The floor was littered with Lego pieces. Sheng Fang bent over, turned in a circle, and finally plopped down in defeat.
The little master never wasted effort. Knowing the Lego stool couldn’t bear his weight, he decided against rebuilding it.
Remembering his niece’s frequent reminder—"do your own things yourself"—he pursed his little lips and gathered the pieces with his chubby hands, obediently packing them into the storage box.
The murmurs of Sheng Peirong and Aunt Ping drifted into his ears—grown-up gossip about things only adults cared about.
But somehow, the topic suddenly shifted to him. Sheng Fang immediately perked up his little ears.
"Aunt Ping has turned our Fang Fang into a little piggy," Sheng Peirong teased. "Even the stool collapsed under him."
Sheng Fang whipped his head around in protest, then drooped, pinching his round little belly.
Qing Zai had once said that cops couldn’t be too chubby—otherwise, they wouldn’t build muscle or catch bad guys.
"I’m going on a diet," Sheng Fang muttered, turning away in a huff.
Sheng Peirong and Aunt Ping exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.
"Aunt Ping, the little master says he’s dieting."
"Guess we’ll have to cut back on his portions tomorrow…"
The chubby little lump turned around, waiting for someone to comfort him.
His cheeks puffed up higher and higher, swelling to nearly twice their size.
"Alright, no more jokes," Sheng Peirong said, suppressing a smile. "You still need to eat. Our Fang Fang is growing."
"No cutting portions tomorrow," Aunt Ping added. "We’ll have honey-glazed chicken wings—your favorite."
Little Sheng Fang swallowed hard.
Honey-glazed chicken wings… so delicious!
"No need to diet. Just exercise," Sheng Peirong patted his belly. "Work on those abs."
Aunt Ping’s loud laugh cut through the quiet living room.
Sheng Fang turned, shooting them a resentful glare.
Though young, he could perfectly detect the mockery in their laughter.
These two were just too much!
And where was Qing Zai, anyway?
With Qing Zai gone, they were bullying her uncle!
......
Zhu Qing followed Cheng Xinglang into the murder house from eighteen years ago.
The crime scene photos in the case file bore no resemblance to the sight before her.
The two-story villa, once stained with blood, was now covered in oil paintings—Cheng Xinglang’s work.
Spring Day
The brushstrokes weren’t professional, but the colors were vibrant—transforming the old bloodstains into stretches of blue clouds and golden wheat fields, as if fighting endless darkness with splashes of brightness.
"You chased after me even though you knew it was dangerous?" Cheng Xinglang’s voice carried from the kitchen, laced with amusement.
Zhu Qing studied the vivid paintings. "If the suspect isn’t afraid, why should the cop be?"
He handed her a bottle of water, the chill seeping into her fingertips.
"Explain," Zhu Qing said, accepting it.
"Have you eaten?" he asked abruptly.
Before she could answer, he turned back to the kitchen.
Of course she hadn’t. When she was deep in an investigation, meals slipped her mind. Cheng Xinglang opened the fridge, revealing neatly arranged fresh ingredients. After the incident, he’d been taken in by relatives, but when they later emigrated, he returned to this empty house—though he never stayed long.
Now, after being back for over a month, he’d clearly turned it into a proper home.
Zhu Qing leaned against the doorframe, watching him deftly handle the ingredients.
His movements were effortless, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing well-defined forearms. The rhythmic clatter of knife against cutting board filled the space with domestic warmth.
"Found something in the States," he said suddenly. "After my parents died, their research data was plagiarized and sold to a foreign pharmaceutical company."
For eighteen years, he’d never stopped digging.
Even abroad, he’d pieced together scattered clues into a coherent truth.
"Had to come back quietly," Cheng Xinglang murmured, sliding a steak into the pan. "If they catch wind, the evidence could vanish."
The sizzle of fat filled the air, its rich aroma wafting past her nose.
"Then a domestic drug factory suddenly shut down."
