By the time Cen Jin had finished tidying up, Wei Lai had ended the call.

His complexion was off.

Cen Jin was worried: “Is it the wound? Is there an adverse reaction? If you feel any discomfort at all, you have to tell me.”

Wei Lai said, “It’s too stuffy in here.”

Stuffy? Cen Jin turned to look at the wide-open door.

Was it really stuffy — or had that phone call made him… suffocated?

She hesitated: “Who called?”

“Milu. Talking about arrangements going forward — nothing I was particularly interested in.”

He pushed himself up from the bed with one arm. Cen Jin rushed to support him. Wei Lai smiled: “It’s fine. The wound is on my shoulder — it’s not like I can’t walk or move.”

He crossed to the doorway and stood there.

The wound wasn’t not-painful — it was very painful. But he felt it wasn’t enough. More pain would have been better; that way he’d have no energy left over to think about the unwelcome things that had suddenly arrived.

His gaze fell on the wooden ladder along the wall, the one leading up to the roof. So this guestroom had a terrace above it as well.

He said, “I’m going up to sit for a while.”

Cen Jin didn’t know what to say: “Wei Lai, you’re injured…”

Wei Lai could always find a way to persuade her: “It really is too stuffy in here. The view’s better up there, the air is better, it’ll be more comfortable. Besides — standing high means seeing far. I’ll bring the gun up; it’ll serve as a lookout post. If something happens, at least we’d have some warning.”

The wooden ladder was narrow. Cen Jin went back into the room to fetch an umbrella for him, and by the time she came out with it open, he hadn’t waited, hadn’t said a word — he was already up.

Cen Jin stood in place for a moment, then went back inside and packed the prepped ingredients one by one into the basket. When she picked it up, it felt very heavy, the weight pulling her wrists down until they ached.

As she headed out, she said, “I’m going to make the meal.”

The rain was so heavy that Wei Lai probably didn’t hear her, and didn’t respond.

She opened her umbrella, stepped through the shallow puddles across the courtyard, and when she reached the door, the innkeeper came out to help her with the basket.

Cen Jin handed it over and turned to look back at the roof of the near building. She could just make out Wei Lai sitting beneath the sun umbrella.

The innkeeper poked curiously through the basket’s contents, each item wrapped in large leaves, and asked: “Nice knife skills! Do you cook often?”

Cen Jin said, “No. This is the first time I’ve cooked for him.”

Possibly also the last.

Wei Lai ran his thumb along the barrel of the gun, listening to the hammering of rain against the sun umbrella overhead. He didn’t know what he was thinking.

Until a blurred figure appeared in his field of vision.

In this rain, there was almost no one on the street — only that single figure, umbrella in hand, making its way down the road and turning in through the inn’s front gate.

Wei Lai raised the monocular and looked.

It was Dao Ba: dark glasses on, trouser legs rolled up, a plastic-wrapped paper package tucked under his arm.

Wei Lai was almost amused. What kind of weather was this to be wearing sunglasses?

He raised the gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

The puddle beside Dao Ba’s right foot erupted. From up high, it looked like nothing more than a small firecracker going off. He stopped, looked up at Wei Lai, stood there for some time, then hesitantly moved to continue forward.

Wei Lai shifted the muzzle to the other side and squeezed the trigger again.

This time, it was the puddle beside Dao Ba’s left foot.

Wei Lai thought — the sound of gunfire in the rain was strange. The shots seemed to dissolve like splashes of water, scattering in all directions, then dragged down to the ground by the dense curtain of rain and swept along with the water into the drainage trench, out beyond the inn.

He lowered his head and blew on the muzzle. When he looked up again, Dao Ba had taken the paper package into his mouth, thrown down the umbrella, laced both hands over his head, and continued walking toward him.

Wei Lai didn’t fire again. After a moment, the heavy tread of footsteps came up the wooden ladder, and Dao Ba climbed onto the roof, threw the paper package onto the table, and settled into the other chair.

He was drenched from head to toe. In front of Wei Lai, he removed his sunglasses and pulled up the dripping hem of his shirt to wipe them.

Wei Lai looked away.

He had guessed there must be an injury beneath those sunglasses, but hadn’t expected the damage to be so severe — nor had he expected that besides the glasses, there was nothing else there to cover it. In the place where an eye should have been, there was a sunken hollow and a savage scar. Anyone would find it deeply unsettling.

