The morning air in the Major Crimes Division meeting room was thick with the scent of coffee.
Officers sat around the table, each with thick stacks of Healing Society membership lists and call logs spread out before them. They meticulously annotated the names on the registration forms—blue highlighters marked "contacted," black Xs denoted "invalid numbers." The more organized the files became, the more their exhaustion seemed to settle in. This investigation felt like a marathon that had only just begun, with no end in sight.
In theory, phone screenings should have been straightforward: dial, ask questions, hang up.
But reality proved far more complicated.
Every call risked hitting a dead end.
"Counted seven so far. The moment I said 'Yau Ma Tei Police Station,' they hung up. These days, people are more wary of cops than thieves—one whiff of 'police,' and they treat it like a scam call."
"Count yourself lucky. I got an old lady last night, probably lonely, talked my ear off for ten minutes before finally getting to the 'point'—her cat went missing, and she asked if I could help find it."
"What did you say?"
"What could I say? Told her missing cats aren’t Major Crimes' jurisdiction! Suggested she put up posters. Then she sighed and said the police don’t help citizens anymore..."
"Just had an old man demand my badge number, said my attitude was terrible and he’d file a complaint. I even said 'please'—could’ve won Mr. Hong Kong with that politeness. If this gets me a complaint, I’m done for."
It was only 10 a.m., barely two hours into their shift, and they were already drained.
Their eyes glazed over with exhaustion, as if their very souls had been sucked dry.
Progress was painfully slow. At this rate, finishing all 470 calls seemed impossible.
Zhu Qing couldn’t help but think—if Little Yesi were here, she’d probably stare wide-eyed at these adults in disbelief.
What a fun game this must seem to a child. How could they complain?
"Thought calling at night would disturb people? Mornings are worse! Just had a housewife scream at me for waking her up—said she’d only just gotten her baby to sleep at 4 a.m."
"My ears are ringing. Close my eyes, and it’s still 'buzz, buzz, buzz' in my head."
"Landlines are easier to reach. Those with pagers? Half of them took three tries before they called back."
"Members who left mobile numbers are probably better off financially—unlikely targets for Xu Mingyuan. We can deprioritize them."
"Some have already emigrated. Checked immigration records—they left Hong Kong in sound mental health. Unless Xu Mingyuan’s got supernatural powers, no way he’s making overseas calls to brainwash them daily."
Mo Zhenbang stood by the whiteboard, jabbing a finger at Xu Mingyuan’s photo, his brow furrowed.
Red veins streaked his eyes as he rubbed his temples.
"Done wasting breath? Should’ve spent this time finishing the meeting and getting back to calls." He rapped the whiteboard. "After all these calls, any leads?"
Zhu Qing stood to report.
"Wang Yingtong. Healing Society records show she joined two years ago—married, 29 at the time."
The officers perked up.
29 at the time—why emphasize that?
"Last night, we called her registered home number. A man answered."
"He said Wang Yingtong had committed suicide, but when pressed, he claimed not to know her and hung up."
"Currently tracing her last known address." Zhu Qing pointed to the marital status field in the records. "The man on the phone was likely her husband."
Mo Zhenbang nodded. "Focus on this lead. Follow up, visit if necessary."
"All current victims are female. If we include male potential targets, the list balloons beyond 400."
"Finish screening this list first, then contact male Healing Society members."
"Boss! This workload’ll kill us!"
"We don’t even have the manpower for—"
As groans filled the room, Mo Zhenbang turned and left.
His list was just as long as anyone else’s.
If Xu Mingyuan was truly hiding in the shadows as they suspected, he’d evaded justice for far too long.
No more delays.
——
Zhu Qing tracked down Wang Yingtong’s last address and headed to Yuen Long with Xu Jiale.
The old tenement stairs creaked underfoot, the motion-activated lights flickering. The hallway reeked of cigarettes, its walls plastered with ads and littered with crushed butts wedged into corners.
They stopped at a metal door.
Knock, knock, knock—
Xu Jiale’s knuckles struck the door with a dull thud.
The man who answered wore wrinkled loungewear, shaking a baby bottle in his hand.
Zhu Qing’s gaze flicked to the bottle—water filled to 150ml, powdered formula not yet fully dissolved.
Xu Jiale flashed his badge. "Mr. Li, Wang Yingtong was your wife, correct?"
Li Haojie stepped out in plastic slippers, gently closing the door behind him.
