Zhao Ping finished questioning the person who had filed the report, then came inside to meet up with Zhou Jin and gave her a brief summary of what he’d learned.

“The deceased’s name is Chen Xiaoyu, twenty-seven years old, unmarried. The apartment was purchased by her parents — she lived here alone.”

Zhou Jin asked, “When did the report come in?”

Zhao Ping nodded. “This morning. The one who called it in was a delivery man. Chen Xiaoyu had placed an order for flowers online — a courier comes every Monday to deliver them. When he showed up today, he found the door open. He was going to let the resident know, but the moment he stepped inside, he smelled blood.”

Zhou Jin looked at the bed where the body had lain and let out a quiet sigh. “Notify the next of kin first — we need someone to come identify the body.”

Zhao Ping: “Already called them. Her parents are out of town — they won’t arrive until tomorrow. You’ll handle that when they get here?”

Zhou Jin: “No problem.”

In the master bedroom, the technical personnel finished securing the evidence, transferred Chen Xiaoyu’s body into a body bag, and carefully carried it out.

Zhou Jin paused a moment, then continued questioning Zhao Ping. “My mentor mentioned there have already been three similar homicides in Ningyuan and Jingang?”

Zhao Ping answered, “It’s safe to say they’re all the same perpetrator.”

Ningyuan and Jingang were county-level cities under Haizhou’s jurisdiction. Within the police system, this serial killing case had already been making waves.

The reason was straightforward.

The case was serious, the criminal signature unmistakable, and beyond the ritual staging of each body, the perpetrator had been moving between locations to carry out the attacks.

That last point — the mobility — was particularly unusual.

When selecting crime locations, most perpetrators operate within a specific psychological comfort zone. But this perpetrator had already crossed three jurisdictions: Ningyuan, Jingang, and Haizhou.

On the basis of that characteristic alone, police in Ningyuan and Jingang had already alerted departments across the region to watch for cases bearing a similar criminal signature.

Then, that very morning, officers at the local station received the delivery man’s call and rushed to Lishui Residential Complex.

After a preliminary examination of the scene, they contacted the Ningyuan police and confirmed that Chen Xiaoyu’s death was connected to the homicides in Ningyuan and Jingang — all part of the same case.

The investigation had now formally been handed over to the Major Crimes Unit. Zhao Ping shook his head. “We’re going to be buried in this one.”

He rubbed his palms together and lowered his voice. “Honestly — I’ve never seen a case quite this strange before.”

The words had barely left his mouth when a commotion broke out in the hallway. Zhao Ping craned his neck out to see what was happening.

Zhou Jin asked, “What’s going on?”

Zhao Ping saw the officers managing the cordon pushing two or three people back behind the police tape, raising their voices: “You cannot come in here.”

Camera lenses of every size quickly surged forward.

“Excuse me, can you confirm a homicide took place here?” — “Which unit does the victim belong to?” — “A resident claims to have witnessed the scene and says it was a rape and murder — is that true?”

The barrage of questions made the officer’s brow clench tightly. He held a hand up to block the cameras, his expression flat: “The case is still under investigation. We have no comment. Please leave the area and do not obstruct police work.”

Zhao Ping turned back to Zhou Jin with a meaningful look. “Reporters. They got here fast.”

Zhou Jin pressed two fingers to her temple. “Go deal with them. Get rid of them quickly, and make a note of which outlets they’re from — make sure nothing gets published.”

Zhao Ping gave her a teasing grin. “I’ll go, I’ll go — better me than you. Otherwise you’ll end up punching someone again.”

Zhou Jin’s eyes went wide. She raised her hand in a threatening gesture toward his ear. “That mouth of yours—!”

Not that Zhao Ping’s teasing was without basis.

There had been an incident once, when Zhou Jin had gone to a scene with Tan Shiming. A reporter had slipped past the cordon and snapped a couple of photographs before Zhou Jin caught him in the act. The reporter had taken one look at Zhou Jin — a young woman — decided she was probably just some intern, and had no fear of her whatsoever. He’d launched into a tirade: “We have a fundamental right to information, do you understand?! Let me tell you something — you’d better watch your tone with me. One article from me and you’ll be out of a job!”