When he was done wiping, Dao Ba put his sunglasses back on. As if reading Wei Lai’s thoughts: “Machete. When we were fleeing, there were rioters with knives behind us. We ran, and then a new mob came from the front. We didn’t know whether to keep going or turn back. In the chaos, a blade came down. I fell, and thought I was dead.”

He smiled: “But I lived. However, my family didn’t. All sixteen of them — fourteen bodies were found. One son, three years old at the time, no body ever found. Still listed as missing to this day.”

Wei Lai said nothing. Over in the front-courtyard building, a slanted chimney had begun to give off smoke. Was Cen Jin cooking?

Dao Ba kept talking.

“Last night, we received word that your associates have been asking around about us. That made me think that perhaps there had been a misunderstanding between the two sides previously.”

“Two sides?”

Dao Ba smiled, first pointing to himself, then to Wei Lai: “The two of us.”

Then he pointed toward the front courtyard: “Not including her.”

Wei Lai’s eyes sharpened. He snatched up the gun and pressed it hard against Dao Ba’s forehead.

Dao Ba remained composed: “I’m here to negotiate. Rest assured — no one is moving against her right now. I can guarantee you that. Besides, even if you kill me, it won’t help. I have comrades.”

Negotiate? He’d heard that word repeatedly on this entire journey. Strange, how it always seemed to follow violence and bloodshed — everyone suddenly composed again, wanting to sit down and talk. Where had all this composure been before?

“We found ways to pass some information to your associates, requesting them to relay it. Mr. Wei — I imagine you already know who we are.”

“I’m very sorry for treating you as an enemy before. The reason was that the first time I saw you, you were already very close with Miss Cen — you looked nothing like a detached, uninvolved bodyguard.”

The first time?

Wei Lai lowered the gun.

He remembered: at that point, he had been intimate with Cen Jin in front of Dao Ba and the man with the AK, even saying that last night she had been extraordinary, and he’d gone wild for her.

“Especially because after the negotiation ended, you were still with her. We felt you were on her side, and we had no choice but to include dealing with you in our plans.”

Wei Lai asked, “What evidence do you have that Cen Jin is a war criminal?”

Dao Ba smiled slightly: “You may think that only those who incited, instigated, planned, or launched a war can be called war criminals. But from our perspective — regardless of whether you are Huka or not, if you committed unforgivable crimes against the Kasi people during that catastrophe, then you are one.”

He reached out, stripped the plastic wrapping from the paper package, unsealed it, and handed Wei Lai a photograph.

It was a group photo of three people: two white men, both middle-aged, and Cen Jin. The man in the middle had his arm draped over Cen Jin’s shoulder.

Cen Jin’s hair was in a ponytail. She smiled faintly. Hu Sha had been wrong — at that time, Cen Jin was far thinner than she was now.

Dao Ba pointed to the figure on the other side: “This one is Re Lei Mi. A Frenchman.”

Then to the one in the middle: “This one is called Se Qi. Have you noticed — he has one hand resting on Miss Cen’s shoulder?”

He passed over a second photograph: “This is an enlarged detail of the previous one.”

Wei Lai stared at the photograph — more specifically, at the enlarged detail of that hand: at the base of the thumb, between thumb and forefinger, there was a bite mark.

“We sent that hand to Miss Cen. I believe she knew long ago who had come looking for her, and why.”

Wei Lai said, “Cen Jin received a medal from your president. She protected the lives of 175 Kasi people.”

Even as he said it, he felt how hollow the defense sounded — having to invoke “the president” and “a medal,” such grandstanding language, just to speak for her.

Dao Ba replied: “If the truth itself has been distorted, even a president can be deceived.”

“We have a list. The total number of Kasi people who entered that protected area, from beginning to end, was 292. But when the Kasi Liberation Front finally fought their way back, only 175 remained inside.”

“Mr. Wei, perhaps you might ask Miss Cen where the other 117 people went.”

Wei Lai pushed the photographs aside: “Is that it? Two photographs and a few numbers — and on that you’re going to convict her?”

Dao Ba gave a cold smile: “Yes, it’s hard to accept all at once. After all, she appears very upstanding, doesn’t she — beautiful, intelligent. And, of course, very skilled at appearances. Always charging at the front lines of righteous struggles, writing sharp social commentary.”

Wei Lai fixed him with a stare: “Friend — speak to the matter at hand. Don’t bring in things that are beside the point.”

