For little Fangfang, today had been a grueling day.
Waking up early to head to school, enduring silly games with classmates who seemed to understand nothing—it was pure torture. The little genius villain had zero interest in activities like sorting building blocks. How childish. Couldn’t his classmates protest or something?
Then came lunchtime, followed by naptime—another ordeal for the young master. The custom-made children’s bed in his family’s hillside villa felt like rolling on clouds. The cramped bunk beds at the Wong Chuk Hang police training school were rougher, but back then, he had just reunited with his niece, making him the happiest kid in the world, sleeping soundly without a care. And at his and Zhu Qing’s own home? Even better. The blankets, freshly sunned by Aunt Ping every day, carried the warmth of sunlight, and Zhu Qing’s soft storytelling voice would lull him to sleep…
No matter where he slept, it was better than kindergarten.
The kids here were so obedient. The moment the teacher gave the word, they all obediently closed their eyes in their tiny beds. Fangfang observed each one—not a single child was pretending.
Why were they all so well-behaved?
The whole day, Fangfang had been observing. The unfamiliar kindergarten, the unfamiliar teachers, the unfamiliar classmates… He felt like Ultraman accidentally stumbling into an unknown world, convinced he didn’t belong. With a stern little face, he refused to speak a word to anyone.
A tiny young master, brimming with pride.
In the children’s room, Fangfang’s chattering little voice gradually faded. His eyelids were heavy, but his chubby fingers stubbornly clung to Zhu Qing’s index finger.
Zhu Qing looked down at his small hand.
Just like the last time he had a fever and clung to her like a koala, today, Sheng Fang was just as clingy.
When she picked him up from school in the afternoon, Teacher Ji had pulled her aside for a few extra words.
Teacher Ji was an experienced preschool teacher, sharp enough to notice a child’s emotional shifts. When the principal had reviewed Sheng Fang’s enrollment records after the interview, he had marked the boy’s file as special. The child was exceptionally bright, but kids who matured too early often buried their worries deeper.
What was the little boy in the classroom, constantly checking the clock, so worried about? Was Fangfang afraid his niece would be late—or worse, that she might forget him?
Behind her, the soft sound of Aunt Ping pushing the door open interrupted Zhu Qing’s thoughts.
Aunt Ping held a beeping pager in her hand, keeping her voice low. "Qingqing, the station is calling you."
Though Zhu Qing now had a mobile phone, urgent police notifications still came through pagers—after all, the dispatch center ensured every officer received the message.
The melody of Cantonese opera lingered in the air as Aunt Ping handed the pager to Zhu Qing, the radio still playing in her other hand.
"I turned it off right away so I wouldn’t wake the little master," Aunt Ping whispered, nodding toward the children’s room. "It’s still buzzing. You’d better call back."
Zhu Qing gently pried Fangfang’s loose grip from her finger and tucked him in.
The station wouldn’t call at this hour unless it was urgent. Over a month had passed since the murder of Wan Chai music store owner Fang Songsheng, and even the sweltering summer had settled into calm. Now, that peace was shattered by the late-night alert.
Zhu Qing returned the call, changed, and headed out.
Aunt Ping hurried after her to the door. A rustling sound made her spin around—just the curtains fluttering in the night breeze.
Of all times for the radio to act up…
Even the usually unflappable Aunt Ping was jumpy now.
Too unsettled to even listen to her beloved Cantonese opera channel, she asked, "Qingqing, did you say you’re going to 17 Tail Corner Street in Sai Wan?"
If she remembered right, that address had a… reputation.
Zhu Qing didn’t sugarcoat it. "Same as the one on the radio."
Aunt Ping sucked in a sharp breath.
"Aunt Ping," Zhu Qing reassured her, patting her shoulder, "it can’t be worse than the haunted house on the Peak."
Aunt Ping blinked in surprise. Just as the little master had said, his niece was cracking jokes now. But she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. Living on the Peak was different—at least in the servants’ quarters of the Sheng family mansion, she’d never heard anything strange. But just now…
She’d heard a drowned ghost’s voice on the radio!
