The police car rounded a bend in the mountain road and entered the gated community of Kadoorie Hill.
This case carried an unusual air, and the string of recent silencing incidents had put Zhu Qing on high alert.
She glanced in the rearview mirror at the little boy pressed against the window, eagerly taking in the sights.
Even though the kid often boasted about being a "little officer," if real danger arose, Fangfang had no means of self-defense—someone could just grab him by the collar and whisk him away without a struggle.
Zhu Qing lowered her voice. "Aunt Ping, make sure you stay home these days, especially keeping an eye on Fangfang."
Hearing the gravity in her tone, Aunt Ping nodded immediately, tightening her grip on Sheng Fang’s small hand. "I’ll keep a close watch on the young master."
Mo Zhenbang rolled down the window, lightening the mood. "No need to worry too much. Kadoorie Hill has excellent security. I’ll also notify the kindergarten to increase vigilance. As long as he doesn’t wander off, he’ll be safe."
Sheng Fang’s face fell again, his pout deepening.
No wandering? But wandering was his favorite thing to do!
"Can you lock me up in a safe house too?" he asked.
"We can arrange that," Zhu Qing raised an eyebrow, "but not in the same one as Dr. Cheng."
"Then forget it!" Fangfang quickly changed his mind, resting his chubby chin on the window frame. Safety rules were ingrained in him, so he obediently kept himself from leaning out.
Fangfang had been dreaming of riding bikes with Dr. Cheng Xinglang.
Unlike Zhu Qing’s "learn-by-falling" approach, Dr. Cheng was the perfect cycling coach—patient, steadying the bike over and over until Fangfang got the hang of it. Thanks to him, the once-neglected bicycle had regained its young owner’s favor.
"My bike…" Fangfang mumbled, his little head drooping.
Hearing that the boy had come specifically to ride with Cheng Xinglang, Mo Zhenbang was baffled. "It’s just cycling. Can’t you ride with anyone else?"
Their own backyard had plenty of space for laps—wasn’t that better than the cramped area outside the police station?
"He likes Dr. Cheng," Zhu Qing chuckled, turning to ruffle Sheng Fang’s hair.
Cheng Xinglang had a knack with kids. Even when he annoyed Fangfang into a huff, his imaginative games always won the boy over in the end.
"Of course I like him!" Fangfang declared matter-of-factly. Then, with innocent bluntness, he added, "Don’t you?"
Aunt Ping stifled a laugh, ears perking up. The child had a habit of asking disarmingly direct questions. She and the madam had been subtly probing Zhu Qing about this very topic for a while now.
Zhu Qing ignored him. "We’re here. Go home!"
---
After dropping off Fangfang, Mo Zhenbang turned the car toward Sai Kung.
But before heading to Ming Tak Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center, he made a detour to Canossa Hospital.
They needed more details about the man with the scarred right hand—the one Feng Ningyun had mentioned.
Zhu Qing called Rong Zimei.
By the time the police car pulled up at Canossa, Rong Zimei was already waiting outside, an apologetic look on her face.
"I’m so sorry. My mother’s still all over the place today—one moment she says the scar was on the left hand, the next it’s the right. This might be a wasted trip."
Zhu Qing waved it off reassuringly.
Inside the ward, Feng Ningyun was eating dinner by the bed. She turned at the sound of footsteps, her gaze lingering on her daughter.
Compared to the deranged state Zhu Qing had seen her in at the Sai Kung facility, Feng Ningyun seemed much more stable now.
Her swollen frame and haphazardly tied hair bore no resemblance to the graceful ballerina in the records, but perhaps these recent days were the most peaceful she’d known in years.
Mo Zhenbang pressed for details about the scarred man.
With the investigation’s leads tangled—even after cross-referencing Ming Tak and the pharmaceutical factory—any scrap of memory could narrow the search.
"Can you try to remember what he looked like?"
Feng Ningyun shrank back, clutching her hospital gown as she looked uncertainly at Rong Zimei.
"If she really can’t recall, don’t force her," Rong Zimei said. "It was eighteen years ago. Even a healthy person would struggle to remember."
Mo Zhenbang nodded silently.
Then Zhu Qing crouched before Feng Ningyun.
She pulled out a notebook, flipping to a blank page. "Can you draw?" she asked gently.
"How did you see them that day?"
Feng Ningyun stared at Zhu Qing.
Her eyes were still clouded, but after a hesitant pause, she took the pen.
Her strokes were shaky, lines wavering uncontrollably, yet her grip was earnest.