Zhou Jin was young and had the temperament of a powder keg — one spark and she’d blow. She grabbed the reporter’s arm on the spot, twisted and shoved in one motion, and flatly informed him she was taking him in for questioning.

It was Tan Shiming who ultimately intervened — releasing the reporter with one hand while rattling off a few quiet, ominous remarks that made the man go pale — and only then did both sides finally stand down.

With this current case, before anything became clear, information could not be allowed to leak under any circumstances.

A rare serial killing case with details steeped in strange, almost theatrical atmosphere — if any of it got out, it would detonate into a media storm within days, mutating into seven or eight different versions of urban legend before the week was out.

Public pressure was manageable. The real danger was something else: once the specifics of the case reached the general public, there was always the risk that someone — motivated by fascination with the perpetrator, or by the desire for notoriety — would attempt to replicate the crimes.

If that happened, the situation would become significantly more difficult to contain.

Zhao Ping understood the stakes. He headed out to manage the reporters without delay.

Zhou Jin looked around the scene but couldn’t find Wang Pengzhe or Jiang Hansheng anywhere. Puzzled, she went to the door and asked around — one of the officers said he’d seen them head toward the stairwell.

She went to find them.

In the stairwell, bright daylight poured in through the windows, casting Jiang Hansheng’s straight silhouette across the floor below.

Wang Pengzhe had his elbow propped on the windowsill, leaning against the wall. The cigarette he’d been holding unlit had finally been lit — though he smoked it slowly, unhurried.

Wang Pengzhe said, “Tell me what you make of it.”

Jiang Hansheng’s expression grew slightly somber. “These four homicides — in terms of their criminal profile, they bear a very strong resemblance to the ‘Huaiguang Serial Murders’ from back then. The criminal signature — women, red dresses, roses — including the handling of the scene, the positioning of the bodies, and the fatal wound to the wrist — it’s all identical. But…”

Jiang Hansheng pressed his lips together. His expression went blank. He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Wang Pengzhe took a slow pull of his cigarette, then picked up where Jiang Hansheng had left off: “— But five years ago, Qi Yan, the perpetrator behind the Huaiguang Serial Murders, was killed by you.”

Wang Pengzhe used the word “killed” — blunt, unvarnished — and the sharpness of it made Jiang Hansheng’s brow flinch.

He slowly closed his hand into a fist. He offered no elaboration, and said in a level tone: “Since Qi Yan is dead, whatever is happening now is a copycat.”

Wang Pengzhe flicked the ash from his cigarette and confirmed his assessment: “Someone is imitating Qi Yan.” Then he raised another point of concern: “But we never made any details of that case public.”

Jiang Hansheng’s expression settled, hard and still as still water. The conclusion came quickly: “He knew Qi Yan.”

“More than knew him — I’d say he’s come back in Qi Yan’s place, to settle a score with you.”

Wang Pengzhe tapped his own chest, holding Jiang Hansheng’s gaze, and said quietly: “This case — and your pocket watch — are a declaration of war.”

Zhou Jin entered the stairwell. She heard voices drifting up from below and was about to head down when her phone buzzed twice in her pocket.

She looked at the screen — it was Zhan Wei calling.

A thread of caution tightened in her chest. She quickly found a quiet corner, pressed accept, and said, “Zhan Wei.”

On the other end, Zhan Wei’s voice was pressed down very low. “Zhou Jin — what’s the name of the man you married?”

Zhou Jin frowned. “Why are you asking that all of a sudden?”

“Just answer me first.”

“Jiang Hansheng. Didn’t I already tell you? What’s this about — did my brother visit you in a dream and send you to interrogate my husband?” She said it lightly, half-joking.

Zhan Wei clearly had no patience for jokes. His voice came back flat and serious. “That thing you asked me to look into last time — the informant who helped Yao Weihai recover the missing firearm in the ‘8·17’ incident — I found out his name.”

Zhou Jin: “Who?”

Zhan Wei answered: “Your husband. Jiang Hansheng.”