"It’s fine. Lock up, take care of Fangfang," Zhu Qing said. "I’m heading out."
"Qingqing—"
"Be careful!"
Footsteps rushed away. A ding signaled the elevator doors opening.
Zhu Qing stepped in, the sound of her shoes fading into the distance.
Now, the new car her uncle had bought her proved its worth.
With the low growl of the SUV’s engine cutting through the night, Zhu Qing pulled up smoothly in front of 17 Tail Corner Street in Sai Wan.
Stepping out, she clipped on her police badge.
At 11 p.m., Tail Corner Street looked desolate. Only a handful of shuttered shops lined the road, the most noticeable being a funeral supplies store.
Madam’s footsteps were brisk.
Hao Zai darted to her car, eyes gleaming.
"Nice ride! This one’s definitely imported!"
"Drop me back in Yuen Long after we wrap up, yeah?"
"Sure." Adjusting her badge, Zhu Qing looked up at the building. "What’s the situation?"
"We just got here too. Patrol received a call—some alumni reunion group was listening to a horror radio show called Yin Yang for kicks."
"Then they heard their classmate’s voice. At first, it just sounded familiar, but when they matched the listener’s name, it was a perfect fit. The whole group called the station live on air, and the atmosphere… damn!"
"You know how these shows have a dedicated fanbase, high ratings. Something this creepy? Probably woke up half the audience. Inspector Weng’s got the whole team on this—public needs answers."
Zhu Qing: "The listener’s name was You Minmin?"
Hao Zai raised an eyebrow. "You listen to the show too?"
From upstairs, Mo Zhenbang’s deep voice cut in—
"Female corpse found in the bathtub."
Hao Zai’s playful grin vanished in an instant.
"No way… that’s seriously messed up."
…
17 Tail Corner Street was an old tenement building.
Mo Zhenbang’s team knocked, but despite faint sounds from inside, no one answered. Eventually, they forced their way in.
The noises echoing through the apartment? Just the radio, still playing.
The program "Yin Yang" had already ended, and now other shows were playing—the cheerful music resembling the prelude to a spring outing. As Zhu Qing and Hao Zai walked upstairs, Inspector Mo happened to reach out and turn off the radio in the bathroom.
The broadcast cut off abruptly. They followed the direction of the sound and stepped inside.
The bathroom at the end of the hallway was small, its tiles yellowed with age, with buckets and mops piled in the corner. It was far from tidy.
Zeng Yongshan stood motionless at the doorway.
Liang Qikai approached and asked, "Are you alright? Not feeling well?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Just didn’t sleep well last night. I went to bed early, but then I got the call suddenly—I’m not fully awake yet."
She instinctively hugged her arms. "Why does it feel so eerie in here? Colder than a morgue."
Zhu Qing replied, "Autumn’s coming."
Perhaps the night was too quiet—even the sound of brakes from the street corner downstairs was unnervingly clear.
When Cheng Xinglang arrived, he carried a forensic kit, followed by an assistant taking notes.
He gave Zhu Qing a slight nod when their eyes met.
Inside the cramped bathroom, several officers were busy collecting evidence.
It was a typical old-fashioned residential bathroom, its décor frozen in time from over a decade ago. There was no modern bathtub—just a weathered wooden tub in the center. The paint on its edges had peeled, and beside it lay several empty pill bottles and two wine bottles. The pungent smell of alcohol clung to the air, impossible to ignore.
Inside the tub, the body of a young woman floated face-up.
The victim’s face was youthful, no older than twenty. The corners of her lips were split, and faint red marks circled her neck. What was even more chilling were the nylon ropes binding her wrists and ankles—their fibers frayed, coated in a slimy layer of grime.
The forensic team carefully bagged every piece of evidence.
Pill bottles, spilled powder, wine bottles, traces of alcohol still wet on the victim’s lips, and the wounds on her mouth and neck—each potential clue was sealed separately.
Beside the tub, on the floor, lay a hardcover collection of essays.
The pages bore obvious water stains, wrinkled from drying after being splashed during the victim’s struggle.
