In the original storyline, Sheng Fang was headed down a path of no return. But now, back in the real world, he was still just an innocent child, his youthful face full of confusion. He didn’t understand why his niece had to be so meticulous with money, nor did he know anything about cooking the books.
To the young master of the Sheng family, the astronomical figures on the A4 paper meant nothing—no matter how many zeros were tacked on at the end. These "zeros" sat invisibly in bank accounts, intangible and out of reach. But if they were withdrawn and used, he could improve Zhu Qing’s meals, buy her a pager, get her a car, even a house… Totally worth it!
In the real estate office on Nathan Road, Agent Wang puffed out his chest, claiming he was offering a rock-bottom price—a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Zhu Qing, having grown up rough and tough, was a master at haggling. With a toss of her head, she turned to leave. Before the agent could react, she had already briefed her little uncle, and now the two of them walked away with an air of indifference, as if they hadn’t even liked the place.
"Miss Zhu! Don’t leave yet—at least leave me your pager number!" Agent Wang called out. "We can negotiate! Let me see if I can bring the price down, then I’ll call you. How’s that?"
Zhu Qing paused and scribbled her pager number on the slip of paper Agent Wang handed her.
The agent clearly knew who called the shots in this family. Little Sheng Fang trailed behind Miss Zhu, kicking his short legs in frustration, his cheeks puffed out in indignation.
He was "Mr. Sheng."
Why had Agent Wang skipped over him entirely?
Earlier, while discussing the price in the office, Zhu Qing and Sheng Fang had each eaten a simple boxed meal for dinner.
Now, on their way back, they passed a cha chaan teng. A long queue had already formed outside, steam wafting from the kitchen, carrying tantalizing scents. The staff inside were swamped, phones ringing nonstop.
The owner jotted down orders on notepads, shouting back to the kitchen between calls.
"Two orders of char siu rice!"
"One iced lemon tea, no sugar!"
"The eggs gotta be runny, boss! Table three’s were overcooked!"
"Emergency order—wonton noodles, now!"
The turnover was as fast as a battlefield. The moment a table was wiped down, new customers were already seated, placing their orders.
Within minutes, a deliveryman loaded plastic bags onto his bicycle, pedaling furiously through the streets, nearly colliding with pedestrians as he yelled, "Excuse me!" before disappearing into the sunset.
Further down the street, a roast goose vendor cleaved through crispy skin with practiced ease—the same motion repeated hundreds of times a day.
This street was filled with people hustling to make ends meet.
Sheng Fang thought again about the numbers on that A4 paper.
His niece had told him that some people would spend half their lives chasing sums like that.
"Were you like this before?" the young master asked.
In the original plot, the little antagonist firmly believed money was everything.
But today, Zhu Qing told him that while money could solve many problems, what mattered more was learning to cherish it.
Every penny should be spent meaningfully.
She delivered this basic economics lesson in the calmest tone.
Sheng Fang only half-understood, turning to watch the bustling crowd on the street.
Back home, everyone had told him that as the young master of the Sheng family, he was born superior.
But now, the child was starting to realize something new.
No—that wasn’t true at all!
The sunset stretched their shadows long behind them.
After a while, Sheng Fang suddenly leaped up, chasing after his flickering silhouette on the ground.
"Qing, Aunt Ping and I got photographed when we went home today."
"Paparazzi?"
The Sheng family’s recent scandal had caused quite a stir, and the media frenzy hadn’t fully died down yet.
Tabloid photographers had previously snapped pictures of the hidden child at the family’s hillside villa, earning front-page coverage. But they weren’t satisfied. Today, when Sheng Fang returned with Aunt Ping to fetch his toys, the paparazzi had struck again, flashing cameras in the child’s face without a shred of professionalism.
"Aunt Ping chased them off," Sheng Fang said, his eyes sparkling. "She was so fierce!"
The admiration in his gaze was practically overflowing.
While the child happily chased shadows, Zhu Qing fell into thought.
She wondered if this was another teachable moment. Growing up, her personal motto had always been: if you’re hit, hit back; if you’re hurt, make them pay. Only by growing thorns could you protect yourself. But now, teaching Sheng Fang that might just set him further down the villain’s path.
She stayed silent for a long moment.
Sheng Fang stopped skipping and peeked at her, curious about her lack of reaction.