"Drug factory?"
"Even stranger—the factory’s director was a high-up at Mingde Psychiatric Hospital. Died under suspicious circumstances." He plated the steak, drizzling sauce over it.
Cheng Xinglang had caught the inconsistency.
As Ben said, he had connections everywhere. Originally a six-month study program, he finished in four. His mentor approved an early return and even helped conceal his movements.
He had to come back—to uncover the truth himself.
"What does Feng Ningyun have to do with this?" Zhu Qing accepted the plate.
Zhu Qing had sensed Cheng Xinglang’s return through subtle hints—the familiar gait in surveillance footage, the soft New Year’s greeting, the email’s casual "stay safe," and Feng Ningyun’s sudden transfer to Jianuo An Sanatorium.
Months ago, they’d visited Mingde Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center together.
She knew that, more than his "brother," Cheng Xinglang was tracking Feng Ningyun’s whereabouts.
"Mingde’s Sai Kung branch has tight security, but Rong Zimei transferred her mother out."
As a long-term patient at Mingde, Feng Ningyun might know something. Rong Zimei’s transfer made her easier to reach.
Posing as a medical equipment engineer, Cheng Xinglang entered the sanatorium, met Feng Ningyun, and even fixed a machine while he was at it.
"I showed her photos of the killer. They knew each other."
Feng Ningyun had been in that psychiatric hospital for over twenty years. She recognized the madman.
But she was still a psychiatric patient. Even now, reunited with her daughter and on reduced medication, her words could be truth or delusion—no one could be sure.
"Feng Ningyun said the killer was taken to the doctor’s office at night… for candy."
Zhu Qing’s brow furrowed.
For the past month, Cheng Xinglang had been obsessively chasing leads.
He tracked down every possible connection—current and former staff at Mingde, even digging through the belongings of the deceased. Finally, from a retired nurse, he obtained a handwritten log.
In its yellowed pages, Zhu Qing saw the name "Lai Danhe."
"The intern nurse back then was Lai Danhe—the woman who just died."
"Someone altered her records." Cheng Xinglang tapped the name on the page. "Eighteen years ago, Lai Danhe was at the Sai Kung branch."
"I found her."
Four days ago, he’d cornered Lai Danhe in an alley near Zhengqin Plaza’s night market.
"She claimed she knew nothing," Cheng Xinglang said quietly. "Three days later, she was dead. Same method as eighteen years ago."
Zhu Qing flipped open the newspaper at the corner of the table. The creased page showed the latest homicide report.
All these years, he had never given up, and now he wouldn’t just passively wait for the police investigation.
Zhu Qing looked up: "If it was you who appeared at the sanatorium a month ago, and the witness saw you... then the 'younger brother' never existed."
Cheng Xinglang had efficiently completed his investigation and now laid out the results one by one.
He faintly sensed that it was precisely because he was getting closer to the truth that this brutal murder had been triggered.
"The person in the surveillance footage is indeed me. That means the biggest suspicion now falls on me." Cheng Xinglang raised his eyes. "Am I covering for my brother?"
He met Zhu Qing’s gaze directly: "Or perhaps, I am the 'younger brother' they’re talking about."
"So," Cheng Xinglang picked up a dinner knife and smiled, "let’s eat first, then handle business properly."
"I’ll go back to the police station with you."
The dining table fell silent.
The clinking of cutlery echoed crisply—this was the first time in eighteen years someone had shared a meal with him in this house.
"Do you think," Zhu Qing asked, "this has anything to do with your brother?"
This time, Cheng Xinglang remained silent for a long while.
"I’m not sure."
......
The police had originally planned to surround the house in Ho Man Tin.
But now, the situation had changed.
After dinner, Cheng Xinglang picked up the file bag and took one last look at this home once soaked in blood.
The oil painting on the wall looked soft under the warm yellow light, the house restored to its former warmth. Even when he tilted his head to look through the skylight, he could still see a few bright stars.