The officers waited quietly as the figures took shape—two short-haired silhouettes.
One had unevenly cropped hair, unmistakably the serial killer from back then. The other was the man who’d "offered her candy."
In the drawing, the second figure’s hand was raised, revealing a twisted mark running from his knuckles to his forearm—a jagged scar.
This was the angle Feng Ningyun had glimpsed from her hiding spot.
"You never saw their faces, right?" Zhu Qing asked.
Feng Ningyun shook her head and handed back the notebook.
When praised with a "You drew very well," she turned to her daughter with a childlike grin.
---
Outside Canossa, Mo Zhenbang rubbed his temples. "If we keep humoring her, I might lose my sanity too."
"This is the only lead we have on the pharmaceutical angle," Zhu Qing said. "Cherish it, Mo Zhenbang."
He sighed as she solemnly tucked the notebook into her jacket pocket.
The police car headed for Ming Tak’s Sai Kung branch.
Like before, security was tight—they needed authorization just to enter. Zhu Qing kept Mo Zhenbang’s advice in mind, playing it cool as she claimed they were there to "finalize Feng Ningyun’s transfer paperwork," her lie delivered flawlessly.
A young nurse received them. She pulled up recent medical records but could shed little light on the details.
"I've also heard about the cases involving Ms. Feng," the young nurse said. "It seems like it's been several months already."
"That's just how the judicial process works," Zhu Qing replied calmly. "Until the verdict is announced, the case isn't truly over."
"Every profession has its own intricacies, I suppose. In psychiatry, it's the same—treatment cycles are measured in years. Until a patient is discharged as fully recovered, our job isn't done," the nurse mused, flipping through medical records. "Even after discharge, relapses can happen if they face trauma..."
Suddenly, a loud, boisterous cheer interrupted them, drawing Zhu Qing and Mo Zhenbang's attention.
On the lawn, a middle-aged man grinned broadly.
Zhu Qing remembered him—a man who had sacrificed his own childhood to raise his younger siblings, only to now live with schizophrenia, trapped in a childlike world. The siblings he’d raised with such hardship never visited him anymore.
"Sister," he suddenly said, tilting his head. "Today is my little sister's birthday."
A gentle-looking middle-aged woman doctor crouched beside him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Dongdong, you're so wonderful to remember your sister's birthday," she cooed, her voice soft as if speaking to a child. "But don’t forget your own birthday—that’s even more important."
The man looked puzzled. "My birthday...?"
"It’s in August, still six months away," she said with a smile. "I’ll remind you when the time comes, okay?"
"Okay, okay!" His face lit up with an innocence unbefitting his age. "I also want..."
"A cake, right?" the doctor finished for him. "I’ll get you a fruit cake—just for you, no sharing."
The young nurse leading them whispered an explanation: "This patient always gives his treats to others. We’ve been teaching him to think of himself first... but no matter how many times we try, he forgets. Even as a three-year-old 'child' in his mind, he’s still selfless."
"Thank you, sister!"
As the activity session ended, the man skipped back to his ward with a nurse.
The young nurse introduced the two officers to the doctor. "Vice President Zong, these are detectives from the Major Crimes Division. They’re here to supplement Ms. Feng Ningyun’s medical records."
"This is Vice President Zong Zhuoxian. She can answer your questions."
Vice President Zong rose gracefully, eyeing them with mild surprise before nodding. "Please follow me."
In her office, Zhu Qing cut straight to the point. "During her statement, Ms. Feng mentioned witnessing violent incidents during her episodes. We need more details—it’s critical for both her treatment evaluation and the sentencing in the case."
Zong Zhuoxian countered shrewdly, "But as far as I know, Ms. Feng’s hospitalization isn’t directly related to the case. How would her testimony help?"
Unlike the young nurse, the vice president wasn’t so easily swayed.
Zhu Qing opened her notepad, unfazed. "Case details are confidential, but while Ms. Feng isn’t directly involved, her account could sway jury sympathy."
"I see," Zong murmured thoughtfully.
Seizing the moment, Mo Zhenbang pressed, "Ms. Feng described seeing someone with a scar on their right hand. Does anyone on staff here match that?"
"Can we really take a psychiatric patient’s word at face value?" Zong replied. "Ms. Feng can’t even distinguish left from right."
"But her description was specific—a winding scar on the right hand," Zhu Qing insisted. "We just need to confirm whether this person might have exacerbated her condition."