He jumped, trying (and failing) to pat her shoulder reassuringly. "Don’t be sad. You’re scary too!"
"You’re even fiercer!"
The child thought her silence was because she hadn’t been praised.
Zhu Qing didn’t know how to respond—
Uncle, that’s not really a compliment.
…
Later, she explained to her little uncle that even if they liked the apartment in Yau Ma Tei, they couldn’t seem too eager. Playing mind games with the agent for a few days would get them a better price.
Sheng Fang was impatient—what if someone else snatched up their new home?
"You think buying a flat is like buying groceries?"
This wasn’t the first time the pampered young master had heard this comparison.
But he didn’t get it. He’d never even bought groceries before.
"Where are we getting new furniture?" Sheng Fang finally changed the subject.
There were some things even an uncle didn’t know—like where to buy furniture. That was a real adult matter, completely outside his expertise.
"Ap Liu Street."
"Isn’t that full of secondhand shops?" Sheng Fang squinted shrewdly. "Definitely not custom-made!"
Zhu Qing: "How about the open-air market on New Town Ground Street?"
"Where’s that?"
"You can buy construction scraps there."
The child’s face cycled through a kaleidoscope of expressions—disappointment, disdain, displeasure, and finally… resignation.
"Let’s just use the furniture the previous owner left," the little rich uncle grumbled. "Better than picking through trash."
Somehow, Zhu Qing’s lessons were getting through to him, albeit in a strange way.
One way or another, the budding little antagonist was learning to save instead of splurging recklessly.
The minibus rumbled along.
Once they sorted out the apartment and moved in, they wouldn’t have to endure these bumpy rides anymore.
"Are you tired?" Zhu Qing asked.
"Not at all!"
Sheng Fang was buzzing with excitement.
The thought of his new life—surrounded by toys in an air-conditioned room—had him grinning ear to ear.
"Qing, are we gonna cook for ourselves from now on?"
Zhu Qing had never considered this question. Her brow furrowed instantly.
"Should we still cook? Let's just make do."
"How can we just make do! Qing, you've been making do for too long!"
Her nephew's quality of life was really not great—teaching the child to enjoy life would still take a long way to go.
Little Sheng Fang had never stepped into a kitchen before, but he was already fantasizing about how impressive he’d look waving a spatula in front of the island counter.
"I'm the head chef, and you're the sous chef."
"Using a little stool to reach the stove, cooking lobster and abalone rice!"
Zhu Qing pressed her lips together. "Eating that well, huh?"
On the ride back, the little one chattered nonstop.
The imagined scenes of life were filled with warmth and homeliness.
Zhu Qing listened quietly, not even noticing how her gaze grew increasingly tender.
But gradually, the cheerful little voice grew fainter.
Why had he stopped talking?
Zhu Qing turned to look.
Against the car window, Sheng Fang’s fluffy little head rested, his eyes already closed, his lips smacking slightly.
His long lashes fluttered, casting shadows under his eyes, making his chubby cheeks even more pronounced.
The little one had really been pushing himself.
One moment, he was full of energy; the next, he was fast asleep.
On TV, they always covered sleeping children with blankets, but there was no little blanket in the car.
Zhu Qing wasn’t used to taking care of others. Raising her hand, she hesitated, unsure what to do—before pulling back, she pinched his cheek.
It was surprisingly soft.
……
Early the next morning, Zhu Qing handed the child over to Aunt Ping.
The little one half-reclined on the warm, toasty lower bunk of a bunk bed, his short legs propped up high, a popsicle in one hand.
Qing had bought him a popsicle—it was like a magic cure for the heat. One bite, and little Sheng Fang’s face seemed to radiate cool air, his breaths turning refreshing, his eyes crinkling with delight as he praised his niece for being the sweetest.
But he soon realized there was a condition attached to this treat!
"I have to work overtime tonight," Zhu Qing said.
Sheng Fang, who had been happily eating like a little messy kitten, immediately sat bolt upright.
"What time will you be back?"
"Not sure. You can go back to Mid-Levels with Aunt Ping first."
The little uncle turned his round body away. "No way!"
The negotiation was rejected—Sheng Fang had no intention of returning to the Mid-Levels villa.
But at the same time, there was no way he was giving the delicious popsicle back either.
Once it was given to him, it was his!
Still, by the time she left, the little young master remained slumped against the wall, his back turned, looking dejected.
