In the scorching summer of 1995, Zhu Qing completed thirty-six weeks of grueling training at the Wong Chuk Hang Police Academy. The moment she pinned the CID detective badge onto her light blue shirt, she officially became a member of the West Kowloon Serious Crimes Unit.
When she first reported to Team B, whispers circulated in the station’s break room. What’s the use of acing the arrest techniques exam? The academy’s top graduate thinks drawing a few clue diagrams will crack cases—police work isn’t that simple.
No one expected this underestimated rookie to be handed her first case—a high-profile armed robbery flagged by the Organized Crime and Triad Bureau. Armed with her service pistol, she followed Inspector Mo day and night, working tirelessly to survey the scene. From case initiation to the final bust, not a single misstep was made. During the case debrief, even the notoriously critical Mo Shazhan broke his usual demeanor to praise her: This girl’s got grit. Rare talent.
After that, the "temporary assignment" label on Zhu Qing’s duty roster disappeared. She moved from a provisional desk to a permanent one, with her own locker.
"Another smooth shift till five—clocking out!" In the Criminal Investigation Division office, Hao Zai tapped a takeout menu with his pencil. "A new Bing Kee Congee Shop just opened in Sham Shui Po. Wanna try it?"
"Another day. There’s tangerine peel red bean soup simmering at home."
"Count me in! Bing Kee’s fish slice congee can’t hold a candle to Uncle Rong’s homemade desserts!"
The team’s camaraderie was easygoing, and after-hours plans to crash a colleague’s place for dinner and dessert fell into place with laughter—until their eyes skimmed past a figure that always stood rigidly straight. The cheerful noise faltered for a beat.
"Zhu Qing… want to join us?"
Head bent over case files, she declined without pretext. "No. Have fun."
Her refusal was met with no surprise. In her first month on the job, Zhu Qing hadn’t blended into the group—no gatherings, no small talk, let alone forming deeper bonds. She skipped the station canteen, bringing her own lunches to microwave into solitary meals. Even during fieldwork that forced outside dining, she spoke sparingly. Her aloofness became routine, and eventually, the team adjusted.
Conversation resumed about whether to bring roast goose as a side dish, the office briefly lively with post-shift ease—until Inspector Mo walked in.
"Save the roast goose and red bean soup for another day."
"Workers renovating a Mid-Levels villa found human bones in the fireplace."
...
Mid-Levels had always been Hong Kong’s enclave for the elite. Mansions nestled among lush greenery lined the winding mountain road as the police car climbed unimpeded, the route eerily quiet.
Following the dispatch details, the senior officer parked in front of a Portuguese-style villa.
The merged double-unit mansion belonged to Sheng Wenchang, Hong Kong’s jewelry tycoon.
Zhu Qing flipped through the HQ-faxed dossier—three pages chronicling the Sheng family’s rise. Sheng Wenchang started in textiles before pivoting to jewelry. His eldest daughter, Sheng Peirong, was born to his first wife. It wasn’t until the first wife’s fatal illness that his second wife bore Sheng Peishan. Tabloids feasted on the old husband, young wife headlines. Records showed the elder daughter was now forty-seven, the younger thirty-seven—a full decade apart, fueling endless public speculation about their sisterly dynamic.
The juiciest twist? Not long ago, Sheng Wenchang and his wife Qin Lizhu died in a plane crash, leaving the family’s succession void. Per the patriarch’s stipulation, the will’s formal reading had to wait a full hundred days.
With vultures circling, rumors of a Sheng family feud over the inheritance grew louder.
Past the private driveway, the granite-linked villas loomed, three news vans jostling outside the police tape.
The shaken butler stood before officers, hands trembling, his tie askew.
The team parted as Inspector Mo flashed his badge. "What happened?"
"The fireplace had poor ventilation—thick smoke kept billowing when burning pinewood."
"Workers dismantled the cast-iron flue and found the chimney blocked by concrete. As they drilled, the sound turned duller, the drill bit snagging on blackened finger bones… and a faded ring wedged between them."
"The butler halted further demolition and called us immediately."
Amid the debris, the forensic team conducted a preliminary sweep.
"From skeletal reassembly and environmental conditions, the victim was an adult female, deceased roughly ten years ago, aged twenty to twenty-five, approximately five-foot-three."
The UV light swept over the hollow eye sockets—Zhu Qing’s first encounter with bare bones. She held her breath, silent.
Adjusting her medical gloves, the faint friction against her skin amplified as the evidence bag in her grip grew weightier.
"Significant osteolytic lesions suggest cause of death was blunt-force cranial fracture."
"Concrete-trapped fabric fibers, additional trace evidence, and skull reconstruction require further lab analysis."
As the investigation unfolded, Mo Zhenbang assigned search zones.
As the rookie, Zhu Qing shadowed Inspector Mo for field training, just as with the prior robbery case.
Mo Zhenbang eyed her. "How would you approach this? Test your instincts."
Her fingertip traced the villa’s blueprint on the faxed second page. "Start with the Land Registry—check ownership transfers and renovation permits."