It was clear—this had happened while she was bathing.
The atmosphere in the room turned heavy. Someone instinctively stepped back, turning their head away.
Zhu Qing took a deep breath and forced herself to move closer.
Inspector Mo noticed her fingertips trembling slightly.
The top graduate from the police academy, nearly perfect in theory—but no textbook could prepare her for the shock of seeing a corpse up close.
Dr. Cheng gestured for his assistant to hand Zhu Qing a pair of thick rubber gloves. Without a word, he shifted slightly, blocking the distorted expression on the victim’s face.
He pried open the victim’s eyelids—the sound of rubber stretching was jarring in the silence. Her eyes were wide open, the corneas already clouded, pupils dilated into black voids.
The water’s surface reflected the bathroom’s ceiling tiles, casting eerie light patterns in her lifeless gaze.
The note-taker scribbled rapidly.
Female victim, approximately five feet three inches tall, weighing around a hundred pounds. At the time of death, she wore a white cotton bathrobe. The cuts at the corners of her mouth were clean, her neck bore three abrasions, and the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles matched.
Dr. Cheng pressed lightly on the victim’s chest, assessing rigor mortis.
"Initial assessment suggests drowning," he said, his voice steady and professional. "The cold water slowed the body’s cooling. Time of death was between one to two hours ago."
As he spoke, he used tweezers to pluck a stray fiber floating in the water and dropped it into an evidence bag.
"An autopsy will confirm," he added.
"Was it… a water ghost?" Zeng Yongshan murmured.
Suddenly, something cold brushed her ankle. She jerked back, nearly crashing into the wall before Liang Qikai caught her.
Zeng Yongshan turned—Xu Jiale was crouched on the floor, grinning, holding the corner of an evidence bag where he’d just poked her.
"Are you insane?" Liang Qikai yanked Xu Jiale away.
Zeng Yongshan’s face had drained of color.
The other officers exchanged uneasy glances, voices dropping to hushed murmurs.
"Could it really be… a ghost call?"
"This building’s old. Most of the neighbors moved out long ago. And the shop downstairs sells funeral paper offerings—did you see the faded obituary notice at the entrance? Rumor is the owner passed away last month—"
"The radio was playing the whole time, right when that paranormal show host started talking about drowned ghosts!"
"Only the victim’s footprints are in the bathroom… How could someone drown in a tub with their hands and feet tied?"
"Enough." Inspector Mo tapped his notepad with a pen. "Ghost calls? More like a living person playing tricks."
"So you’re saying… murder?"
"What else?" Inspector Mo countered. "If we buy into the ‘vengeful ghost’ theory, we’re just dancing to the killer’s tune."
......
The so-called "ghost call" to the radio station had helped the police quickly identify the victim.
You Minmin, nineteen, had graduated last year from Xiang Island’s Wen De Secondary School and worked at a record store in Causeway Bay. She had lived with her parents and older brother at No. 17, Weijiao Street—until two years ago, when her brother married and moved out. Recently, his child kept falling ill, so the elderly couple moved in to help care for their grandson.
You Minmin had been living alone when she was found drowned in the bathtub.
At midnight, the police notified her family.
Over the phone, they were explicitly told that the scene was still under investigation—to wait at the mortuary.
Yet by 12:15 AM, the victim’s parents had rushed to the building.
Officers were still processing the scene, the area cordoned off.
You Minmin’s parents collapsed outside, clutching the police tape, wailing.
When Zeng Yongshan came downstairs, a young officer turned to her helplessly. "Senior—"
"I’ll handle it."
She stepped between the grieving parents and the scene.
"The investigation is ongoing. Going up now could compromise evidence…" Zeng Yongshan spoke gently. "And honestly—it’s not a sight you should see."
The mother grabbed Zeng Yongshan’s arm, sobbing. "Let me see my daughter, let me see her… How could Minmin…?"
Nearby, the father stood at a payphone, repeatedly leaving messages on his son’s pager—but no one answered.
This was never going to be a peaceful night.
