her skull against the headrest, and let out a long, quiet sigh with her eyes closed.

She had been far too careless with Jiang Hansheng.

In the months leading up to their wedding — a brief courtship of only a few months — he had always given her the impression of being gentle and refined, willing to accommodate her in every way.

Being around him had never felt tiring.

In Zhou Jin’s eyes, Jiang Hansheng was a university professor, a man with better circumstances than her own, a stable career, and a life that rarely saw upheaval.

Even when she learned after their marriage that he had once worked in the Provincial Bureau’s Criminal Research Division, she hadn’t given it much thought. After all, that was already in the past — nothing particularly worth asking about.

But she should have realized: cases handled by the Provincial Bureau’s Criminal Research Division were almost invariably tied to serious criminal matters. Director Wang Pengzhe was getting on in years and had long since stepped back from the front lines, shifting to analytical and advisory roles. The hands-on fieldwork would naturally have fallen to his students — and Jiang Hansheng had been one of them.

The danger of his former work had perhaps been no less than her own as a criminal investigator.

Seeing her remain silent, Jiang Hansheng continued, “Zhou Jin, I will not hurt you. And I will not hurt anyone who is innocent.”

His palm settled over the back of her hand, a quiet plea in his expression: “Don’t be afraid of me.”

Zhou Jin looked at him steadily, then turned her hand over and held his. She was still for a moment — and then she smiled. “What is there to be afraid of?”

Her hand moved along his arm, and in the next instant, Jiang Hansheng found himself pulled into a firm embrace.

Warmth seeped into the cold, damp fabric against his skin and slowly began to dissolve it.

Jiang Hansheng heard her speak in a light, unbothered tone: “Jiang Hansheng, don’t be so impulsive next time. I’m a police officer — I’m not some ordinary person.”

“Alright.” He felt a little numb.

Was this the first time Zhou Jin had embraced him of her own accord?

But Zhou Jin was operating on an entirely different wavelength. She kept teasing him, trying to ease the tension still coiled in his body.

“As for any criminal who dares to come — if they have the nerve to show up, I have the nerve to show them what it means to face the full force of the law.”

“Zhou Jin…”

She laughed — a light, bubbling sound — and let it go.

Just as she was about to pull away, Jiang Hansheng raised his hand and held her firmly back against him.

Zhou Jin blinked. “Jiang Hansheng?”

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his lips pressed against her skin, and kissed her there — briefly, softly.

The warmth of his breath left a faint flush spreading through her chest.

When they finally parted, Jiang Hansheng had settled at last. He wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin.

He pressed her hand to his lips and said, quietly and indistinctly: “Thank you.”

Zhou Jin’s face slowly turned red. She found it a little overwhelming — but she didn’t pull her hand away. She let him hold it.

Neither of them spoke. They sat together in a companionable quiet for a while. Zhou Jin endured the warmth burning in her face and said, as though it had just occurred to her: “You — your fighting skills are something else.”

“They’ll do,” Jiang Hansheng said modestly.

Zhou Jin’s eyes lit up with interest. “We should spar sometime, if we get the chance. I took second place at a combat competition back in school, you know.”

“…”

The tender atmosphere he had worked so hard to cultivate was immediately and thoroughly demolished by that single suggestion.

Zhou Jin, seeing that he hadn’t refused, thought she was in with a chance: “Want to try?”

Jiang Hansheng regarded her extraordinary talent for killing the mood with firm opposition. He straightened up and settled back into the passenger seat, and said flatly, “No need.”

“…”

Zhou Jin discovered that he was, in fact, capable of sulking.

A nightclub.

The air trembled under the assault of frenzied music. Multi-colored lights swept back and forth across the ceiling, and the singer on stage clutched the microphone, howling in a raw, hoarse voice with something bordering on hysteria.

A surging, packed crowd. Wildly swaying arms. Music that drowned out all thought.

Amid the churning sea of darkness and chaos, a vivid slash of red pushed its way through with great difficulty.

The woman was dressed in a red gown, a wide expanse of pale skin bared at her chest, the fabric below tracing a seductive silhouette of curves and contours.

She was drunk — thoroughly, obviously drunk — and walked with an unsteady sway.

A friend moved to help steady her. She waved them off carelessly. “I’m fine. Go enjoy yourself.”

She made her way out of the nightclub on her own, feeling along as she went, until she reached the back exit and shut out the music behind her. A few nightclub workers were still moving in and out of the alley, hauling things back and forth.

Her stomach churned with nausea, but nothing would come up. She leaned against the wall, the world blurring at its edges, and watched as the workers gradually filtered out one by one.

Before long, the alley was briefly, entirely hers alone. A cool breeze drifted through, and the pounding in her head finally began to ease.

By the time she’d gathered enough of her senses to head back inside, her legs gave out beneath her. She was already pitching forward when a steady, solid hand caught her firmly.

A man. A very tall man.

The light was behind him, and she couldn’t make out his face — but she could smell his cologne. Having moved in certain circles long enough, she knew: it was expensive.

His voice was warm as well, unhurried, as he asked her, “Are you alright?”

The woman managed, “Thank — thank you…”

“Don’t mention it.” The man slipped an arm around her waist, the gesture boldly familiar. “Miss, you’re drunk. Staying in a place like this isn’t safe. Would you like me to take you home?”

The woman took a moment to process this, then broke into a slow smile. She reached out and let her finger trace idle circles against the man’s chest. “You’d take me yourself?”

“If you need me to.”

“And how would I ever thank you?”

Emboldened by the alcohol, she leaned into him, her hand trailing along his jaw and coming to rest against his cheek in a slow, deliberate caress.

He had a fine build, dressed with care, and his manner of speech was nothing like the other men she’d encountered that evening.

This wasn’t her first chance encounter of this kind — but it was the first time she’d come across a man quite this exceptional.

Something stirred in her. The invitation was open: “Whatever you want — you call it. But first, tell me one thing: why do you want to take me home?”

It was equal parts temptation and playfulness.

After a moment, the man let out a low, quiet laugh. He tilted her chin up with one hand so that her face was turned toward his.

Through her haze, the woman found herself looking into a pair of eyes so deeply, darkly black they were almost frightening. In that instant, a chill ran in waves down her spine.

The corners of his eyes curved, just slightly, and he said: “Your red dress suits you very well.”