"What now? Called to harass us last night, now you’re at my door?" He scowled. "She’s been dead two years. What else is there to ask? You cops really have nothing better to do."
Records showed Wang Yingtong was born in Yuen Long’s squatter area, orphaned young. Passed between distant relatives, she grew up silent and obedient. At 23, working in a garment factory, she met foreman Li Haojie. He sweet-talked her, handed her cheap rice cakes when coaxing her into overtime shifts. That meager kindness brightened her bleak world, so she married him without hesitation.
Five years into the marriage, they remained childless. When relatives pressed, she’d bow her head as if bearing some great sin. Li Haojie took her to the hospital. After tests, the doctor shook his head—Wang Yingtong was unlikely to conceive. From then on, Li Haojie’s face darkened.
She jumped from the rooftop in their sixth year of marriage. Day after day, she’d sat by the window, watching children play below—until the day she leaped.
During the investigation, police saw Wang Yingtong’s photo.
She had delicate features, fair skin, and silky black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Her head was slightly lowered, but her eyes held a timid, hesitant look.
"Did Wang Yingtong show any unusual behavior before her suicide?"
"Or leave behind any special belongings?"
Two years ago, Wang Yingtong had taken her own life due to severe depression, and her death had been ruled as non-suspicious.
Now, the police were reopening the case, but Li Haojie was reluctant to cooperate.
"Enough already!" Li Haojie frowned impatiently. "I already told you I don’t know anything!"
"Forgotten already?" Zhu Qing took a step forward. "We don’t mind waiting inside until you remember."
The sound of a baby crying inside the house finally stopped.
In its place came the shuffling of slippers against the floor, accompanied by a woman’s soft humming.
"Fine, fine, I give up." Li Haojie blocked the two officers from advancing further. "Before she died, there was nothing strange about her. That’s just how she was—moody. Sometimes she’d laugh, other times she’d cry in the middle of the night. Honestly, suicide was probably a release for her."
"As for her belongings, I threw them all away. My mom said keeping a dead person’s things brings bad luck."
"After so many years of marriage, we ran out of things to say. Toward the end, I barely came home. I had no idea what was going on in her head. Was I supposed to stay by her side all day, comforting her? Sir, ma’am, that’s all I know. Don’t bother me again—"
"Did you know Wang Yingtong was seeing a psychologist?" Xu Jiale cut in.
Li Haojie had already taken out his keys to unlock the door, but at this question, his brow furrowed. The keys jingled loudly in his hand.
"Yeah, there was some psychologist."
"Some quack, if you ask me. Just scamming people. I didn’t want her going, but one day she told me secretly that the sessions were free—just that the doctor made her promise not to tell anyone, not her family or other patients."
"Like I’d believe that. Who in their right mind would treat her for free? Probably just pocketing grocery money!"
"So I cut off her grocery allowance. Let’s see how she’d manage then..."
Zhu Qing: "Do you remember the doctor’s name?"
"How would I know?" Li Haojie rolled his eyes. "Maybe Xu? That’s all I got."
His tone was resentful, as if Wang Yingtong’s death had been nothing but an inconvenience to him.
"Are we done here? If so, I’m going back inside." With that, Li Haojie stepped into the house and shut the door.
From inside, a woman’s cheerful voice rang out.
"Look who’s back! It’s Daddy—"
Li Haojie chuckled. "Just went downstairs to take out the trash."
"I thought I heard someone knocking..."
"No, you must’ve imagined it."
"Look how silly Daddy is—he took your little bottle with him to throw out the trash."
The door closed, cutting off the conversation.
Wang Yingtong’s life had ended abruptly two years ago.
And now, her husband Li Haojie had already started a new family.
For the police, reconstructing her story meant piecing together fragments.
Fragments of memories.
What others dismissed as insignificant moments had been the entirety of her short life.
Xu Jiale sighed softly, staring at his notepad. "Same situation as You Minmin. And both received free counseling."
......
At kindergarten, Sheng Fang’s favorite time was outdoor play.
Because he had completely fallen in love with fighting other kids for turns on the slide.
Though he hadn’t expected such a basic slide would require taking turns between classes.
What’s so special about this slide anyway? Next time, he’d invite his friends to his family’s hillside villa instead!
Right now, the playground belonged to the older kids, while his junior class had to settle for basketball.