"In this field, many doctors and orderlies have work-related scars. But if you’re asking about a right-hand scar specifically, I can’t recall anyone." With a sigh, Zong stood and sent for the employee roster.
After a brief wait, the list arrived.
Instead of reviewing it herself, Zong handed it to her assistant.
"You’re in the wards often—check which colleagues have scars on their right hands and mark them."
The assistant scanned the names, pausing to jot notes beside a few. Then, a realization struck. "Could Ms. Feng have seen Dr. Song? I remember his hand was burned during an experiment. Pretty sure it was the right one, but I’m not certain."
"Dr. Song’s at a medical conference, though. He won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon."
Mo Zhenbang and Zhu Qing kept their expressions neutral, but their pens stilled momentarily.
The faded signature on nurse Lai Danhe’s old records—barely legible—had looked like the character for "Song."
"Dr. Song does have a scar on his hand," Zong admitted, rubbing her temples wearily. "But our hospital’s treatments are strictly professional. I refuse to believe Dr. Song would ever harm a patient. Working with psychiatric patients is like handling children—sometimes they say things that aren’t true."
Mo Zhenbang nodded. "Understood. Like a kid claiming a teacher hit them when it was just a pat on the cheek—leaving the teacher no way to defend themselves."
"Exactly," Zong said, visibly relieved. "Please investigate thoroughly to avoid misunderstandings. Every doctor here dedicates their heart to healing."
---
Outside Mingde Psychiatric Center, Mo Zhenbang immediately called the precinct.
"Run background checks on these names—cross-reference their ties to Weisheng Pharmaceutical from back then," he ordered briskly, listing the scarred employees. "Focus on Dr. Song Junli—pull his bank records and property transactions from eighteen years ago."
Back at the station, the team worked tirelessly.
Uncle Li entered the conference room with a stack of files. "We tracked down the pharmaceutical factory’s former logistics partner. The original company went under, but the owner’s thriving now in a new venture."
Zeng Yongshan swiftly wrote the logistics CEO’s name on the whiteboard, adding his photo beside it.
The man in the picture, dressed in a sharp suit, smiled at the camera.
"Wei Feng, 53, chairman of Fengsong International Logistics—specializes in cross-border perishable transport."
Mo Zhenbang gave an approving nod. "Good work. Your investigative approach is getting sharper."
Zeng Yongshan’s lips curved slightly before continuing. "One odd detail: three months before the logistics company collapsed, they suddenly purchased refrigerated trucks."
"After his company went bankrupt, Wei Feng remained inactive for two years before registering a new one. But what's noteworthy is that during those two years, he had no work records whatsoever—no tax filings, meaning he likely had no income."
"We also looked into his family background. Both his parents and in-laws come from modest means."
"Yet suddenly, this man establishes a new company. Look at the registered capital." Zeng Yongshan circled the figure with a red marker. "Did this money fall from the sky? The source of funding for his new company is a mystery."
Xu Jiale narrowed his eyes. "Now he’s a big shot—the so-called 'Seafood King' of Hong Kong Island."
Mo Zhenbang tapped the whiteboard. "Let’s not alert Wei Feng yet. Focus on monitoring his logistics chain first."
He turned to another group of officers. "Any updates on the leads involving Song Junli?"
"Boss! It hasn’t been that long—"
"How much time has passed since you called to assign the task?"
Mo Zhenbang shot them an impatient look. "Get moving, then."
As the discussion wound down, someone reminded them, "Shouldn’t we rotate the security detail at the safe house?"
"Reinforcements are already on their way," Uncle Li said, gathering his files with a chuckle. "Last night, Cheng Xinglang stayed up chatting with Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale till dawn. Now that unfamiliar officers are taking over, he’s probably bored out of his mind."
...
Cheng Xinglang was alone in the safe house.
After staying up all night talking with Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale, he had slept through the day, only to wake up feeling strangely disoriented.
For the past month, his mind had been on high alert during the covert investigation. Now that he’d handed over all the leads to the police, he should have felt relieved—but his thoughts kept circling back. Professor Yang’s car accident, his missing brother, the gruesome crime scene photos from the cold case files…
It was a nightmare from eighteen years ago, yet it haunted him to this day. Lately, though, something felt off. Fragmented memories of struggle and pleas for help flickered in his mind before vanishing abruptly.
He needed answers more desperately than anyone.
His phone buzzed—an unknown number flashing on the screen.
When he answered, an energetic voice burst through.
"Dr. Cheng! This is my big sister’s mobile number!"