Dejected or not, he kept licking the popsicle to keep it from melting.
Too busy.
Aunt Ping chased her into the hallway.
"Qingqing?" Aunt Ping called from behind, her voice soft and tentative.
Zhu Qing turned in confusion, instinctively wanting to correct the overly affectionate nickname.
"I know, I shouldn’t call you that," Aunt Ping said. "But seeing how busy you’ve been these days reminds me so much of the young mistress in her youth."
Memories seemed to tunnel through time, piecing together the present Zhu Qing with the little heiress of the past.
Back then, as a newborn kicking her tiny feet, she would giggle when Sheng Peirong called her "Coco." A baby just months old couldn’t understand what the nickname meant—only that it was a warm call from her mother.
"That nickname… we’ll have to wait until your mommy wakes up to use it again." Aunt Ping’s smile was gentle as she lightly held Zhu Qing’s wrist. "Can I call you Qingqing?"
Zhu Qing’s heart softened. Meeting Aunt Ping’s hopeful gaze, she wanted to ask—
Will she really wake up?
But in the end, the words dissolved into silence, and she gave a small nod.
"Oh, my memory these days." Aunt Ping handed her an umbrella. "Looks like it might rain again—take this."
Looking over the railing of the old police academy building, the training field below came into view.
The cadets had already begun their drills, their rubber boots splashing through puddles, kicking up leftover rainwater.
Last night, the heavy rain had come and gone in waves.
The morning had cleared up, but given the recent weather, who could say for sure?
Better to take an umbrella, just in case.
"Be careful at work," Aunt Ping said. "On the way here, I overheard some ladies on the minibus talking—that serial killer has no humanity!"
Behind them, the little young master shivered.
Scared by the idea of a ruthless murderer, even the popsicle didn’t taste as sweet anymore.
……
At dawn, Zeng Yongshan still managed to rush into the police station at the last minute.
On her way in, she grabbed the newspapers and cheerfully delivered them to Uncle Li and Mo Zhenbang’s desks.
Hao Zai leaned against the partition of Zeng Yongshan’s workstation, arms crossed. "What’s got you so happy?"
Team B’s little sunshine was always smiling, but today, it seemed especially bright.
Hao Zai suddenly slapped the desk, leaning in with gossipy excitement. "Got it—did you come with Sir Liang?"
Zeng Yongshan rolled her eyes at him.
Long ago, Mo Shazhan had remarked during a meeting that they were all like monkeys—mischievous and relentless. But Sir Liang was different—refreshingly calm, without the usual loudness or street-smart edge.
But what really had her excited was something else.
Yesterday, Zhu Qing had invited her to audit a class at a beauty academy. After working together for so long, this was the first time Zhu Qing had taken the initiative to ask her out. Not wanting to miss the chance, Zeng Yongshan had scrambled to rearrange her night shift—and only Liang Qikai had agreed to swap without hesitation.
Now, she could finally go, her smile practically blooming.
The meeting room door opened, and Zhu Qing stepped out with a stack of files.
Zeng Yongshan immediately scooted over, handing her a gold-embossed business card.
"My mom’s card!"
The card bore her mother’s name and title: Yi Dongmei, instructor at Feiman International Beauty Academy.
"Zhu Qing, how about we grab dinner after?"
"The academy’s in Causeway Bay—there’s a cha chaan teng nearby with the most authentic dry-fried beef ho fun!"
Zhu Qing clenched the card in her hand.
If fate’s gears turned as they should, the Zeng family might meet tragedy tonight…
"Are you coming?" Zeng Yongshan asked, then quickly added, "It’s fine if you’re busy—"
"Is it the dry-fried beef ho fun from Kam Kee? I heard their iced milk tea in Set A is really good too."
Zhu Qing’s eyes widened in delight. "Right?! You know about it!"
Just then, the phone in the Criminal Investigation Division office rang—piercing and urgent.
A call at this hour never meant anything good.
Everyone held their breath.
Thirty seconds later, Mo Zhenbang hung up.
"Feiman International Beauty Academy in Causeway Bay."
"A body’s been found."
……
The siren wailed as the police car sped toward the Feinman International Beauty Academy.
This was the place where Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan had planned to attend a class that evening, but now, they arrived nearly half a day early.
No one spoke during the ride.
The atmosphere was tense, the silence broken only by the rustling of case files being flipped through.