Sheng Fang, Little Yesi, and Jin Bao—the trio—were thoroughly enjoying their basketball lesson.
"Bouncing the ball is so fun," Jin Bao remarked.
"It’s called basketball!" Sheng Fang corrected.
These days, the young master of the Sheng family was no longer Jin Bao’s English tutor. Jin Bao had declared he hated English—his parents said his future job was to boss people around anyway, so why bother learning it? Just hire someone who spoke English!
Yesi shook her head like a rattle drum. "What if your employee lies to you?"
Jin Bao: "Then I’ll hire two!"
Sheng Fang also shook his head. "What if they team up? That’s called collusion."
Jin Bao’s mouth formed an "O." "Fangfang, you’re such a detective!"
Sheng Fang preened at the praise.
With a proud "Hmph," he got carried away and accidentally sent the basketball rolling away. He scampered after it.
On his way back, he overheard two older kids arguing on the slide.
Big kids, shoving and squeezing—nobody could play properly.
Hugging the ball, Sheng Fang shook his head as he walked. "Dumb giants."
A bespectacled little tattletale raised his hand. "Teacher, Sheng Fang said something mean."
Fangfang puffed his cheeks in frustration.
"I hate Juan the most," he whispered to Jin Bao.
The tattletale raised his hand higher. "Teacher, Sheng Fang just said something mean about me again!"
After class, Sheng Fang stood before Teacher Ji, head drooping as he traced circles on the ground with the tip of his sneaker.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Juan skipping past. He snapped his head up, baring his tiny teeth in a glare.
No more words—just a threatening look. Let’s see him tattle on that.
"Do you know what you did wrong?" Teacher Ji crouched to his eye level.
Sheng Fang pouted, dragging out his words. "Yeees."
"Just make sure to do better next time." Teacher Ji patted his head. "Alright, go play."
Sheng Fang turned to leave but suddenly doubled back. "Teacher, where are Yesi and Jin Bao?"
At some point during class—probably while daydreaming about his undercover adventures—he’d missed an important announcement.
Turns out, the kindergarten was hosting a performance, and both Yesi and Jin Bao had signed up. Now they were off rehearsing.
Who knew they had talents?
Yesi could dance. Jin Bao could drum.
Fangfang? He had no skills, nor any interest in wearing silly stage makeup to perform for others.
Clapping from the audience sounded much better.
"For this performance, we’ll be inviting parents to attend," Teacher Ji explained, pointing to the glittery cardstock in the craft bin. "So this afternoon’s art project is making your own invitation cards."
Sheng Fang fell into deep thought.
Since that's the case, he might as well sign up too.
Let Qingzai see how amazing her little uncle is!
When Little Yesi and Jin Bao returned, Sheng Fang huddled with them again.
The three little heads leaned together, whispering conspiratorially.
Little Yesi enthusiastically suggested, "You can learn dancing with me!"
She rose onto her tiptoes, twirling in a circle, her fluffy skirt fluttering like petals.
"Do I have to wear a ballet dress?" Sheng Fang asked, his expression horrified.
"Of course! And ballet shoes and pretty hair clips—I can lend you mine."
Sheng Fang frowned thoughtfully. "I don’t think that’s suitable for me."
"Then learn drumming with me!" Jin Bao chimed in. "I’ll teach you!"
At first, Teacher Ji had no idea what the three were plotting—until lunchtime.
The classroom echoed with the clanging of percussion as Sheng Fang banged on a stainless steel lunch tray with a pair of chopsticks, one in each hand.
Even the teacher from the next class peeked in to see the commotion.
"Just when we finally had a few quiet days, it starts again," Teacher Ji muttered, rubbing her temples.
She had tried to tell the child to put the chopsticks down and practice his "drumming" at home, but the sight of his pouting, downturned lips made it impossible to scold him.
The teaching assistant leaned in, whispering, "I have an idea."
...
After finishing the phone interviews, the remaining names on the list required in-person visits.
Mo Zhenbang divided the team into groups, pairing Zhu Qing with Liang Qikai.
Hao Zai quietly sidled up to Zeng Yongshan. "Want to switch?"
She glanced at Liang Qikai, who was meticulously verifying addresses, and shook her head. "No, he wouldn’t want to anyway."
The teams set off in the police station’s aging official vehicle.
Liang Qikai drove painfully slow, as if patrolling the streets.
He struck up a conversation. "Earlier, I overheard them saying tomorrow’s event will definitely be canceled."