From motorcycles to bicycles, Cheng Xinglang and the little rascal Sheng Fang had formed an unlikely bond.
Now, both of them were stuck in confinement—Sheng Fang no longer called him "not a proper adult."
They were both proper, innocent people.
The officers on rotation were unfamiliar faces from headquarters, exchanging only polite nods before retreating into silence.
So Cheng Xinglang kept chatting with Sheng Fang.
"Has your niece gone home yet?"
Little Sheng Fang, oblivious to the deliberate shift in topic, answered cheerfully, "Qing came back to change clothes and left again!"
"She’s always working overtime…"
Zhu Qing had rushed home briefly to pack a few essentials before heading out again. To save time, she planned to stay at the Yau Ma Tei apartment near the police station for the next couple of nights.
"I wanna go too," Sheng Fang grumbled, his voice drooping. "But they won’t take me."
He kept muttering about how, once the case was over, he’d go back to the Yau Ma Tei apartment with Zhu Qing—just the two of them, no big sister or Aunt Ping!
The call dragged on until an officer knocked to deliver supper.
Cheng Xinglang chuckled to himself, never imagining he’d spend hours on the phone with a four-year-old.
"Dr. Cheng." The officer handed him a meal box, then produced a paper bag. "A CID inspector asked me to pass this to you."
Inside the bag was a set of comic books.
He’d bought them to keep Zhu Qing entertained when she was hospitalized with a fractured collarbone.
Now, they were back in his hands, keeping him company during this period of "protective custody."
...
After a sleepless night at the Yau Ma Tei apartment, Zhu Qing made up her mind—she was going home tonight.
Her phone had nearly exploded with calls from Fangfang, who phoned hourly to whine about missing her. On top of that, the house felt unbearably empty without her little uncle, mother, or Aunt Ping around…
Repacking the clothes she’d just brought, she sighed. What a waste of effort.
The walk from the apartment to the police station took barely three minutes at a brisk pace.
Zhu Qing ate breakfast at her desk, diving straight into work.
The police were still treading carefully, keeping their investigation under wraps.
Public records showed no direct link between Dr. Song Junli and Weisheng Pharmaceuticals, but that did little to ease their suspicions.
The day before, they’d failed to meet him at Ming Tak Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center. Now, they finally cornered him at the cross-border bus terminal as he returned from a conference.
According to records, Song Junli was forty-four, but his graying temples made him look older.
"Dr. Song, sorry to bother you."
"We spoke on the phone earlier—just some follow-up questions about Ms. Feng Ningyun’s medical records."
After showing their badges to station staff, they borrowed an unused office.
Zhu Qing’s gaze locked onto the jagged scar on Song Junli’s right hand.
Over the phone, it hadn’t been as clear. Now, hearing the police’s line of questioning, his expression darkened instantly.
"Preposterous! Violent behavior?" Song Junli scowled. "You’re welcome to check my disciplinary record with the Medical Council! In over twenty years, I’ve never had a single complaint. And now you’re questioning my professionalism based on the ramblings of a psychiatric patient? This is slander!"
"Dr. Song, please don’t misunderstand," Zeng Yongshan interjected smoothly. "We’re just following procedure."
The tension in Song Junli’s shoulders eased slightly. "I get it, but this kind of questioning is insulting."
"Our apologies for the oversight," Zeng Yongshan said. "We appreciate your cooperation."
With that, Song Junli’s demeanor softened.
After a few routine questions about the medical records, Zhu Qing steered the conversation elsewhere. "Dr. Song, how did you get that scar on your hand?"
"A lab accident in my younger days." He glanced down at it. "Happened a long time ago."
Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan exchanged a look.
Eighteen years ago, Song Junli didn’t have that scar on his hand yet, and the person Feng Ningyun saw might not have been him. Of course, this still needed further verification.
"By the way," Zeng Yongshan flipped through the documents, "Ms. Feng also mentioned a short-tempered male doctor—we suspect it was Doctor Ke. Do you know anything about him?"
"During our investigation, we discovered that Doctor Ke has already passed away. While organizing the files, we came across a pile of correspondence. I heard he ran a pharmaceutical factory on the side," Zhu Qing introduced the next topic. "Could it be that his divided attention between the factory and his patients made him less patient with them?"
"That’s right. Back then, Doctor Ke managed the pharmacy department while operating an external pharmaceutical factory," Song Junli said. "But I heard the factory went under not long after."
"You knew about this?"
Song Junli nodded. "It’s all ancient history now. Back then, I even wanted to earn some extra income through it. But Doctor Ke said the factory didn’t need more hands and would contact me if necessary… Of course, that was just a polite rejection."