Zhu Qing’s car waited quietly outside.
On the way, she drove slowly, as if deliberately stretching out time.
They talked about trivial things—Sheng Fang had given silly names to the foam balls in the play area but forgot them the next day, Inspector Mo had endless meetings after his promotion, the Western dishes Cheng Xinglang learned to cook abroad... Scattered, lighthearted topics, carefully avoiding the heavy leads.
Outside the window, the cityscape drifted past, streetlights casting faint halos along the glass.
Suddenly, a dark figure darted out from the right side of the road.
Zhu Qing jerked the steering wheel, tires screeching as they swerved to avoid the collision. The sharp sound of friction pierced the quiet night, the sudden braking throwing her forward, her right wrist twisting hard against the wheel.
A middle-aged man on a bicycle bowed repeatedly outside the window, apologizing before pedaling away hurriedly.
"Don’t move."
Cheng Xinglang’s hand was already steadying her wrist.
The warmth of his palm seeped into her skin, his fingers pressing lightly against her wrist bone to check for injury.
"No bone damage," his voice was close, "but there might be bruising. Remember to ice it when you get back."
Zhu Qing flexed her wrist—the pain wasn’t sharp.
Yet her gaze lingered on his hands—knuckles defined, fingers long and slender.
The car fell so quiet their breathing was audible.
Cheng Xinglang looked up at her.
"I’m fine." Zhu Qing withdrew her hand, though the warmth at her wrist seemed to linger.
The car started again, heading toward the Yau Ma Tei Police Station.
The station entrance was brightly lit, several colleagues already stepping forward to greet them.
"Dr. Cheng, when did you pick up counter-surveillance skills?"
"Hiding them well, aren’t you? Admit it, you’ve been dodging the forensic department to slack off!"
"Ah Ben keeps complaining no one will eat with him—wait till he finds out—"
Zhu Qing got out to brief Mo Zhenbang on the case, faintly catching Cheng Xinglang’s murmured reply.
His careless laughter rippled through the night, drawing a round of chuckles from the group.
......
In the interrogation room, Cheng Xinglang had come voluntarily.
He sat in the chair, posture relaxed yet measured.
His expression was calm.
Every emotion had been channeled into sharper focus. In a way, the re-emergence of the Cheng family case was a good thing—a turning point, a chance to untangle the unsolved mysteries, to bring the buried truth to light.
Mo Zhenbang spread out the case files from eighteen years ago and now across the table.
"Eighteen years apart, nearly identical crime scenes. The teddy bear taken, the bed neatly made, a few pieces of children’s clothing missing from the wardrobe..."
"Both times, children were involved. Back then, the killer only hurt you but spared your brother."
"The surveillance at Canossa Sanatorium shows you. Witnesses confirm you met the victim. Those soft-centered chocolates—they were part of your childhood too, weren’t they?"
"And the killer’s left-handed trait... As a forensic pathologist, you’re ambidextrous with a scalpel."
Cheng Xinglang’s gaze settled on the crime scene photos, pausing.
These sealed records from the original case—even as a survivor, he’d never had access.
Fragmented memories flickered in his mind. He frowned slightly; the details blurred by time remained indistinct.
"Dr. Cheng?"
"I’m fine." He pulled his thoughts back, sliding another stack of documents to the center of the table.
"These are the registration records of the pharmaceutical factory involved. Its closure coincides exactly with my parents’ murders."
Over the past month, Cheng Xinglang’s investigation had gone deeper than the police’s.
Production logs from the factory, photocopies of his parents’ research notes, even shift schedules from the Ming Tak Mental Rehabilitation Center back then... Every piece of evidence was meticulously organized, as thorough as the clippings in his office.
"My parents’ research threatened certain interests."
"The ones who killed my parents and the ones who took my brother—they might not be the same person."
Mo Zhenbang flipped through the documents, brow furrowed.