The security guard opened the gates, allowing the police car to drive straight in.
The entrance was already swarmed by reporters. A few quick-witted journalists tried to slip in for an exclusive scoop but were swiftly spotted and shooed away by the female officers securing the scene.
A crowd of reporters craned their necks, cameras in hand, straining for a glimpse inside.
"Another victim!"
"It's the Rainy Night Killer again—the third one this month!"
"The state of the body is just as horrifying as before..."
Mo Zhenbang led the team, his expression grim as he stepped into the crime scene.
The spacious beauty classroom was arranged differently from a typical school, with desks spaced far apart to allow room for practical demonstrations. Behind the lectern hung an old projector screen, its corners curled—hardly fitting for an institution that prided itself on being "high-end."
"Sir Mo," an officer reported. "The body was discovered this morning by the cleaning staff. This classroom had been out of use for two weeks due to renovations. The cleaner was tidying up the multimedia room next door when she noticed a stack of lesson plans slipped under the door."
"She pushed the door open—it wasn’t locked—and saw someone sitting inside."
The cleaner, Aunt Ping, was giving her statement in the corner.
"I walked in and realized it was our principal," she said, voice trembling.
"He was just sitting there on the podium... like he was giving a lecture."
Zhu Qing’s gaze swept across the room.
The victim’s body remained untouched, "seated" at the lectern, hands resting on the swivel chair.
Like the previous two victims, his eyebrows had been completely shaved off. His lips were smeared with garish red lipstick, his cheeks painted an unnatural shade of pink.
"Dr. Cheng?" Mo Zhenbang called out, his voice low.
Cheng Xinglang didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned in closer, tweezers hovering near the victim’s lips.
His breathing was steady, his eyes fixed on the grotesque makeup.
Zeng Yongshan unconsciously clutched Zhu Qing’s sleeve, whispering, "This is giving me chills."
Dr. Cheng was standing so close to the corpse that every wrinkle on the victim’s face was visible.
Finally, he straightened up and turned. "There’s a cigarette butt," he announced.
The victim, Zheng Shihong, fifty-one, was the founder of Feinman International Beauty Academy.
Like the other two homicide victims this month, he had been strangled from behind, his face adorned with unsettling cosmetics.
"A cigarette butt?" Xu Jiale stepped forward eagerly. "Could it belong to the killer?"
If the cigarette had been left by the perpetrator, DNA extraction could provide a breakthrough in the case.
"No," Cheng Xinglang shook his head, lifting the tweezers to show the crushed filter. "This was the victim’s own. The killer picked up a freshly stomped-out cigarette and—while positioning the body to exploit rigor mortis—"
"Shoved it into the victim’s mouth?" Liang Qikai, usually mild-mannered, turned cold. "Is this a taunt?"
The officers remained silent.
First, there was the unfinished ritual from the shipping container case a year ago.
Then these recent killings, one after another.
In the breakfast shop in Sham Shui Po, Feng Yaowen had been found "smiling" stiffly at a table. In the abandoned tenement building in Mong Kok, Zhang Zhiqiang was posed with one leg bent on the stairs. And now, here in this disused classroom, Zheng Shihong sat rigidly, a half-smoked cigarette wedged between his stiffened lips.
Each was the killer’s twisted "masterpiece."
"Principal Zheng was a heavy smoker," Aunt Ping said. "At least a pack a day."
Whether it was the cigarette butt or the deliberately unlocked door—
Everything pointed to a killer who was meticulously provoking the police.
Tension hung thick in the air. Mo Zhenbang suddenly kicked a desk and swore.
The B-team officers fanned out to gather statements. Several instructors, their eyes red-rimmed from the morning’s shock, shared their memories.
"Principal Zheng had been in this industry for decades. Back then, men studying makeup faced so much prejudice... But he never gave up. He fought his way to the top."
"Our program is flexible—full-time, evening, or weekend classes. That was his vision. He always said dreams shouldn’t have limits."
"Lately, he’d been busy expanding the campus. The new branch was about to open, and then—"
The instructors couldn’t continue, the weight of grief pressing down on them. It was unthinkable—someone so full of life, gone in an instant.
"It has to be Ah Keung," Tracy, the principal’s secretary, said heatedly. "Last night, around ten, I heard them arguing in Principal Zheng’s office!"