The officers of the Serious Crimes Unit, Team B, snapped out of their usual routine, launching a full investigation.
Zeng Yongshan began by taking preliminary statements from the parents.
They sat slumped on the steps outside the funeral shop, their cries echoing through the empty alley, lingering like a shadow.
"I've seen too many scenes like this, but every time I witness parents losing their child, it still..." Zeng Yongshan sighed.
The chaotic scene lasted until 1:30 a.m. before You Minmin's brother hurriedly arrived.
He reeked of alcohol: "Sorry, I was at a business dinner. Dad, Mom—how’s Minmin?"
...
They worked until the early hours of the morning before leaving the scene, returning to the police station to organize case files. Fresh homicide cases always came with tangled leads, demanding meticulous documentation.
The reinvigorated Team B officers gradually found their rhythm. By the time they finally wrapped up and left the station, it was just past 3 a.m.
Before departing, Mo Zhenbang reminded Zhu Qing to visit the forensics office and ask Dr. Cheng to prioritize testing the alcohol concentration in the victim’s stomach.
When the work finally paused, silence returned to her ears, yet her mind still buzzed with static, like a radio stuck between frequencies.
Cheng Xinglang’s gaze lingered on her unconsciously trembling fingertips.
He handed her a cup of warm water. "No more coffee."
Swollen skin, clouded pupils—those images seemed seared into her mind, vivid even now.
Dr. Cheng had warned that coffee would worsen the tremors.
"What about you?" Zhu Qing cradled the cup.
"I’m going out for congee." Cheng Xinglang asked, "Fish slice congee—want some?"
Since moving from the Wong Chuk Hang Police School, Zhu Qing had often explored the neighborhood with Sheng Fang during downtime.
Yet she’d never noticed an all-night congee stall near her home.
The aroma of rice and fresh fish, mingled with the distinct bustle of street vendors, drifted on the breeze.
Zhu Qing mused that Aunt Ping’s congee probably tasted better.
"Here." Cheng Xinglang bought an extra portion and passed it to her.
They walked together, pausing at the foot of Zhu Qing’s apartment to say goodbye.
As Cheng Xinglang walked away, she suddenly turned back.
He was still heading toward the police station.
Zhu Qing recalled Uncle Li mentioning a foldable bed in the forensics office—he avoided returning to that bloodstained home at night.
She looked away.
Then remembered something else—
She’d left her car at the station!
She’d driven back from Sai Wan only to forget it there. How could she overlook an entire car? Tomorrow, the junior officers would never let her hear the end of it...
Under the moonlight, Zhu Qing entered her building.
Unlocking the door quietly to avoid waking Fangfang and Aunt Ping, she didn’t dare turn on the main light, settling instead for the dim kitchen lamp. At the table, she opened the fish congee.
The fish slices were paper-thin, quivering delicately as she stirred the spoon. The slow-cooked claypot congee released its signature fragrance. A spoonful revealed fish so tender it barely needed chewing, the ginger-spiked porridge blooming across her tongue.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite.
As her nerves unwound, her gaze caught on the small backpack by the entryway.
At some point, it had become Little Uncle’s designated spot. He’d carry it to Aunt Ping’s room, only for her to return it later. They’d never discussed this "custody battle," just silently repeated the ritual—whether out of stubbornness or mutual obliviousness, no one knew.
Tonight, Aunt Ping had won the temporary victory.
Zhu Qing’s eyes fixed on the backpack, its details faintly visible in the kitchen’s glow.
Inside, Fangfang’s little handkerchiefs—embroidered with his name by Aunt Ping for his kindergarten hygiene—were now wrapped multiple times around the bag’s top zipper pull.
Little Sheng Fang was imitating his mother—
tying scarves around designer handbag handles?
Zhu Qing stifled a laugh, covering her mouth.
If Fangfang woke up, she’d be stuck reciting idiom stories again.
...
Morning sunlight spilled into the apartment as Aunt Ping prepared breakfast.
Two meals, tailored to Zhu Qing and Sheng Fang’s preferences—"work fuel" and "study fuel," she called them cheerfully.