"Where were you when it happened?" Uncle Li cut in abruptly.
"An abandoned factory warehouse in Kowloon Tong." Cheng Xinglang replied. "The surveillance footage is still retrievable, but if this goes public now, the people behind it will destroy the evidence immediately."
An open police investigation would expose the footage—clearing Cheng Xinglang’s name but alerting the factory.
Only a covert operation, with him temporarily shouldering suspicion, would lull the real killer into complacency.
"But what if you’re the killer?" Uncle Li narrowed his eyes, half-teasing. "Taking revenge because they were connected to your parents’ deaths."
"Then you’ve already caught me, haven’t you?" Cheng Xinglang smiled faintly.
He pushed one last document to the center—Lai Danhe’s work records, a faint signature in the corner.
"The rest is up to you."
......
The next morning, sunlight spilled into the bedroom.
Little Sheng Fang, having missed Qing Zai the night before, had climbed onto her bed at dawn, patting her cheek gently.
"Wake up for breakfast! Aunt Ping made your favorite wonton noodles in chicken broth!"
"Come on, come on, we’ll be late..."
He was like an impossibly cheerful alarm clock—too well-made to silence even when muffled.
His soft little face pressed against hers, warm and pudgy.
Zhu Qing covered her face, mumbling, "Five more minutes."
"Qing Zai, Qing Zai—" Sheng Fang braced himself on her pillow, prying her hand away. "You look different today! Younger!"
Compared to the restless state she was in the day before, Zhu Qing now breathed with visible ease.
Though Sheng Fang couldn’t grasp the complexity of the case, the clever child understood his niece better than anyone. When his niece was happy, Fangfang’s mood brightened too.
"I’ve gotten younger too!" Sheng Fang declared proudly.
Zhu Qing narrowed her eyes and pinched his chubby cheeks. "How much younger do you want to be?"
Sheng Fang held up a finger. "One year old."
"One-year-olds can’t talk," Zhu Qing countered, knowing exactly how to handle him. "Be quiet and let me sleep."
"But they can cry, and that’s even noisier!" Sheng Fang immediately mimicked a baby’s wail, deliberately amplifying the sound near her ear. "Waaah—!"
Zhu Qing buried her head under the blanket. "From now on, I’m locking my door at night."
But what if little Sheng Fang had a nightmare?
In her drowsy state, Zhu Qing caught herself worrying about such a trivial matter and angrily threw off the covers.
"Can’t you let me sleep?!"
Early in the morning, the uncle-niece duo was already in high spirits.
Aunt Ping came over to see what the commotion was about and couldn’t help but laugh.
"Telling young people they’ve gotten younger isn’t exactly flattering," Aunt Ping remarked. "Young Master still has a ways to go when it comes to sweet-talking."
Sheng Fang blinked his big, curious eyes. "Then how should I do it?"
Aunt Ping grinned. "If you tell me I look years younger, I’d be happy."
"Aunt Ping looks eighteen!" Sheng Fang declared.
"That’s too exaggerated," Sheng Peirong chimed in as she draped her coat over her shoulders and headed upstairs. "No one would believe it."
"Wow, this doesn’t work, that doesn’t work," Sheng Fang grumbled. "You adults are so hard to please."
The house was already filled with laughter early in the morning.
Sheng Peirong asked, "Did you work late last night?"
"Cheng Xinglang is back."
Aunt Ping and Sheng Peirong immediately feigned nonchalance.
Outwardly calm, the two women were secretly reigniting the gossip they had suppressed just last night.
"Dr. Cheng is back?" Aunt Ping asked, deliberately keeping her tone casual.
Zhu Qing, now fully awake, sat cross-legged on the bed. "He’s locked up at the station."
Aunt Ping and Sheng Peirong: "..."
Even Sheng Fang’s little mouth fell open in shock.
Locked up?! Qing Zai’s tone made it sound like Dr. Cheng had gone to an amusement park!