As if worried she wouldn’t follow, he added with a gentle smile, "The one at Inspector Weng’s villa in Repulse Bay. They said he’s only ever treated everyone to afternoon tea before—this time, he actually hired chefs from The Peninsula Hotel..."
His speech was just as unhurried, tempting impatience.
Not that it mattered.
Zhu Qing watched the streets crawl past the window before finally saying, "Pull over. I’ll drive."
Liang Qikai blinked, then obediently parked and switched seats with her.
The car’s speed noticeably picked up. With so many households to visit, efficiency was crucial—otherwise, they’d be working late into the night. Worse, Mo Zhenbang would inevitably enforce his "no disturbing civilians after hours" rule, pushing the rest to the next day.
Zhu Qing hated delays.
She was determined to finish today.
The police car weaved through the city, marking off names at each stop.
More often than not, they were met with locked doors and unanswered doorbells. Many residents were at work, but neighbors could at least confirm whether the person on the list was still alive—that counted as a completed task.
Names were crossed off one by one, but leads remained scarce.
"This one should be home," Liang Qikai said, eyeing the freshly washed clothes drying on a second-floor balcony. He checked the address against the list. "The laundry’s still wet."
They knocked.
A woman in her early twenties answered, her fingers pruned from washing. Her tone was neutral until they asked about her mother’s psychological treatment—then her expression darkened.
"My mom doesn’t have mental issues. She’s fine—don’t spread rumors!" Her voice dropped, eyes darting to the hallway, wary of eavesdroppers. "She just has trouble sleeping sometimes. If you go around asking like this, what will people think?"
Zhu Qing peered past her shoulder. Inside, a gaunt middle-aged woman hastily hid a medicine bottle from the table.
Another name was checked off.
This wasn’t the first time during their visits. Some saw mental illness as shameful, refusing help—why bother, when no one would understand? Others, finally mustering the courage to seek treatment, were discouraged by family dismissing it as "overthinking" or "having too much free time."
These prejudices and misunderstandings were harder to crack than the case itself.
The next doorbell still worked, though the handwritten number plate on the rusted gate was crooked.
Zhu Qing pressed it, the chime echoing down the hall.
After what felt like forever, an elderly neighbor stepped out. "Who are you looking for?"
Zhu Qing checked the list. "Does Ding Panxiang still live here?"
"Gone a long time ago." The old woman shook her head. "Poor woman... Her husband died of illness, left her raising a simple-minded boy."
Liang Qikai pressed for details. The "simple-minded boy" had intellectual disabilities—a birth injury from medical malpractice, untreatable.
"What happened after?"
"Who knows?" The neighbor waved a hand. "One day, they just vanished. Didn’t even say goodbye."
When Zhu Qing called the station, Liang Qikai was mapping out their next stops, grouping nearby addresses to save time.
Twenty minutes later, the station called back.
"Found the record. It happened a year ago."
"Ding Panxiang and her son died by carbon monoxide poisoning in a rented apartment. She must’ve thought—if she was gone, her son couldn’t survive alone. No choice but to take him with her."
"Didn’t do it at home, probably couldn’t bear to. That place held too many good memories of their family."
...
Meanwhile, Zeng Yongshan and Hao Zai arrived in Kwun Tong.
Deng Qiaorong, thirty-seven, unmarried.
The address she’d given the therapy group was a tea stall where she worked as a dishwasher—lodging included.
The owner didn’t know much, summoning the supervisor instead.
The supervisor led them to the alley behind the stall, where the staff dormitory was.
"Qiaorong? She always covered shifts—worked nights, then straight into mornings, just to earn extra for her family back home."
"Eldest daughter, heavy burden. Had to support her younger siblings... Her schedule was packed, never even owned decent clothes."
"What's the use of being sensible?" she sighed. "Working tirelessly while alive, yet no one cares after death—not even a soul to burn paper offerings. Those younger siblings of hers truly have no conscience."
The supervisor recalled how Deng Qiaorong's death had shocked everyone in the teahouse.
A dishwasher who was close to her mentioned that Deng had once said she felt redundant.
"Qiaorong was always cheerful before, but suddenly she became withdrawn during that time, saying such things. But people have their moments of despair—Fen thought she was just venting. Who knew she’d actually take her own life a few days later?"