The Ah Keung she referred to was Zhan Weiqiang, the academy’s procurement director.
"Every student needs a makeup kit. They can bring their own, but most trust our instructors and buy directly from the school when they enroll."
"Ah Keung recently pushed to switch suppliers. Principal Zheng refused, so they’ve been fighting over it."
"The new quote jacked up foundation prices by twenty percent! What does Ah Keung know about brands? He’s obviously taking kickbacks."
Zhu Qing noted Tracy’s statement, underlining "supplier change" in her notepad.
Someone else interjected, "But this is a serial killer case. Even if Ah Keung had issues with Principal Zheng... would he have a motive for the other victims?"
Tracy hesitated, then doubled down. "Ah Keung is shady, no matter what. He left sneaking around last night—ask the security guard if you don’t believe me!"
When the guard was summoned, he refused to even glance toward the classroom.
Xu Jiale nudged Zeng Yongshan. "Shorter than you, shaking like a leaf over nothing. What kind of security is this? Just a warm body in a booth?"
Zeng Yongshan shot him a glare. "Nothing? A man is dead!"
"Relax, just answer the questions," Zhu Qing said. "Do you know if Zhan Weiqiang—"
"No, no idea," the guard stammered, hands fluttering nervously. "I’m new here."
Uncle Li lit a cigarette in frustration, then stomped it out, reminded of Zheng Shihong’s grotesque makeup.
"Bring Zhan Weiqiang in for questioning," Mo Zhenbang ordered, rubbing his temples.
...
The beauty academy was turned inside out. Every inch was searched, every statement recorded. No one rested, all hoping to uncover the slightest overlooked clue.
From the hallway to the classroom, from the storage room to the rooftop, the police left no stone unturned, as if wound up like clockwork.
Zhu Qing gripped her pen, her notepad densely filled with statements from the college’s cleaning staff, security guards, maintenance workers, lecturers, and even fragmented accounts from some students. By the end, she was mechanically transcribing, her hand moving nonstop until every page was crammed with notes. Only then did she snap the notebook shut and walk away.
She wasn’t the only one—every officer was in the same state.
By 2 p.m., they had nothing to show for their efforts.
Mo Zhenbang’s pager was practically vibrating off his belt, bombarded with relentless calls from Inspector Weng demanding answers—answers that would satisfy both the media and their superiors. But the truth was, they knew nothing about the killer. They were fumbling in the dark.
Finally, Mo Shazhan yanked the pager off his belt and hurled it into the backseat of the police car, slamming the door and storming off, leaving Inspector Weng trapped in that tiny, beeping device.
The empty classroom was where the victim had been found.
Now, with the body removed, Zhu Qing sat in the last row, staring at the vacant podium.
That was where the meticulously staged corpse had once "sat." Now, only a chalk outline remained.
The door creaked open, footsteps approaching.
Zhu Qing: "Any leads?"
Silence.
She clenched her fists, murmuring to herself, "How many more have to die…?"
"Madam giving up already?"
Zhu Qing looked up.
Dr. Cheng Xinglang walked in holding a paper bag and took a seat beside her in a folding chair.
The classroom was too empty—every word echoed in their ears.
"It’s like Tetris. Every piece has its place."
"The gaps that don’t fit perfectly—those are the clues."
"Sandwich?" Dr. Cheng offered the bag. "Make do?"
Outside, the drizzle continued relentlessly.
Zhu Qing took it, unwrapped the sandwich, and took a bite.
The bread was dry. Dr. Cheng handed her an iced lemon tea. "For energy."
She accepted without a word, forgetting to thank him.
She kept eating.
She needed strength to keep going.
By the time the entire B team of the Serious Crimes Unit prepared to leave the beauty college in Causeway Bay, the sky had darkened.
Zhu Qing flipped through her notepad, page after page.
Where was the killer? Deep Water Bay? Mong Kok? The New View Hotel? Or still lurking in this beauty college?
Maybe he was watching from some hidden corner, silently gloating as the police came up empty-handed.
But if he’d acted, he’d left traces.
Zhu Qing approached Hao Zai. "Is Zeng Yongshan around? I need to speak with her mother."
"Over there."
Tonight was supposed to be Zeng Yongshan’s shift.
In the original timeline, the night she worked, her parents and older brother were brutally murdered.