...
At the kindergarten gate, children confidently marched in on their short little legs.
After just two days of adjustment, the teachers had worked their magic—no more clinging to parents’ legs and crying. The kids now strode in eagerly, excited to play in their classrooms.
Zhu Qing ruffled Sheng Fang’s hair. "Don’t come pick me up after school."
"I won’t pick you up," Sheng Fang retorted as he walked toward the kindergarten, then suddenly turned and shouted, "I’ll pick up Ah John instead!"
With that, his little legs carried him swiftly into the classroom.
Kids didn’t have cell phones or pagers, so even if Zhu Qing wanted to scold him, she couldn’t reach him.
She suddenly remembered her promise to the school bus driver from the day before—to give this kid a spanking when they got home. But she’d forgotten.
Yet another escape for Sheng Fang. No wonder he’d been getting more and more unruly lately.
Before heading to Jianuo’an Sanatorium, Zhu Qing solemnly jotted down a note in her notebook:
Remember to spank the kid when you get home!
The police’s expedited request had been approved. Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan met at the sanatorium entrance, armed with the order to meet Feng Ningyun.
On the way, Zeng Yongshan mused, "I never thought we’d see Rong Zimei again after the case closed."
A nurse escorted Feng Ningyun to the visiting room, with Rong Zimei staying faithfully by her side.
After inheriting her grandfather’s fortune, Rong Zimei remained unchanged—still dressed in her usual plaid shirt and black-framed glasses.
Surprised by the police visit, she nevertheless gave a detailed update.
"We transferred here a month ago," Rong Zimei said. "We’ve adjusted well. Look how much better my mom’s complexion is."
Her birth mother, Feng Ningyun, required professional care for her mental health. Meanwhile, her adoptive mother, Chen Yulan, had improved significantly after careful nursing despite her severe stroke.
"Kuang Xiaoyan is awaiting sentencing, and the real Lin Tingchao..." Rong Zimei smiled. "She’s working at a gallery with Shen Jingyang now. She visits Mom occasionally."
Rong Zimei explained how Feng Ningyun had secretly switched the two infants years ago, with Chen Yulan only finding out later. The selfless woman had neither reclaimed her biological daughter nor mistreated her adopted one.
It wasn’t until recently, when Rong Zimei brought Lin Tingchao to the sanatorium, that Chen Yulan finally met her birth daughter and wept.
The long-running tragedy had finally found a happy resolution. The criminals were punished, the victims began anew, and fractured families were reunited. Rong Zimei sincerely thanked the police for giving them a second chance.
Hearing this, Feng Ningyun turned her face away.
Her eyes remained clouded, just as before.
"I wanted a change of environment for Mom," Rong Zimei continued. "Twenty years in that place didn’t help her. A new facility might."
A month ago, when Cheng Xinglang infiltrated the sanatorium, he had only shown Feng Ningyun photos of the killer from eighteen years ago. Later, he pieced together clues to track down Lai Danhe.
Now, Zhu Qing placed a clear ID photo of Lai Danhe in front of Feng Ningyun.
She recognized her instantly.
"Little nurse," Feng Ningyun said, jabbing a finger at Lai Danhe’s photo. "The little nurse got so old."
When shown the killer’s photo, Feng Ningyun pointed just as decisively.
"The little nurse gave him candy."
Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan exchanged glances.
Though a psychiatric patient’s testimony couldn’t be used in court, Feng Ningyun’s account was too specific and coherent to have been coached by Cheng Xinglang.
This was a crucial breakthrough.
Lai Danhe and the killer were indeed linked to Mingde Mental Rehabilitation Center.
Was Lai Danhe silenced because of what happened back then?
"Where did they eat the candy?" Zhu Qing pressed, pointing at the killer’s photo.
But Feng Ningyun couldn’t answer.
She grew incoherent, muttering only one word repeatedly: "Office."
Leaving the sanatorium, the police expanded their investigation.
