Zhou Jin showed Yu Liang a photograph of Qi Yan and asked him to identify the person in it.

Nearly twenty years had passed, however, and the Qi Yan of those days had still been a teenager — his appearance would certainly have changed considerably. On top of that, the photograph was only dashcam footage and not particularly sharp. Yu Liang didn’t dare say with any certainty.

Zhou Jin asked him: “Do you know where Qi Zhen is now? And her son?”

“I thought you would know.” Yu Liang said. “The two of them disappeared many years ago.”

Zhou Jin asked: “When was the last time you saw her? And where?”

“The time is a bit hazy now — roughly ten or more years ago.” Yu Liang’s memory of the date was vague, but there was one thing he remembered vividly. “The last time I saw Zhenzhen was at the hospital. She had attempted suicide by slitting her wrists, and…”

Jiang Hansheng straightened up in his seat. “She slit her wrists?”

Yu Liang’s face was full of sorrow. “Yes. Suicide. She looked terrible at the time. She told me she couldn’t bear her life anymore and wanted to end it all. I told her she had to keep going for the sake of her child — but the way she felt then, she was just… utterly without hope. Fortunately, a local police officer happened to come to her door to follow up on a household registration matter and found her in time…”

“After that, I went back to the hospital to visit Zhenzhen, and the nurse told me she had already been discharged. I never saw her again after that.”

Yu Liang slowly lowered his head, threading his fingers through his own hair and gripping it hard for a moment, murmuring: “I’ve always told myself Zhenzhen was still alive somewhere — maybe still here in Huaisha. Over the years, there were a few times I thought I caught a glimpse of her on some street. But were those just my imagination? Maybe she died long ago. She really was so without hope back then. She kept wanting to die, to end it all…”

Jiang Hansheng watched Yu Liang, and saw the regret written across his face. When a person is powerless to make amends for something they deeply regret, the pain of it is beyond measure.

Jiang Hansheng let him sit with his grief for a moment, and waited until Yu Liang had settled somewhat before continuing: “In your memory, did Qi Zhen ever wear red clothing? A dress, perhaps?”

Yu Liang looked up with reddened eyes and blinked for a moment, unsure why Jiang Hansheng would ask such an odd question out of nowhere. But he thought it over and nodded with certainty.

“She liked red. When Qi Zhen was working in this area…” Yu Liang was reluctant to say outright that she had been a prostitute, and rephrased: “During her time here, she went by the working name ‘Red Rose.’ She used to say that when she wore red, she felt like a flower in full bloom — one that would never wilt.”

Yu Liang was lost in memories of the Qi Zhen he had known, but Zhou Jin’s thoughts were entirely fixed on the case.

Her brow furrowed. She exchanged a glance with Jiang Hansheng.

Without a word needing to be said, both of them thought of the victims in this series of murders — every female victim had died the same way: wounds to the wrists. Death by blood loss.

Because the cases had been classified as homicides from the very beginning, the fatal wounds on the victims’ wrists had never prompted anyone to draw a connection to suicide.

But Jiang Hansheng was now certain: throughout his crimes, Qi Yan had repeatedly staged scenes laden with ritual significance — and what these scenes truly represented was a projection of the moment his mother, Qi Zhen, had slit her own wrists.

By recreating that scene again and again, Qi Yan was returning himself to that one specific moment in time, seeking some form of psychological comfort or release.

But what was at the root of it?

What had driven Qi Zhen to attempt suicide? And what compelled Qi Yan to go on restaging that scene of her suicide attempt?

If they could uncover the hidden truth behind it all, Jiang Hansheng might be able to achieve a complete psychological understanding of Qi Yan as a person — to hold him entirely within his grasp.

Given Yu Liang’s cooperation, they had already made considerable progress. Even simply obtaining the name Qi Zhen was an unexpected windfall.

As they prepared to leave, Yu Liang walked them to the door and asked: “If you find Qi Zhen — or any of her family — could you let me know? You don’t need to tell me the details. I just want to know if she’s all right. If she ever wants to come back, I’ll be here waiting.”

Zhou Jin looked at him for a moment.

She had noticed it the moment they walked in: Yu Liang showed no signs of being a man with a family. He lived here alone.

He appeared to be well into his forties, and he still carried Qi Zhen in his heart — unmarried to this day.

They went downstairs. Zhou Jin settled into the passenger seat and let out a quiet murmur: “What a tragic bond. Is there really someone willing to wait a lifetime for a person who may never come back?”

Jiang Hansheng gripped the steering wheel for a moment, then reached over and fastened Zhou Jin’s seatbelt for her. He asked, with a casual air: “Would you?”

Zhou Jin didn’t think too hard about it. She smiled and said: “My dad taught me — if you feel like you can’t hold on anymore, that’s the sign.”

“The sign for what?”

“To let go. And move forward.”

Jiang Hansheng was quiet, and did not reply.