"Good. The property might’ve had prior owners." Mo Zhenbang nodded approval. "Then pull missing persons records for similar cases, issue bulletins. Since the remains surfaced here, we need the owner’s whereabouts a decade ago. The place was under renovation then—contractors, construction crews are prime suspects."
Mid-instruction, his pace slowed, side-eyeing her.
"No notes?"
The team’s near-invisible newbie, dubbed Ice Queen by Uncle Li behind her back, hadn’t even uncapped a pen. Her gaze had already slid past him, locking onto the garden.
"He’s off."
Inspector Mo’s brow lifted.
The man curled in the flowerbed’s shadows twitched.
Clad in pristine contractor overalls, he’d been staring fixedly in one direction until Zhu Qing approached.
Relief loosened his throat when told it was routine questioning.
"I was fetching water in the kitchen. Heard Uncle Cai scream when I came out." His eyes darted toward the third-floor bay window. "Nothing unusual in the house—just the butler and maids. Quite the rich-family drama. Old Man Sheng’s barely cold, and both heiresses and their husbands vanished like they planned it."
The tabloids spelled it out: Before Sheng Wenchang and Qin Lizhu’s deaths, aside from staff, the Sheng household totaled six.
The eldest daughter, Sheng Peirong, was even more capable, though she and her husband Cheng Zhaoqian had always kept a low profile, avoiding the media spotlight. In contrast, the second daughter, Sheng Peishan, stole the show—founding multiple charitable foundations and delegating her husband Chen Chaosheng to attend high-profile private galas in her stead. The couple’s philanthropic reputation was well-known, though in reality, they were quietly consolidating alliances.
Strangely, none of the four had made an appearance so far.
Zhu Qing remarked, "I heard the second Sheng daughter and her husband are handling the affairs of their late elders. They’re on their way back."
Mo Shazhan raised an eyebrow.
The ice queen was sharp—she’d somehow learned to fish for information without being taught.
"Anyone actually buying that excuse? It’s not like the deaths just happened three or five days ago. What ‘affairs’ could possibly be left?" He scoffed. "Madam, you might not know this, but the second daughter is still busy printing invitations for the Peninsula Hotel charity gala!"
Zhu Qing didn’t respond further.
It was clear now—he was a tabloid reporter who’d snuck in.
As he spoke, his gaze accidentally met Zhu Qing’s. He averted his eyes uncomfortably, poking at the faux yellow wax-stone mountain in the koi pond with a drain hook. "This family… hasn’t been very peaceful lately…"
……
Zhu Qing took a few steps back, blending into the crowd before tilting her head upward.
The third-floor balcony, edged in gilded decor, stood out in its opulence—except for the far-left room, where the balcony was sealed shut, clashing with the overall grandeur.
The villa’s double bronze-gilded doors were wide open, and everyone huddled in the living room, restless with unease.
Zhu Qing changed direction, turning into the house and ascending the spiral staircase.
Inside, it was eerily quiet. The crystal chandelier cascaded with dazzling light as Zhu Qing made her way up to the third floor.
The tabloid reporter had somehow slipped in disguised as a maintenance worker, yet he showed no interest in the widely circulated police department updates about the skeletal remains case—as if he had another target.
Why was he so fixated on the third floor?
Moving silently, Zhu Qing crept toward the end of the hallway, her reflection gliding past an enamel screen.
"Young master, have some shrimp dumplings first!"
Zhu Qing pressed against the door, pausing. Cold air hissed from the hallway vent, while inside, the TV played cartoons over the sound of video game effects.
"I! WANT! ICED! LEMON! TEA!" A haughty yet childish voice rang out.
Who knew the Sheng family had such a character? Even the relentless Hong Kong paparazzi had missed this bombshell.
"Young master, drink some water first, okay? Be good."
The commotion inside quieted.
Zhu Qing leaned in, listening—then suddenly, the thudding footsteps grew louder.
"I said I want iced lemon tea!"
"Alright, alright, I’ll go change it… Young master, whatever you do, don’t go downstairs!"
This time, there was no need to knock.
With a burst of rapid footsteps, the carved oak door swung open, and a Transformer figurine flew through the gap.
The little master, clad in an Iron Man cape, darted out—only to accidentally step on a remote, sending the TV channels into a frantic shuffle.
Before he could crash into her, Zhu Qing grabbed him by the scruff.
The chubby bundle in the Iron Man suit dangled mid-air, kicking wildly, until the cape clasp snapped with a click, revealing a child’s fencing uniform studded with medals.
Time seemed to freeze. The room was strewn with toys, and the maid Marisa dropped her silver tray in shock, eyes wide.
The young master, throttled by the collar of his shirt, twisted around, cheeks puffed in outrage as he glared at the audacious intruder.
It was only then that Zhu Qing got a clear look at his face.
At that exact moment, the TV switched channels, broadcasting a line from an old Cantonese film—
"Big sister’s vengeful ghost is coming for you!"