Dao Ba laughed: “Mr. Wei, have you honestly not noticed that this Miss Cen does everything with purpose and calculation?”

“Her social commentary is well known, but have you gone back and read everything she wrote in those earlier years? Her early style was mild and diplomatic. It suddenly became sharp, bold, attention-grabbing — and the timing coincides precisely with Re Lei Mi’s death and the formation of The Hand of God, not long after.”

“Don’t you find that timing extremely suspicious? Someone with a guilty conscience, keeping close watch on Ka Long’s developments, sniffing danger in the air, and then busily pulling layer after layer of cover over herself…”

Wei Lai cut him off: “So what do you want me to do?”

Dao Ba straightened slightly in his chair.

“The Hand of God — our core members are the most unfortunate survivors among the refugees: people who lived, but lost all their family. They go on living with almost nothing to hold on to; the sole support for their existence is vengeance.”

“You may have noticed that we are not as professional as you, and haven’t had much specialized training. In these two confrontations we’ve taken losses too — the man with the AK is still in hospital. Yesterday you wounded one of our comrades, and the sniper we brought in from outside was also shot…”

He glanced at the bandaging on Wei Lai’s shoulder: “He didn’t die, but his injury is a bit worse than yours.”

“It wasn’t until last night, when we received word, that we realized — if Mr. Wei had simply stated his position, things could have been resolved much more gently. We could have avoided unnecessary casualties.”

“State what position?”

Dao Ba turned his head toward the chimney still giving off smoke.

“Mr. Wei, your car is right there in the courtyard. No one will stop you. You can leave. But Miss Cen must remain. What she did — she must face the consequences.”

Wei Lai laughed: “A judge hearing a case still has to listen to both sides. On your one-sided account alone, you expect me to leave?”

Dao Ba had come prepared: “We can give you time to ask her yourself. The charges brought against her — we’ve also investigated them. We’re not afraid of you asking. But Mr. Wei, we have shown good faith. We ask in return for a clear answer: if the facts prove to be true, you must guarantee that you will not interfere in this matter further.”

Wei Lai was silent for a long time, then nodded.

Dao Ba let out a long breath: “So how much time do you need?”

“Give me… one day.”

Before leaving, Dao Ba left him both photographs, saying they might come in useful when confronting her.

Wei Lai stayed where he was, watching with cold eyes as the rain water slowly soaked the photographs through.

Dao Ba had brought an enormous amount of information, and at this moment there were clearly so many things worth thinking through, recalling, and piecing together. He did none of it. He simply sat until the photographs were almost completely submerged in water, and then suddenly snatched one of them back.

Cen Jin really had been so thin then. With the ponytail, her head looked especially small. In a photo with three people, she was the one standing furthest apart, smiling, but with something empty behind the eyes — unlike the two beside her, who were beaming openly, even flashing a V sign.

It wasn’t until the sky began to darken that he remembered to go back inside.

The room had already been lit with candles. The table had been pulled up beside the bed, several dishes laid out on top: the tomatoes had become a soup; the chillies had been stir-fried with beef; the lettuce and potatoes were shredded and tossed separately; there was also a rolled egg crepe.

The colours together were lively and lovely to look at. It was just… long since gone cold.

Wei Lai smiled and asked Cen Jin, who was sitting nearby, “Why didn’t you call me?”

Cen Jin said nothing. She rose, came over, and took hold of him — nearly pushing him into a seated position on the bed. She said, “Don’t move.”

She unwrapped the bandaging on his shoulder. Wei Lai looked down, and noticed for the first time that almost all of it had been soaked through by the rain, with a bleed-through of colour coming from within.

He offered an explanation: “The rain was very heavy…”

Cen Jin smiled: “In the future — when you have something on your mind, or when you’re angry — you can throw things, curse, even throw a tantrum. But don’t take it out on your own body. If the wound gets infected, you’re the one in pain. If there are aftereffects, you’re the one who suffers. I’ll only say this once. Whether you listen is up to you.”

She said no more, and did not look at him as she carefully applied the medicine and re-wrapped the bandaging. Wei Lai suddenly lost control, and with one arm pulled her fiercely toward him, burying his face in her chest.

After a quiet moment, Cen Jin laughed.

She lowered her head and stroked his hair gently, saying, “Wei Lai. Let’s eat first.”

“I went to all this trouble. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“No talking about serious things at the table. Whatever it is, we’ll eat, open a bottle of wine, and talk it through slowly.”