Normally, Zhu Qing didn’t tuck Fangfang into bed.
Last night was special—his first school day. She’d worried he might resist kindergarten, requiring lengthy persuasion.
Madam Zhu had no patience for coaxing a little lord to class.
A spoon clinked against the bowl.
Fangfang had polished off his breakfast, washed up, and emerged with damp cheeks, already in uniform.
He slung his water bottle across his shoulder and dashed to the kitchen.
"Does the young master need help filling it?" Aunt Ping hurried after him.
Fangfang turned his head. "I do it myself."
The routine flowed seamlessly. When he stood by the door in Aunt Ping’s limited-edition sneakers, knocking impatiently—
Zhu Qing almost didn’t recognize him.
Was this the same child she’d wrestled onto the school bus yesterday?
"No fuss today?"
The little lord swung his "designer" backpack. "I’m not some clingy baby."
He swallowed the rest, but his sparkling eyes said it all.
He was brave!
Qing had work; Fangfang had school.
They were both busy.
At the bus stop, aunt and nephew exchanged encouragement.
"Fangfang, study hard."
"Qing, work hard!" Fangfang pumped his fist. "Hang in there!"
Aunt Ping chuckled nearby, adjusting his backpack before sending him aboard.
A three-and-a-half-year-old didn’t need chaperones.
The kindergarten bus stopped before him. Grabbing the handrail, he climbed aboard—taking his first independent step toward school.
Inside, children sat orderly in their seats.
No window spots remained, so Fangfang approached a little girl.
"Trade seats with me?"
"Okay!"
Now at the window, he pressed his face against the glass, features squishing.
"What are you looking at?" the girl asked.
Fangfang declared, "My niece is a police officer."
Nobody had asked.
From this angle, he couldn’t possibly see the Yau Ma Tei Police Station where Zhu Qing was headed.
Fangfang just wanted everyone to know—his niece was on the force!
His... niece?
The girl tilted her head. "Does she solve crimes?"
Fangfang answered by miming a pistol.
"Major Crimes." He holstered his invisible gun, tone smug. "She was on a case last night."
Of course, the little one didn’t see it himself—he was fast asleep.
It was Aunt Ping, his informant, who told him.
“Wow—the Serious Crimes Unit!” the little girl asked. “What case is it?”
Spring Day
Fangfang wore an inscrutable little expression. “Police internal secrets. Can’t disclose.”
“Oh, so you don’t know either.”
Inspector Fang: ?
This little girl was the first person Sheng Fang had met at kindergarten.
She wasn’t exactly a friend—she was too young, and Fangfang didn’t share much common ground with her. They’d only exchanged names.
“I’m Sheng Fang,” he said, mimicking the grown-ups as he stretched out his chubby little hand.
The other child extended an equally plump hand.
“What’s your nickname?”
Now this was a question that struck right at Sheng Fang’s heart.
Proudly, he announced the nickname his niece had given him: “Fangfang.”
“I’m Little Yesi,” his new friend said sweetly, her voice soft and friendly. “Like the coconut shreds in coconut mochi!”
Zhu Qing had been right—the second day of school was more interesting than the first.
Sheng Fang had adjusted to the silly games Teacher Ji arranged and could reluctantly play along for a while. But the little young master, used to doing as he pleased at home, didn’t sit up straight while threading beads. Instead, he sprawled on the clean floor, dragging himself around like a tiny human mop.
Kids this age loved to imitate. One fell over, and three or five others followed suit.
Teacher Ji couldn’t let this slide—if she did, soon the whole class would be lying down during lessons, and that would be a nightmare.
Clapping her hands, Teacher Ji called for order.
“We need to sit properly while threading beads,” she said gently.
“You can thread them lying down too,” Sheng Fang argued.
Teacher Ji patiently explained, “Lying down affects concentration. Simply put, it makes it easier to mix up the colors or count the beads wrong.”
Sheng Fang held up his beadwork for inspection. “No mistakes.”
What a stubborn little thing.