The two of them returned to the hotel. Jiang Hansheng went to shower first, while Zhou Jin took out her phone and reported the latest developments to Tan Shiming.

After hearing everything, Tan Shiming understood that confirming Qi Zhen’s identity was now the most pressing priority. Find Qi Zhen, and they could confirm Qi Yan’s true identity — and perhaps finally get to the bottom of what had happened with the twins.

Tan Shiming said he would use the public security system to look up Qi Zhen’s name as soon as possible.

“There’s one more thing,” Zhou Jin said. “Qi Zhen once attempted suicide by slitting her wrists, and in the serial murder case, the fatal wound pattern on the victims’ wrists has been a consistent marker across all the crimes. Professor Jiang doesn’t believe this is a coincidence — Qi Zhen’s suicide attempt was likely a significant factor shaping Qi Yan’s pattern of offending. So I’d like to track down the officer who responded to the scene when Qi Zhen was saved, and find out exactly what happened.”

Tan Shiming said: “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Go directly to the local police station and coordinate with them — there won’t be many officers who handled household registration matters.”

Zhou Jin pressed a hand to her forehead. “The police here in Huaisha treat Professor Jiang like a plague. We’ve hit a wall several times already. It’s all deflecting and stalling, throwing procedural requirements at us to fend us off, refusing to cooperate.”

Tan Shiming knew the reasons behind it and let out a laugh. “Didn’t expect there’d be situations even Professor Jiang’s name couldn’t handle.”

Zhou Jin said: “Master, don’t laugh at him.”

Tan Shiming straightened himself out. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with them. Now that there’s a solid lead, even if they despise Jiang Hansheng, they won’t dare genuinely obstruct the investigation.”

Zhou Jin said: “All right.”

She hung up and lazily stretched her back, working her fingers into her stiff shoulder.

She glanced sideways and noticed the wound on her shoulder had healed considerably — she’d find a hospital tomorrow and have the stitches removed.

She was still thinking about it when slender, pale fingers came to rest lightly on the scar along her shoulder. Jiang Hansheng.

He asked quietly: “Does it still hurt?”

Zhou Jin said: “Barely feel it anymore. I’ll have the stitches taken out tomorrow.”

She stood and turned to look at him. His soft dark hair was still dripping slightly — it seemed to have grown just a little longer, leaving it somewhat disheveled.

He hadn’t put on a top. As he drew close, Zhou Jin could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and catch the clean, fresh scent of his shower gel.

Jiang Hansheng looked at her for a moment.

Under his gaze, Zhou Jin’s face began to warm. She reached out, pulled the towel from his hand, and draped it over his damp hair — covering his eyes along with it, those dark and quietly burning eyes.

Jiang Hansheng noticed that her ears had gone a little pink.

He lowered his head. The tip of his nose grazed lightly along the side of her face, his lips hovering just above her cheek — and yet he held still, never quite closing that last distance.

Not kissing was somehow more disarming than kissing outright.

Zhou Jin felt his warm, light breath sweeping across her skin, drifting just close enough and then away, until she couldn’t stand it.

Jiang Hansheng said, low and quiet: “Zhou Jin, I thought you booked one room because you wanted to sleep together.”

Zhou Jin blinked. “We do sleep together.”

Jiang Hansheng asked: “Do we?”

He reached out and drew his arm around her waist, pulling her gently into his hold, and pressed a careful kiss to the skin just beside the wound on her shoulder.

Soft. Tender. If Zhou Jin hadn’t understood before, she understood now.

She found it a little funny, and wrapped her arms around him in return. Her hands moved across the firm, solid lines of his back, her eyes curving into a smile, dark and bright all at once.

She said: “You’re already a light sleeper. I was worried that if we slept in the same bed, you wouldn’t rest well.”

She meant it sincerely.

That day at Jingang Wharf, the man with the sniper rifle had opened a gash across her shoulder. At first the pain had been bad enough that she could barely manage on her own — she had relied entirely on Jiang Hansheng, right down to needing him to squeeze toothpaste onto her brush.

On the nights when the pain was at its worst, she would drift in and out of consciousness, and Jiang Hansheng — who had been lying right beside her — would be awake before she was. He’d reach over to switch on the bedside lamp, clean her wound, change the dressing, and after that she would usually sleep soundly through the rest of the night.

She slept well; Jiang Hansheng most likely did not. The trip was already exhausting enough, and she didn’t want him spending his nights worrying over her on top of everything else.

She had just finished explaining when the towel draped across Jiang Hansheng’s head slipped down halfway, falling in front of her face and blocking her view.

She could no longer see him.

She could only feel the warmth of his breath as it slipped suddenly between her lips.

Jiang Hansheng caught her mouth with his, and grazed her with a gentle bite — enough to make Zhou Jin’s knees go soft, her hand instinctively reaching back to grip the edge of the table behind her.

He released her from the bite, and instead held her lower lip between his, his voice dropping low and rough. He asked: “How do you know I’m a light sleeper?”