Following Jiang Hansheng’s instructions, the officers first removed Jiang Cheng’s handcuffs, then adjusted the interrogation room’s lighting to a soft, warm amber glow.

The light was, if anything, a touch too dim.

Jiang Cheng looked up at the light fixture, startled and uncertain for a moment — then the tension that had been pushing him toward the brink gradually eased, and his breathing began to find its rhythm again.

Before long, Zhou Jin pushed open the interrogation room door and looked at the man sitting in the chair. “Jiang Cheng,” she said. “I’m here.”

Jiang Cheng looked over immediately. “Xiao Wu?”

He saw clearly that it was Zhou Jin and lurched to his feet, just about to take her in his arms — when he caught sight of Jiang Hansheng standing behind her. He froze where he stood.

This face was not unfamiliar to him.

Zhou Jin quickly gave him a clear answer. “Jiang Hansheng,” she said by way of introduction. “I’ve mentioned him to you before.” She reached up and touched the diamond ring pendant at her throat, letting Jiang Cheng see it.

Jiang Cheng was silent for a moment.

Jiang Hansheng stepped around Zhou Jin and walked forward. He carried about him, as always, an air of unhurried composure — cool, steady, and unruffled. He extended his hand toward Jiang Cheng. “It’s been a long time, Jiang Cheng.”

Strangely, Jiang Cheng’s demeanour now was entirely unlike the frantic, fractured state he had been in moments before.

His brow was lightly drawn together; his eyes were sharp and bright as steel — his habitual keenness, pushed now to the edge of confrontation.

He clasped Jiang Hansheng’s hand in return. “It has been a long time.”

Jiang Cheng stood there in his hospital gown with traces of blood still on his chest — dishevelled, in a sorry state — yet facing Jiang Hansheng, he showed not a flicker of discomfort or embarrassment.

His arm was steady, his grip deliberate and firm. The two men held each other’s hands in silent contest.

Zhou Jin, standing to the side, asked with some confusion, “Have you two met before?”

The corner of Jiang Cheng’s mouth curved into a smile, and he said with deliberate provocation, “We have. The young master from No. 23.”

Zhou Jin considered that, and thought — of course. Jiang Hansheng used to live on Zhizi Lane; it wasn’t strange that Jiang Cheng would remember him.

She didn’t dwell on it and told Jiang Cheng to sit back down in his original seat. Jiang Hansheng didn’t take a seat himself — he walked to the one-way glass and lowered the roller blind.

Zhou Jin looked at Jiang Cheng’s wounds with quiet concern. “How are you feeling? Let me have a doctor come and tend to your injuries first — all right?”

“I’m fine.” Jiang Cheng shook his head. He glanced up at the surveillance camera in the corner of the wall and said, “Zhou Jin, I’ve missed you.”

Zhou Jin’s brow furrowed slightly. “We’ll talk about those things later.”

“What did you want to ask me?” Jiang Cheng said. “You want to know whether I killed someone? If I say that I’m the one called ‘Hidden Blade,’ does anyone here actually believe me?”

“I believe you.” Zhou Jin’s gaze was open and steady. She pressed her palm over the back of Jiang Cheng’s hand. “Jiang Cheng — tell me the truth, and let me help you.”

Jiang Cheng was still for a moment, then let out a short, sudden laugh. He reached up and ruffled Zhou Jin’s hair. “Xiao Wu,” he said, “why do I get the feeling you’ve changed quite a bit?”

He kept ruffling it, quite deliberately. Zhou Jin, seeing him refuse to take things seriously, grew a little irritated. “Would you be serious for a moment!”

Jiang Hansheng settled into the seat beside Zhou Jin. The moment Jiang Cheng saw him there, his good humour evaporated. He withdrew his hand and sat back in his own chair as before.

Jiang Hansheng said evenly, “We don’t have much time.”

Jiang Cheng was unmoved. He gave a light, contemptuous smile and glanced up again at the surveillance camera.

Jiang Hansheng watched his expression, and after a moment appeared to understand something.

He asked, “Why did you insist on seeing Zhou Jin?”

Jiang Cheng tapped his fingers twice on the table and said, with a tone full of challenge, “Because I like her.”

Zhou Jin’s brow creased. “Jiang Cheng, don’t talk nonsense.”

“How is that nonsense? I’m speaking the truth — is that not allowed?” Jiang Cheng paid no attention to Zhou Jin’s irritation and kept his eyes fixed on Jiang Hansheng. “Surely Xiao Wu has told you — we were together for seven years, and we were engaged.”

Jiang Hansheng’s expression turned a shade cooler. “What is past is past.”

“I agree with you entirely.” Jiang Cheng nodded with exaggerated gravity. “Though some things can never truly be changed. Xiao Wu and I grew up together. Now that we’ve finally managed to meet — surely you can understand our needing to catch up alone.”