The frustrating part was that he was right—his hand-eye coordination was impeccable, and his beadwork was flawless. But she couldn’t just let him lie there during class!
Teacher Ji rubbed her temples, at a complete loss.
“Teacher,” Sheng Fang asked, “can I take these beads home?”
The threaded beads formed a little bracelet.
He remembered Zhu Qing’s bare wrists—maybe he could give her one.
“These are teaching materials for kindergarten. We use them in class, so you can’t take them,” Teacher Ji said, then leaned in and whispered, “Unless you sit up properly.”
Fangfang rolled over on the floor and sat up.
Fine—he’d humor her.
Teacher Ji exhaled in relief… then sighed.
She’d been thrilled this past week—her new class had been full of well-behaved, easy-to-manage kids. But just when she thought she was in the clear, the absentee finally showed up.
And of course, it had to be a little rebel.
With him in the mix, classroom management became several times harder.
Still, the rebellious young master had his merits.
While other kids spilled food everywhere at mealtime, he ate neatly, giving the teachers one less thing to worry about.
But when naptime rolled around, the young master sat perched on his top bunk like a patrol officer.
His big eyes blinked as he scanned the room, counting. Including himself, there were thirteen kids in the class.
The other twelve were all asleep. Were they really that tired?
Kids should go to bed earlier at night—then they wouldn’t be so sleepy during the day.
Every time his gaze completed its circuit, it inevitably met Teacher Ji’s.
At this point, she would walk over, pat his back, and gesture for him to lie down.
Teachers didn’t lull kids to sleep—otherwise, their arms would go numb from all the patting.
Sheng Fang would be pressed down, only to pop back up. Pressed down, pop back up…
Eventually, Teacher Ji gave up and trudged back to her seat, exhausted.
Sheng Fang noticed her eyelids drooping—she must be really tired.
Honestly, he could patrol from the floor. He wouldn’t mind giving up his bunk for her.
Too bad Teacher Ji was too responsible to take it.
Fangfang understood—she wanted to be the patrol officer too.
Kindergarten life was divided by naptime.
Once the kids woke up, had a snack, and played a bit, it was almost time to go home.
Besides Teacher Ji, there were two other childcare workers assisting in the class.
Sheng Fang ate his fill, then tapped the table lightly, his knocks cheerful and bright. School was almost over, and no one was in higher spirits than him.
When dismissal came, Sheng Fang was the first to sling on his backpack. Not every child took the school bus—some had parents pick them up, just like Fangfang the day before, when his niece had waited for him at the gate.
But today was different. His niece was busy with work and couldn’t spare the time. The young master didn’t dwell on yesterday’s happiness, though—he trotted cheerfully toward the exit.
The little girl he’d met that morning walked with him.
At the kindergarten gate, Sheng Fang waved. “Coconut mochi, bye-bye.”
“I’m Little Yesi,” she corrected. “Bye-bye.”
With that, both kids climbed onto the school bus.
Turns out, it wasn’t goodbye just yet.
…
The radio’s new supernatural program, Yin Yang, was originally just a niche late-night show. But on its debut episode, it coincidentally overlapped with a real “ghost call” incident. The media went wild, and overnight, the show became a sensation, sparking citywide discussion.
“Earlier, when I went to buy milk tea, Sister Xiao asked if I was a vengeful spirit.”
“Uncle Ming from the kitchen said he heard people on the bus this morning saying it must be a drowned ghost looking for a replacement.”
“They say when the call came through, there was a loud splashing sound—like the victim was struggling to break free from the water but was held down.”
Uncle Li chuckled. “If the ghost was so weak it needed nylon ropes to bind her limbs, how could it pull her under?”
Regardless, the rumors kept spreading.
During the briefing, Mo Zhenbang assigned tasks—Zhu Qing and Uncle Li were to visit the radio station and take a statement from Yin Yang’s host, Situ Peiling.
Situ Peiling’s voice wasn’t sweet—instead, it was low and raspy.
In the station’s meeting room, she explained that her voice had never been popular before, but this new supernatural show was a perfect fit, as if tailor-made for her.
