He was completely serious, without the slightest trace of falseness.

Zhou Jin’s eyes grew a little warm. Her heart was beating hard. The longer she looked at Jiang Hansheng, the more she felt there was something pitiable about him.

She had always had the softest heart for people who seemed pitiable.

“I love you too.” Zhou Jin gave her answer quickly.

Only her answer carried within it something more ambiguous and desire-laden.

She gently closed her eyes, drew closer to Jiang Hansheng, and tenderly kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and finally his lips.

Jiang Hansheng did not dare let too much of his greed show. No matter what she thought of him, he wanted this moment — he wanted Zhou Jin.

They were already lying in bed. Jiang Hansheng lingered for one final stretch of time, then steadied his ragged breathing. Zhou Jin’s vision was a little blurred, and in the dim night, she could only make out his clean and refined face.

Little by little, she leaned in and pillowed her head on the crook of his arm. It was not as comfortable as a pillow, so she shifted her body again and nestled her head against Jiang Hansheng’s chest instead.

His soft, short hair tickled him slightly.

Jiang Hansheng rubbed a strand of her hair between his fingers, and could not resist pinching her cheek.

Zhou Jin pressed her hand over his. Her cheek rested against his warm, heated palm. Her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, and she fell asleep very quickly.

Listening to her breathing deepen into long, quiet waves, Jiang Hansheng smiled softly and rubbed his thumb across her face twice.

He said in a quiet voice: “Good night, Zhou Jin.”

Rain — another day of torrential rain, with rolling thunder crashing and booming.

Yao Weihai, dressed in his full police uniform and holding his officer’s cap in his right hand, walked into the head of the Major Crimes Unit’s office.

Tan Shiming was reviewing the investigation report for the recent serial murder case. He looked up and saw Yao Weihai come in, rising quickly: “Director Yao, what’s the matter?”

Yao Weihai stood still for a moment, reached into his pocket, produced a slip of paper, pressed it flat on the desk, and slid it toward Tan Shiming.

Tan Shiming understood, unfolded the note, and found the characters written in a bold, vigorous hand that seemed to bristle with sharp angles:

“October 3rd. Jingang Wharf. Close the net.”

Tan Shiming was taken aback. “This is…?”

Yao Weihai said: “Intelligence passed to me by one of my informants. A cargo ship conducting timber transport will dock at Jingang Wharf on October 3rd, carrying a full shipment of narcotics. Personnel from Hengyun Logistics will go to make the exchange at that time.”

He paused, then added: “They have weapons.”

Tan Shiming took a moment to absorb everything Yao Weihai had just said, then asked: “Is it reliable?”

Yao Weihai said: “There’s no mistake.”

Tan Shiming was stunned for a moment, initially unable to figure out Yao Weihai’s intentions — because within the boundaries of their respective responsibilities and the chain of command, there was no need for Yao Weihai to come and “report” this to him.

Perhaps seeing Tan Shiming’s confusion, Yao Weihai’s brow settled into a heavier expression. He said, earnestly: “Old Tan, for this operation, I need your help.”