That horrific scene—a small, cozy apartment drenched in blood, three bodies arranged neatly, a sight that chilled the bone.
Was tonight the night the killer would strike the Zeng family?
But as Zhu Qing approached, she heard Zeng Yongshan clinging to her mother’s arm, whining playfully.
"I don’t care! Dad and my brother haven’t been home all week!"
"Still acting like a baby at your age? Aren’t you embarrassed?"
Zhu Qing froze.
Zeng Yongshan’s father and brother weren’t home… The timing was off.
"Zhu Qing?" Zeng Yongshan turned, brightening as she introduced her to her mother. "This is the colleague I’m always talking about!"
Mother and daughter shared the same smile, especially the way their eyes crinkled.
"Yongshan never stops talking about you," Yi Dongmei said warmly. "We were supposed to have you try the new course tonight, but with everything that’s happened…"
She shook her head regretfully. "Principal Zheng always looked out for us. Who would’ve thought—"
Zhu Qing flipped open her notepad.
She asked about Zhan Weiqiang’s character. Earlier, Tracy, the principal’s secretary, had vehemently condemned him, but the security guard at the gate had been vague.
"Tracy, Ah Qiang, and Principal Zheng… their relationship was complicated," Yi Dongmei said carefully. "There are things between the three of them that aren’t easy to explain."
Yi Dongmei revealed that Zheng Shihong’s wife had passed away five years ago. Not long after, Tracy divorced her husband. But rumors said that when Zhan Weiqiang was still a student in the makeup course, he always requested Tracy as his practice model.
"Back then, every time Ah Qiang finished doing Tracy’s makeup, she’d take photos to remember it."
"Once, when Ah Qiang took a day off, Tracy canceled the entire class. She charged by the session—no reason to turn down money, right?"
"Later, she stopped being a model and became Principal Zheng’s secretary. After that, we didn’t hear much about her and Ah Qiang."
Zhu Qing’s pen paused. "Zhan Weiqiang studied makeup before?"
"He wanted to switch to teaching. But makeup requires talent. The instructor guided his hand to teach him eyeliner, and he turned the model into a panda. The whole class laughed at him, but Ah Qiang didn’t care—he just let them talk."
"Still, he had his strengths. Even though he was terrible at makeup, he… back then, he’d go to the principal’s office every day after class to smoke and chat. Eventually, he got hired despite everything."
Zeng Yongshan cut in, "When was that?"
"Years ago. Look at him now—he’s the procurement director." Yi Dongmei shrugged. "I don’t remember exactly how long it’s been."
Zhu Qing pulled out photos of the previous victims.
Zeng Yongshan immediately understood. "Mum, have you seen any of these people before?"
Yi Dongmei scanned the files—photos of the deceased alongside evidence shots.
Then her gaze fixed on one item.
"I just remembered—this eyebrow razor," Yi Dongmei said. "Ah Qiang gave it to me."
Last night, Zeng Yongshan had mentioned the razor to her mother after coming home.
A year ago, the killer had dropped a razor at the container yard. The brand was visible, and since each razor’s design was unique, she recalled her mother’s makeup bag possibly having the same one.
Now, Yi Dongmei confirmed it.
"This razor isn’t branded. Who knows where Ah Qiang got it. People say he must’ve taken kickbacks—in just a few years, he bought a car and an apartment… He really struck gold thanks to Principal Zheng."
"It was because of this razor that Principal Zheng first argued with him. Principal Zheng said tools of unknown origin lacked quality assurance. Ah Qiang was stubborn—he slammed a stack of cash on the table…"
That day, many instructors and students heard Zhan Weiqiang’s words.
He said that since Principal Zheng didn’t trust him, he would pay for the box of knives himself.
"Actually, I’ve used a few of them, and they’re surprisingly handy. Sometimes Principal Zheng is too stubborn, unwilling to embrace new things. Look at us—we’re getting older, so we should pay more attention to what young people like these days. We can’t just cling to the old ways… otherwise, we’ll fall behind the times."
Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan exchanged glances, finally seeing a glimmer of hope.
"Take another look."
"Have you seen the other three victims in this case?"
"Did any of them come looking for Zhan Weiqiang?"
...
The weather had been strange all day.
One moment, torrential rain poured down; the next, the sky cleared abruptly.
When it wasn’t raining, little Sheng Fang would stand by the door with his hands in his pockets, urging Aunt Ping to take him out for a walk.