A shame, then, that the show was cut short right after launch.
After an incident like this, the higher-ups would never let it continue.
"Usually, audience call-ins are prearranged. We had a script prepared related to the water ghost theme... No offense, officers, but since it was the first episode, the higher-ups were very particular about the program's impact. Even the callers were actually our staff pretending to be listeners. Of course, the hotline number I announced was real—it just wouldn’t connect."
"But yesterday, right as the show started, the equipment wasn’t fully set up yet, and somehow a real listener got through."
"A situation like that really tests a host’s ability to improvise."
There was a slight delay between the broadcast and Situ Peiling receiving the call.
She recalled hearing water sounds on the other end and initially thought it was a colleague playing a prank. But gradually, she sensed something was off—the breathing was faint, and the voice kept repeating, "I died in the bathtub." Just remembering it now made her skin crawl.
"That... person—" Situ Peiling frowned, speaking cautiously as sweat beaded on her forehead. "The deceased? After she hung up, I felt uneasy, but the show had to go on, so I took the next call."
But the staff member handling the connections was also spooked. In the chaos, they forgot to switch lines, so the second call was also from a real listener.
"They said they were You Minmin’s classmates and confirmed the voice was hers," Situ Peiling explained. "They also mentioned You Minmin wasn’t the type to joke around—could something really have happened to her?"
"At the time, our ratings hit a record high for recent programs."
"But it was genuinely terrifying... I was so shaken that I ended up reading some pre-prepared urban legends about water ghosts and wrapped up the show hastily."
"Later, when the police informed me that the call might have been from the deceased... I still get chills thinking about it."
The radio station provided the police with the raw recording from that night.
"Keep this safe," Uncle Li told Zhu Qing. "Take it back to the station for the tech team to analyze thoroughly."
...
In the early stages of a case, the most crucial thing is to stay clear-headed, calmly sort through the details, and eliminate irrelevant leads.
The officers of the Major Crimes Team B expected to work late, but under Mo Zhenbang’s well-organized plan, all tasks were efficiently completed during the day. The moment the clock struck quitting time, he shooed everyone home to rest.
"Last night, we were here until 3 a.m.—everyone’s eyes were red as rabbits."
"Go home and sleep! Health comes first."
Of course, they couldn’t just walk out the front door.
To avoid Inspector Weng’s ambush, Mo Zhenbang had everyone slip out through the back alley—a trick he was well-practiced in.
Here they were, perfectly respectable officers, sneaking home like thieves. The younger ones stifled laughter, shoulders shaking.
Where else could you find a superior who treated his team so considerately? After their previous inspector was transferred, Team B had kept running smoothly, but Mo Zhenbang was only a sergeant. If he didn’t take the inspector’s exam soon, they’d inevitably get a new superior.
"If that happens..." Hao Zai muttered, "our good days are over."
"Zhu Qing," Zeng Yongshan glanced over and asked, "what’s in that bag?"
Zhu Qing was holding a shopping bag from a chain electronics store—something she and Uncle Li had picked up after leaving the radio station.
"Aunt Ping’s radio broke," Zhu Qing said. "We passed by the store, so I got her a new one."
After last night’s scare, Aunt Ping’s hands had trembled so badly she probably wouldn’t dare tune into Cantonese opera stations for a long time.
Without those familiar melodies filling the house at night—
Both she and Little Fangfang might feel the absence.
...
Aunt Ping quietly stored the old radio in a cabinet, even removing the batteries.
Just remembering last night’s events made her shudder. It was bad enough that she’d been frightened, but what if the "ghost call" played again in the middle of the night while the young master was home?
And Zhu Qing—as a police officer, she already dealt with dangerous criminals daily. If she didn’t get proper rest, things could go very wrong.
Aunt Ping closed the cabinet door, lingering for a moment with a pang of reluctance.
Yet to her surprise, Zhu Qing returned from work with a brand-new radio.
"Aunt Ping, let me take a look at the old one," she said.