"She hanged herself right here. When they found her, she hadn’t even kicked over the stool. Just like her—trying not to trouble others till the very end." The supervisor quickened her pace, walking ahead to unlock the dormitory at the far end. "Later, when her family came to claim the body, they didn’t shed a single tear. Instead, they pestered the boss for compensation. Of course, the boss didn’t want to deal with them, but they were relentless. In the end, he paid them two extra months' wages just to get rid of them."
The room was small and bare, devoid of any eerie atmosphere—only a deep sense of sorrow lingered for the two officers.
No one dared to live in that dormitory afterward.
Deng Qiaorong’s belongings were all discarded as trash since her family refused to take them.
"Qiaorong seeing a psychologist? Impossible—she had no money for that," the supervisor said. "Every month, the moment her paycheck came in, it went straight to her family. Her parents needed medicine, her sister’s school fees, her brother’s wedding—her entire salary wasn’t enough for them. She was left with nothing for herself."
When asked about free psychological counseling, she thought for a moment, then shook her head.
"I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Fen, who used to live next to her. But Fen left a long time ago—we don’t have her contact. You’re the police—you should be able to track her down, right?"
As they left, the setting sun cast golden fragments of light across the ground.
Zeng Yongshan and Hao Zai paused, glancing back at the small dormitory window.
Inside, a thick layer of dust had settled. A whole year had passed since Deng Qiaorong’s death.
......
The investigation was finally making progress. The evidence so far showed that all four victims had been in contact with the Healing Society, and the phone recording provided by Zhu Qing directly confirmed a critical fact: psychologist Xu Mingyuan had illegally obtained the Healing Society’s membership list and deliberately targeted vulnerable, isolated women.
Nineteen names remained on the unvisited list.
Behind each one could lie untold tragedies.
The loss of these vibrant lives was heartbreaking, but since the crimes had already occurred, the police could only focus on meticulous evidence-gathering and uncovering the truth to ensure the perpetrator faced justice.
The police couldn’t yet confirm whether all four women’s suicides were linked to Xu Mingyuan—the investigation continued.
However, current laws lacked clear provisions for prosecuting psychological coercion leading to suicide. They needed to gather enough circumstantial evidence to press charges.
Liang Qikai stepped out of a red phone booth and returned to the passenger seat.
On the drive back to the station, he remarked softly, "I heard Inspector Mo applied for a special interrogation permit and took a team to search the psychologist’s clinic."
He paused. "All the therapy records from the past three years were there—not a single one destroyed."
"Wasn’t You Minmin’s therapy record there too?" Zhu Qing gripped the steering wheel. "The content would’ve been perfectly normal—he wouldn’t make such an amateur mistake."
At the end of the day, the police still lacked concrete evidence.
"The media will start reporting soon," Liang Qikai said hesitantly. "By tomorrow morning, Inspector Weng will be breathing down our necks again."
The police car rolled to a stop in front of the station.
Zhu Qing immediately spotted a familiar figure.
Cheng Xinglang stood on the steps, sorting through a file in his hands.
"Dr. Cheng!" She pushed the car door open, her voice ahead of her movement.
"These documents—" Liang Qikai leaned out the window, holding the Healing Society’s membership records.
She tossed him the car keys. "Take them upstairs first."
Her gaze never left Cheng Xinglang’s retreating figure as she hurried after him.
Cutting straight to the point, she asked, "About Xu Mingyuan—do you know him well?"
She remembered Cheng Xinglang mentioning once that they were alumni and had crossed paths before.
His reply was blunt. "No."
Zhu Qing pressed her lips together, unwilling to drop it. "Are you attending the Medical Association’s tenth-anniversary seminar?"
"I’m not going."
The light in her eyes dimmed slightly.
Cheng Xinglang had already taken two steps away when he suddenly stopped.
"How about visiting a professor at HKU?" he suggested. "Professor Yang from the psychology department—he should know Xu Mingyuan well."
A small, involuntary smile tugged at Zhu Qing’s lips. "It’s a deal."
......
When Zhu Qing reached the CID office upstairs, Weng Zhaolin had reverted to his usual irritable self.
The case they’d barely closed had been reopened, and Mo Zhenbang’s raid on Xu Mingyuan’s clinic had already drawn media attention.
Public scrutiny was mounting. The younger officers didn’t care, and neither did Mo Zhenbang.
In the end, the pressure fell solely on Inspector Weng’s shoulders.
Even as higher-ups hinted that the case should be dropped, Weng Zhaolin held firm.