Zhu Qing had said that once things settled down in the next couple of days, she’d send him to school. School was such a hassle—there were even interviews involved. She’d told him to practice the interview questions in his free time, but the little one hadn’t taken it seriously.
Was the kindergarten choosing him? No, he should be the one choosing the kindergarten.
Sheng Fang wanted to scout the place in person and decide where to enroll himself.
And so, Aunt Ping took him for a stroll around the neighborhood.
"Young master," Aunt Ping pointed into the distance, "there’s a Little Seagull Nursery Center over there!"
They were in Wong Chuk Hang, far from the Yau Ma Tei Police Station. Even if Zhu Qing were to send her little uncle to school, she wouldn’t send him all the way out here.
But the child didn’t seem to grasp that. With tiny, eager steps, he trotted over to the entrance of Little Seagull Nursery Center.
He was so bored that he gripped the iron bars of the nursery’s back gate with his little hands, pressing his face against them.
He stared inside for a long time.
Children ran around the playground, and cheerful nursery rhymes played on repeat.
Sheng Fang shook his head.
The uniforms were ugly, the songs were grating, and the games were ridiculously childish.
This was no fun. Maybe in the future—
He’d just take his niece along to solve cases instead.
Aunt Ping watched the little master’s small back, her heart aching with helplessness. She didn’t know how to comfort him.
In the past, all his lessons had been conducted in the study on the third floor, tailored by private tutors. If he were to attend a regular kindergarten now, surrounded by so many children, he’d probably struggle to adjust.
Just like now—he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the playground, yet he kept muttering complaints.
This child clearly longed for a life among his peers.
Otherwise, why would he be so reluctant to leave?
Aunt Ping’s heart ached. "Young master..."
"Help me," Sheng Fang said. "My face is stuck."
The gaps between the bars were too narrow, and the little master’s face was wedged firmly in place.
He stretched his plump little arm behind him, offering it to Aunt Ping.
Then, in a stern but babyish voice, he commanded, "Pull me out."
...
It was already seven in the evening by the time Zhu Qing boarded the minibus back.
Outside, the wind howled and rain lashed down. The bus radio repeated the severe weather warning—
"Ferry services to Lamma Island are suspended until further notice."
Just as the case had shown some progress, it hit another dead end.
Since morning, no one at the beauty academy had seen Zhan Weiqiang. Earlier, the procurement department had received a call from him, saying he was heading to Lamma Island to discuss samples of a newly developed foundation.
Now, of course, he was stranded there.
What a coincidence.
The minibus stopped at Wong Chuk Hang, and rain slammed into her the moment she stepped out. Thankfully, Aunt Ping had shoved an umbrella into her bag that morning.
Zhu Qing hurried through the storm.
She slid the key into the dormitory lock and pushed the door open. The rain had cooled the stifling heat inside, but the room was silent—Sheng Fang wasn’t there.
Zhu Qing assumed the little master of the Sheng family had been coaxed back to the villa on The Peak by Aunt Ping. But as she sat down at the desk, she noticed a note he’d left behind.
The note, written by Aunt Ping, said they were in the dorm supervisor’s room, watching TV.
What a pampered little brat.
A few minutes later, Zhu Qing stood outside the dorm supervisor’s door to retrieve the child.
She knocked lightly—
When the supervisor answered, she pushed her sliding reading glasses back up her nose, a half-unraveled ball of yarn still in her hand.
Inside, the evening news played on the TV.
Lately, the news had been dominated by coverage of the horrifying serial murders.
"Breaking news: The Rainy Night Serial Killings have escalated."
"Police are urging citizens to remain vigilant when traveling at night."
"According to criminal psychology experts, the killer primarily targets male victims. It is advised—"
The entire city was shrouded in unease. That afternoon, Zhu Qing had overheard colleagues saying taxi drivers were refusing night shifts, and even the corner diner was closing early.
But she hadn’t expected this fear to reach even the young master of the Sheng family.
At that moment, Sheng Fang sat rigidly in front of the TV.
The screen’s glow illuminated his childish face. His back was straight, and his chubby little hands rested properly on his knees.
"Aunt Ping," Sheng Fang said gravely, "I’m not going outside until my niece catches the killer."
Little Uncle Fangfang heaved a heavy sigh.
It was terrifying. After all, he was male too.