This was a buried piece of the past. Over the past month, Cheng Xinglang had uncovered part of the trail. Back then, a high-ranking Ke at Mingde Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center had failed in running an external pharmaceutical factory and soon after fell to his death from the hospital rooftop.
Now, Song Junli’s addition filled in more of the gaps in this old story.
"He was already overwhelmed at the time," Song Junli sighed. "That’s why I say—human energy is limited. Greed doesn’t pay. Back then, I admired Doctor Ke for juggling both, but now I think focusing solely on being a doctor isn’t so bad."
Zhu Qing looked up. "Overwhelmed?"
"At the time, he was contracted as an examining physician for several welfare institutions. There was an orphan who had already been selected for adoption but died during the medical checkup."
"A few days later, Doctor Ke…"
"That was eighteen years ago, wasn’t it?"
Song Junli paused. "Has it really been that long? Time flies…"
Zhu Qing quickly noted down this unexpected lead.
Back then, the public assumed the Mingde executive’s fatal fall was an accident caused by work stress. No one knew there had been an adoption dispute tied to an orphan’s death—a case left unresolved after his passing.
Now, it seemed the timelines of these two incidents overlapped significantly with the Cheng family case.
Zhu Qing said, "Thank you for your cooperation. I believe Ms. Feng Ningyun’s recollection might have been inaccurate. Regardless, we’ll get to the bottom of this."
Song Junli stood. "I appreciate your efforts."
……
Sheng Fang, his eldest sister, and Aunt Ping stayed home without stepping out.
"Not even allowed to stroll around—seems the situation’s serious," Sheng Peirong murmured, tapping the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window with her fingertips.
Just last night, before Zhu Qing left, she had specifically reminded them to stay safe.
Catching the culprit was important, but personal safety always came first.
Sheng Peirong, ever decisive, immediately picked up her phone and called a senior board member who had watched her grow up, asking him to recommend trustworthy professional bodyguards.
Aunt Ping clicked her tongue. "Young Miss, isn’t this a bit excessive?"
"Better safe than sorry," Sheng Peirong replied. "If nothing happens, great. Having extra people around won’t disrupt daily life. This way, Zhu Qing can focus on the case, and little brother can go to school without worry."
Sheng Fang’s small head seemed to sprout three question marks at once.
He absolutely did not need to go to school!
How boring.
Fangfang hunched over like a little old man, hands clasped behind his back as he shuffled around, sighing dramatically at the sky every now and then.
There was nothing fun at home. The small basement playground was finally finished, but the moment he sneaked down there, his evil big sister dragged him back.
Sheng Peirong declared the newly renovated basement still reeked of paint and forbade him from playing there.
Restless, Sheng Fang wandered into Zhu Qing’s room.
It felt like he hadn’t seen his niece in ages—he missed her terribly!
Who knew when the case would be solved?
The little boy plopped onto the desk chair, propping his cheeks in his hands as he stared blankly at the "Clean Plate Club" award certificate on the wall. Those thrilling investigative adventures were beyond his reach this time.
He stood up and noticed the jacket casually draped over the chair—the one Zhu Qing had changed out of last night.
Sharp-eyed Detective Fang immediately spotted the notebook in the jacket pocket.
"Big sis!" Sheng Fang grabbed the notebook and bolted out. "Qing forgot to take her—"
Thud. The notebook slipped onto the stairs, its pages splayed open.
"Why’d you fall here?" Fangfang chatted with the notebook as he bent to pick it up.
When he flipped it over, several large characters glared back at him.
Pointing at one he didn’t recognize, Sheng Fang asked, "Aunt Ping, what’s this word?"
Aunt Ping adjusted her reading glasses and leaned closer. "'Punish.'"
"Remember to… when you get home—" Fangfang’s eyes widened in horror. "Punish… little… child!"
What kind of nonsense was this?!
What a shamelessly unprofessional notebook!
Fangfang instantly curled into a ball, muttering in a tiny, trembling voice, "Qing, Qing, no takebacks now."
But he couldn’t stay nonchalant for long.
The little master anxiously waddled back to the desk on his short legs.
Minutes later, beside the "punish little child" declaration, he drew a chubby crying face with perfectly round teardrops.
"Big sis, how do you write 'spare me'?"
Sheng Peirong suppressed a laugh. "Not telling."
Left to his own devices, Fangfang gripped a chunky crayon and scrawled—
No!