Fangfang watched in awe—his niece was amazing. Not only could she catch bad guys, but she could also fix machines.
She quickly diagnosed the issue: the tuning knob was stuck, frozen on one station.
The old radio was a relic, having served Aunt Ping faithfully for who knew how many years. There was no point in repairing it.
She powered on the new one. "Use this from now on."
Aunt Ping ran her fingers over the packaging, hesitant to open it.
She recognized the brand—an expensive one. Radios were radios, after all. Her old one had been a cheap impulse buy from a pharmacy checkout, yet it had lasted her ages.
"It’s different!" Sheng Fang insisted. "The sound quality is way better!"
Aunt Ping’s nose tingled, her eyes growing damp.
She touched the sleek casing. "No more ghostly disturbances..."
"There’s no such thing as ghosts," Zhu Qing flipped through the manual, showing Aunt Ping how to tune the channels. "The rumors are just noise—people are scarier than ghosts."
Someone was just using the "supernatural" as a smokescreen to hide the truth.
...
"Qing-jie—"
At bedtime, Little Fangfang discovered another small box inside the electronics store bag.
On the box were four words:
Phantom Sound Box.
The packaging was empty—whatever had been inside was gone. When Fangfang asked Aunt Ping about it, she was too engrossed in her new radio to pay attention.
"No idea, young master."
Zhu Qing’s bedroom door was shut.
Whenever she dove deep into a case, she locked herself in. Fangfang tiptoed closer, pressing his ear to the door.
"Testing, testing—" A strange, distorted voice echoed from inside.
Fangfang froze, even the unruly tuft of hair on his head standing still as he held his breath.
Zhu Qing was testing a newly purchased voice modulator.
The forensic report wasn’t ready yet, and the case was still in its early stages with no clear direction. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but how had You Minmin’s voice ended up on that radio call?
Her notebook lay open, filled with dense scribbles. Zhu Qing considered several possibilities:
First, You Minmin might still have been alive at the time, struggling.
But after listening to the recording multiple times, that didn’t fit—the voice hadn’t sounded panicked. Instead, it had deliberately cultivated an eerie tone.
As if truly haunted by a water ghost.
Or perhaps the killer had impersonated You Minmin and called the station?
Voice changers can indeed alter a person's voice, but Zhu Qing only realized how complicated it truly was after buying one and trying it out at home.
The modified voice from the device carried obvious electronic distortions—stiff, cold, and utterly incapable of recreating the atmosphere of a live radio broadcast.
Besides, how could You Minmin’s classmates possibly recognize her through the warped voice produced by the device?
Zhu Qing fiddled with the "Magic Sound Box" in her hands.
"Hey—" She toggled the mode switch back and forth, and the device twisted her voice into a gruff male tone. "Waste of money."
The soft sound of a door opening came from behind her.
Little Fangfang tilted his head, his round eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at her.
"Where’s Qing?" he asked.
The little master’s lips drooped, his dark eyes filled with confusion.
Suddenly feeling playful, Zhu Qing used the voice changer to say, "I’m a big monster! I ate Qing—"
After all, he was just a three-year-old—no matter how sharp, he was still easy to fool.
But then she reconsidered. Scaring a child would only mean she’d have to comfort him later, and that was too much trouble.
She set the voice changer aside, ready to end the joke.
"Then eat me too!" Sheng Fang declared, hands on his hips.
Now it was Zhu Qing’s turn to be at a loss for words.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the device.
This little one wasn’t scared at all. Having watched plenty of cartoons, he genuinely believed in such things.
Even if Qing had been eaten by a monster, he was determined to stand up for her.
Fangfang didn’t even consider fighting the "big monster"—he was just a baby, after all, and no match for such a creature.
"I’ll go into your belly to keep her company!" Fangfang bared his tiny teeth, putting on his fiercest expression.
"Eat me…"
"Come on, eat me!"
But the "big monster" never did.
Because the "big monster" stood frozen, unexpectedly moved.
Sheng Fang, however, wore a look of tragic realization, his eyes shimmering with tears.
"Did you… poop her out?"