"Work harder—don’t make this harder for me."
"What about the arrangements for Repulse Bay…?" someone murmured.
It was a private chef team from The Peninsula Hotel—a rare opportunity they’d hate to miss.
But with the weekend approaching, it was clear they wouldn’t get time off.
"The weekend’s canceled…" Hao Zai coughed lightly. "Can we reschedule after the case is closed?"
Weng Zhaolin: "..."
The dinner invitation had originally been incidental—his brother-in-law’s wedding banquet required a menu tasting, and the spread was too much for just family.
But rescheduling after the case meant paying out of pocket.
Did they even know how much a Peninsula private chef cost?
He wiped sweat from his temple. "Enough idle talk."
With that, he strode off, leaving no room for negotiation.
Watching the dejected young officers, Mo Zhenbang chuckled.
"I’ll handle Inspector Weng," he said. "You just focus on solving the case—everything else can be discussed."
The team teased him—was this like dangling a carrot in front of them? If Weng Zhaolin still refused afterward, wouldn’t they be out of luck?
Mo Zhenbang grinned. "Not a carrot—it’s called motivation."
The office erupted in laughter.
Despite the pressure, the atmosphere in the station remained light.
Every new clue that surfaced and each step forward in the investigation invigorated the officers.
The suspect was cunning, leaving no direct evidence behind, but they remained steadfast in their belief that the case would eventually be solved.
Those who broke the law would ultimately face justice.
...
When Zhu Qing returned home, little Sheng Fang was already waiting by the door.
Leaning against the doorframe with one hand, his neck stretched out eagerly, the moment his eyes met his niece's, he casually slipped one hand into his pocket, resuming his cool little demeanor.
Aunt Ping chuckled beside him, "The young master’s been pressing his ear to the door all evening, just waiting to hear your footsteps."
"The second the elevator doors opened, he whoosh—flung the door open and stood here waiting for you."
"All to welcome you home."
Whenever Zhu Qing got busy, she’d leave early and return late.
Almost every day, Sheng Fang would start waiting the moment he got back from school, staying put until she arrived—so long that even the flowers would’ve wilted.
But today seemed different.
When Zhu Qing finally appeared, he didn’t bounce around like a spring as usual. Instead, he stood there with a smug little expression.
Sheng Fang stayed silent, one hand tucked behind his back, the corners of his lips curling into an adorable grin, his tiny dimples faintly visible.
Zhu Qing raised an eyebrow. "What are you hiding behind your back?"
Sheng Fang tilted his chin up slightly, radiating pride.
With a swift motion, he pulled his hand forward—
"What’s this?" Zhu Qing’s eyes widened.
"It’s an award!" Sheng Fang declared proudly. "Teacher Ji gave it to me!"
Little Sheng Fang had received a certificate.
What he didn’t know was that during lunch, his enthusiastic clang-clang drumming practice on the bowls had nearly driven Teacher Ji to a nervous breakdown. A teaching assistant had suggested handing him an award to placate him.
But even if Sheng Fang had known, he’d have firmly believed he deserved it.
Because—
"The Clean Plate Award?" Zhu Qing read aloud. "Wow, that’s amazing!"
Sheng Fang grinned, revealing his tiny white teeth.
He’d finished every bite of his meals, setting an example for all his classmates.
This honor was rightfully his!
Zhu Qing examined the certificate closely. "Aunt Ping, do we have glue?"
"Of course, of course." Aunt Ping beamed. "I’ll fetch it right away."
Sheng Fang trailed leisurely behind his niece, feigning nonchalance. "What’re you gonna do with it?"
"Hang it on the wall, of course!" Zhu Qing said.
The little young master scoffed. "So old-fashioned, Qing."
Yet despite his words, he stuck close, watching intently as she prepared to display it.
What Sheng Fang didn’t expect was that after taking the glue from Aunt Ping, Zhu Qing turned straight into her own bedroom.
Inside, the warm glow of her desk lamp bathed the room.
She sat at her desk, carefully applying glue to each corner of the certificate.
Her movements were gentle, smoothing out every crease with care.
Finally, she stood up, holding it against the wall beside her desk.
"Aunt Ping, is it crooked?"
"Up a little… left a bit… perfect!"
Zhu Qing pressed the certificate firmly in place.
This was Sheng Fang’s award—but it was hers too.
Her first trophy in raising a genius little troublemaker!