Financial records between Lai Danhe and her husband Bao Cailiang, the suspicious closure of the pharmaceutical factory years ago, personnel files from Mingde Hospital...
The case, once stalled, now brimmed with new leads—though verifying them would take time.
Midway through their inquiries, Zhu Qing received a call from the station.
The forensic report was ready.
The police had thoroughly analyzed suspect Cheng Xinglang’s shoe size, height, and gait characteristics.
The latest forensic report, however, points to another possibility.
"In blunt force homicides, the perpetrator's height affects the distribution of impact points."
"Based on the autopsy, the actual striking angle is lower than our initial estimate."
"But the gait analysis suggested he was at least six feet one inch tall?"
"If the perpetrator has short Achilles tendons or habitually strikes while tiptoeing, their stride length would appear longer," Xu Jiale explained over the phone. "Forensic Ye said the forensics team’s Inspector Ma misled the investigation by relying solely on shoe prints, and Inspector Ma shot back that her previous time-of-death estimate was also flawed."
Xu Jiale chuckled. "They nearly came to blows. The boss even went to watch the drama before finally returning."
Stride length can be altered or disguised by a perpetrator’s habits, but the wounds left on the victim don’t lie.
"Combining all the data," Xu Jiale continued, "the perpetrator is at least six centimeters shorter than Dr. Cheng!"
"So," Zhu Qing’s lips curved upward, "Cheng Xinglang has nothing to do with this case."
"This time, they’ll have to treat Dr. Cheng to dinner…" Zeng Yongshan chimed in before catching herself. "But then again, if he’s uninvolved, how do we explain the soft-centered chocolates?"
"Just as he said—the one who killed his parents and the one who took his younger brother aren’t the same person."
"What’s the motive behind it all?"
"At the end of the day, it’s definitely tied to Mingde."
As they discussed the case, the police car pulled into the station.
The moment Zhu Qing stepped into the lobby, an officer in uniform approached her.
"That gentleman over there," he gestured toward the reception area, "has been waiting for you for a while."
Following the officer’s direction, Zhu Qing froze.
Standing at the reception desk was Professor Yang Zhengxiu, a renowned psychologist and a longtime mentor to Cheng Xinglang.
They had met before at Hong Kong University.
"Professor Yang?" Zhu Qing walked over.
"Last night, I gave a lecture in the third-floor conference room of your precinct."
"After class, I passed the interrogation room and heard Xinglang’s voice." Professor Yang retrieved a stack of documents from his briefcase.
"Xinglang underwent an evaluation with me when he was eight. I’ve kept his psychological assessment report all these years."
...
After lunch, a brief quiet settled in.
At this hour, the drowsy little ones were at their softest and most docile.
Teacher Ji’s slender fingers gently combed through the children’s silky hair, redoing the messy braids of the little girls who had napped.
Yesi flitted around the classroom like a delicate butterfly.
"Fangfang!" She bounded up to Sheng Fang, beaming. "I can’t go to ballet class next Monday!"
"Why not?"
"Guess!"
Sheng Fang tilted her head. "Do you have a cold?"
"I wouldn’t know this early if I were getting a cold next week!" Yesi declared solemnly. "It’s my birthday! Will you come to my party?"
Sheng Fang’s eyes widened with pure, unadulterated envy.
"So nice," Fangfang murmured in her sweet, childish voice. "I’ll ask Big Sis to throw me a birthday party too."
"Me too!"
"I want one too—"
"Fangfang, is your basement playroom finished yet?"
The children clamored, tiny hands shooting up to RSVP for Sheng Fang’s hypothetical party.
Little Jinbao asked eagerly, "Is it your birthday too?"
"That’s the problem—it’s not." The young master heaved a dramatic sigh. "What if I beg her?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the children turned away in unison, their rejection swift and merciless.
Sheng Fang watched their retreating backs, learning life’s harsh truths early. "So ruthless."