Jiang Hansheng’s expression hovered between a smile and something sharper. “Jiang Cheng,” he said, “this meeting was arranged by pledging my personal reputation in negotiations with the officer in charge. Don’t waste the time on a quarrel that leads nowhere.” He gestured toward the surveillance camera. “Don’t worry — I’ve had them switch it off.”

Jiang Cheng’s brow tightened. The edge that had been bristling from him a moment ago gradually drew back in.

Zhou Jin watched his expression shift and only then understood that the hostility and provocation Jiang Cheng had displayed moments earlier had been deliberate — a performance.

He didn’t trust Jiang Hansheng.

He didn’t trust anyone here. No one except Zhou Jin.

Jiang Hansheng said, “I’ll ask again — why did you insist on seeing Zhou Jin?”

Jiang Cheng’s hands clenched into fists. A current of profound despair and fury was building within him, slowly coiling, slowly igniting.

When he raised his eyes again, they were red-rimmed, and he spoke through nearly gritted teeth: “There is a mole inside the police force. Operation Jingang was orchestrated from within, with someone feeding information from the inside — they first captured Director Yao alive, and then they flushed out A’Feng.”

Zhou Jin’s expression flickered between alarm and disbelief. Tan Shiming had long suspected there was a mole in the force, yet so far they had found no trace of evidence whatsoever.

She asked, “Do you know who the mole is?”

Jiang Cheng shook his head. His craving for a cigarette surfaced; he reached across the table, found the cigarettes and lighter the interrogating officer had left behind, and lit one.

“I don’t know,” Jiang Cheng said, exhaling a slow breath of smoke. “All I know is that during the investigation into Lai San’er’s case, he had already been reporting the progress to He Wu.”

Zhou Jin pressed further. “What happened after Operation Jingang? Director Yao and Meng Junfeng — how did they die?”

Jiang Cheng said nothing. He pressed his hand against his forehead.

Guilt.

Jiang Hansheng watched Jiang Cheng’s emotions with a measured eye, reading in his expression an unending weight of remorse and guilt.

Jiang Cheng drew heavily on the cigarette and finished it quickly. “Once all of this is over, I’ll answer for Director Yao and Meng Junfeng’s deaths,” he said. “Xiao Wu, there’s something more important I need to tell you right now.”

Not just her — Jiang Hansheng as well.

Jiang Hansheng carried himself with a calm and steadiness that showed not the slightest crack before him.

Jiang Cheng seemed to understand the source of Jiang Hansheng’s confidence. It was on his hand — the wedding ring.

Jiang Cheng had once possessed that same confidence himself. Or rather, over these years, he had never stopped possessing it.

When Zhou Jin loved him, it had always been with such intensity — and such transparency. She seemed to carry within her the most inexhaustible vitality, capable of giving herself for someone without reservation, without end.

Whenever he had retreated — because of his poor family circumstances, his undignified work, or any number of other reasons — Zhou Jin had always come to his side regardless, had always held him.

She said none of that mattered to her. As long as Jiang Cheng was still Jiang Cheng, she could love him forever.

When someone loves you for long enough, the sense of crisis grows numb, goes quiet — and you begin to take it for granted. You come to believe you deserve those things you never truly had a right to. You come to believe that in her eyes, you are the singular one — that no one else could ever take your place.

And yet he was nothing singular. He was not irreplaceable.

Zhou Jin had not waited for him where he’d left her.

She had found another person to lean on, and had decided to entrust her life to him.

Jiang Cheng felt the absurdity of it, the bleak humour of it, and he ground the cigarette out hard in the ashtray.

Even so, he was not yet ready to admit defeat so easily.

Jiang Cheng said: “Over the years, I’ve been working under He Wu. He has a logistics company under his name called Hengyun — primarily handling domestic and international trade and freight operations. In addition to transporting ordinary goods, this network has also been used to move drugs and firearm components.

I have a flash drive in my possession containing recordings of their transactions and records of their financial dealings. I’ve stored it in a safety deposit box at Guangqi Bank. Once that flash drive is retrieved, He Wu can be arrested immediately and Hengyun investigated thoroughly.

My cover as an undercover operative has already been blown. Once He Wu learned of it, he will almost certainly have already begun to move — so we need to act quickly.”

Jiang Hansheng asked, “You sent a message over the police frequency — ‘Kuang Shan Xi Li, drug factory.’ What did that mean?”

“A narcotics production facility.”

“He Wu is not the one at the top. He’s been working for someone known by the alias ‘Old Scorpion.’ On my end, I’d long since gathered sufficient evidence of He Wu’s crimes — but I was never able to establish Old Scorpion’s true identity. That was why Director Yao Weihai refused to authorise an end to the undercover operation…”

He glanced at Zhou Jin — as if he were offering her an explanation: “I was bound by a mission. I had no choice.”