Under the cozy lamplight, Sheng Fang kept darting in and out of the room to sneak glances.
Each time he emerged, his cheeks were flushed—
Qing really, really likes me!
...
Thanks to his Clean Plate Award, Sheng Fang earned a special treat.
Zhu Qing was taking him to the University of Hong Kong.
Early Saturday morning, Dr. Cheng Xinglang came to pick them up.
Sheng Fang trotted downstairs with his little backpack and a water bottle hanging around his neck.
Aunt Ping had even prepped sliced fruit for them—the two looked ready for a picnic.
Seated in the driver’s seat, Cheng Xinglang didn’t react when the rear door opened.
They always treated him like a chauffeur. This was the third time—he was used to it by now.
"Morning," he said, turning just as the little imp handed him a bright red cherry.
"Super sweet," Sheng Fang promised.
Dr. Cheng took the cherry and was instantly won over. "Let’s go."
Pok Fu Lam Road was often congested. While waiting, Sheng Fang chatted curiously with Dr. Cheng.
Truthfully, he still wasn’t entirely sure if this was a case investigation or just a fun outing.
But upon learning their destination was Dr. Cheng’s alma mater, the little guy straightened proudly.
"My and Qing’s school is the Wong Chuk Hang Police College."
Zhu Qing, busy reviewing notes in her notepad, didn’t look up.
Dr. Cheng had arranged a meeting with a psychology professor at HKU, and she wanted to make every question count.
Now, hearing Sheng Fang’s claim, she lifted her head. "Your school is Weston Kindergarten."
Sheng Fang patted her shoulder. "Alright, you focus on your work."
Dr. Cheng chuckled. "Ever heard of the Junior Police Call?"
Young Master Sheng was well-versed in almost everything—but this was a new term.
Junior Police Call!
"You mean… you can join the disciplinary forces at fifteen?"
His eyes sparkled with excitement.
He could do the math—eleven and a half years from now, he’d be eligible!
"The Junior Police Call is infamous for its grueling physical training," Dr. Cheng added. "The final test involves night marches and solo survival."
Sheng Fang’s gaze burned with determination. "I’m not scared!"
Dr. Cheng: "Except the program’s been discontinued."
A flurry of question marks popped up in the little one’s head.
Before he could react, Zhu Qing gently patted his back, soothing him preemptively.
Through the rearview mirror, Dr. Cheng watched the child puff up his cheeks, tiny fists clenched, eyes narrowed in mock fury.
The car stopped at HKU’s entrance, where visitors had to register.
Professor Yang had arranged clearance in advance. Dr. Cheng signed the logbook handed through the window.
"And these two are?"
"Colleague and—"
"Uncle," Sheng Fang declared, chest puffed out.
The little guy smirked.
Payback!
They parked near the Main Building, under the shade of century-old banyan trees.
The young master hopped out, urging Zhu Qing to hurry.
"Wait," she said—her phone rang.
Dr. Cheng and the kid waited outside.
"Want to hit the campus store?" Dr. Cheng offered.
Stepping inside, the little young master piped up, "I didn’t bring any money, y’know."
"No problem," Dr. Cheng handed him a small basket.
Still in the car, Zhu Qing answered Zeng Yongshan’s call.
"You’re at HKU, right? I need you to check something—"
"Yesterday, when Inspector Mo searched Xu Mingyuan's psychology clinic, he claimed that suicides among severe depression patients were common and had nothing to do with him. But we’ve uncovered a crucial lead—the deaths of Ding Panxiang, Wang Yingtong, Deng Qiaorong, and You Minmin all follow a pattern. They all occurred on Tuesdays."
Zhu Qing’s gaze drifted past the banyan tree, settling on the small convenience store.
Over the phone, the details of the case grew clearer as she swiftly jotted them down in her notebook.
"I’ll ask Professor Yang," she said. "See if he can provide any background clues about Xu Mingyuan."
Fifteen minutes later, the call ended.
Just as Zhu Qing closed her notebook, movement outside the window caught her eye—a child returning with an armful of treasures.
Pinned to his chest was a commemorative badge from the Hong Kong University Student Union, though what purpose it served was anyone’s guess. He wore it simply because he could.
In each hand, he clutched three dinosaur eggs—chocolate-filled toy spheres.
With a grin, Sheng Fang pushed the car door open wide—
"Qing, I’m back from my mischief!"
