As the saying goes, how could a three-and-a-half-year-old possibly outsmart an adult?
Little Sheng Fang’s attempt to play dumb had failed. Unwilling to admit defeat but equally unwilling to face a scolding, he sulked with his head drooping. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Zhu Qing heading out and secretly peeked up.
"Qing-jie, where are you going?"
"Temple Street Night Market."
Zhu Qing had reviewed the case file more than once. The next target of psychologist Xu Mingyuan was a deaf-mute woman. Illiterate and with no formal employment records, the police had shockingly little information about her. According to the records, Song Sijia lived with her parents, so they would have to revisit her family and old neighbors. Rumor had it she now made a living selling goods at the night market.
With thousands of subdivided flats across Hong Kong, deploying police resources might eventually lead them to her current address. But time was the problem—they didn’t have enough of it.
And the night market?
The night market only operated after dark. Tonight and tomorrow night were their last chances.
Inspector Mo had already requested backup, and Team B was mobilized in full force. Zhu Qing had rushed home to grab a sign language manual. Clutching the blue-covered Police Sign Language Quick Reference Guide in her left hand, she slipped on her shoes while fending off the clingy little troublemaker.
"I wanna go too!"
"No."
"Temple Street’s just next door! Take me with you, just for fun..."
Zhu Qing was firm. "This is work, Sheng Fang."
She needed to regroup with her team as quickly as possible.
Stepping out the door, she called over her shoulder, "I’m leaving."
But Sheng Fang, with the sharp instincts of a future senior inspector, had already sensed how high-stakes Qing-jie’s mission was.
Clasping his hands together, he pleaded, "You said I was your lucky charm last time!"
That was the night Zhu Qing got drunk after one cup—not only had she called him cute and smart, not only had she cupped his little face and sighed about how lucky she was to have him…
She’d even called him her lucky star!
Blinking his big eyes, Sheng Fang pulled out all the stops, begging with a hundred variations of "please."
Click. The front door shut.
Left behind, Fangfang listened as the hurried footsteps faded down the hallway.
Heartless Madam Zhu had abandoned him.
Inside the elevator, Zhu Qing immediately began cramming from the sign language manual. Stepping out, she multitasked, pulling out her mobile phone.
At the station, Inspector Mo had divided them into teams—she was paired with Hao Zai, who had already set off. They needed to coordinate.
"Where are you?"
"Almost there. Three minutes."
Behind her, the elevator dinged again.
Dressed for an outing, the little young master strolled out, hands in his pockets. He glanced at her.
"Niece, you’re here too. Where you headed?"
Zhu Qing: "..."
Aunt Ping trailed behind the Sheng family’s young heir, looking torn. The child had insisted—he wanted mango-free mango shaved ice from Temple Street. What could she do? The little boss had spoken. At best, she could try to reason with him, but when that failed, she had no choice but to take him out.
"Sheng Fang," Zhu Qing warned. "I’ll deal with you later."
"See you there." Unfazed, Fangfang waved as he walked ahead. "Qing-jie, I’m going first~"
......
Hao Zai leaned against a fortune-teller’s stall at the entrance of Temple Street, scanning the crowd.
The stall’s banner, Iron Mouth, Straight Truth, fluttered in the autumn night breeze. The fortune-teller had coins and a divination stick set up on his table, calling out to passersby.
"Handsome lad, your aura shines—romance is coming your way!"
"Young lady, I see a windfall in your future. How about a luck charm to pave the road?"
"Faith brings results! No accuracy, no charge!"
Hao Zai flashed his badge in front of the fortune-teller’s tinted glasses. "Uncle, playing blind, are we?"
The man yanked off his round spectacles. "Seriously, officer? Homicide’s cracking down on this now?"
Hao Zai gave him a sidelong look and turned back to searching the sea of faces.
No sign of Song Sijia—but he did spot a familiar figure in the bustling crowd.
"Zhu Qing!" He stood on his toes, waving his arm high overhead. "Over here!"
Meanwhile, Sheng Fang was already happily digging into a bowl of wan zi chi (shredded chicken and mushroom soup).
Before Zhu Qing had returned, Aunt Ping had been patting the little master to sleep in his room. But the moment he heard his niece come home, the drowsy child had jolted awake, refusing to lie down again.
Now, Aunt Ping was struggling. After much negotiation, she’d struck a deal with her little boss—this outing would last exactly thirty minutes. Not a second more. Otherwise, she’d report him to Zhu Qing, and not just verbally. She’d write a very long complaint letter.
Using her niece as a threat worked like a charm. Sheng Fang pouted but nodded obediently.
The young master weaved through the night market crowd, eyes darting at every snack stall, torn between sampling everything and hurrying to save time.
Before long, he "coincidentally" ran into his niece.
For such a little kid, his scheming was written all over his face—pretending not to see her while grinning ear to ear, smug as could be.
"Young master, let’s get that shaved ice," Aunt Ping coaxed, bending down. "Then it’s straight home."
Hao Zai muttered under his breath as he navigated the packed streets, brows furrowed.
"Just got off the phone with Yong Shan. Over at Ladies’ Market, there are four stalls selling books alone."
"Inspector Mo told us to focus on book vendors first, but if she’s really about to kill herself, would she even be out selling stuff?"
"If it were me, I’d just lie down and wait to die. What’s the point of earning more money? Can’t take it with you—unless you’re planning to have it burned as an offering—"
Zhu Qing frowned. "So our chances are slim?"
"Yeah." Hao Zai gave a humorless smirk but kept moving.
The police had almost nothing to go on. They knew the victim’s name—Song Sijia—but what did Song Sijia even look like? Her parents had scoffed when asked about their daughter, calling her a worthless burden, deaf and dumb, good for nothing.
Take her photo? Photos cost money!
That was the exact quote from Mr. and Mrs. Song.
With so little to work against and time slipping away, everyone knew the odds were terrible.
But so what?
If she wasn’t at the market stalls, they’d search the subdivided flats. They’d turn all of Hong Kong upside down if they had to.
They had to find Song Sijia.
If Xu Mingyuan’s manipulation had already taken hold, they all knew what could happen next.
There was no time for complaints.
Hao Zai lowered his voice, frustration leaking through. "Even if we stood here shouting ‘Song Sijia,’ she wouldn’t hear us."
That was the crux of their problem—and the same hurdle every team in this operation faced.
But where there's a will, there's a way—they had to confront the root of the problem.
Zhu Qing and Hao Zai walked down the street, their eyes scanning every stall along the way.
Finally, at a corner, they spotted an inconspicuous book stall.
The stall owner was a young woman in her early twenties, tidying up the books on display. When she noticed them stopping, a warm smile curled at the corners of her lips.
"Feel free to browse."
"Looking for anything in particular? Three martial arts novels get you a 10% discount, and used books are buy one, get one free."
"These books are hard to find—real collectors know they’re not available in regular bookstores."
They exchanged a glance, disappointment mirrored in each other’s eyes.
A few steps away, at a shaved ice stall, Sheng Fang was practically draped over the metal pushcart, clutching loose change in his tiny hands, watching the vendor with eager anticipation.
The vendor cranked the ice shaver’s handle, and a mound of snowy shavings tumbled out, forming a miniature mountain. Then, as if conjuring it from thin air, the vendor pulled out a bottle of mango syrup and drizzled it over the ice. Just as he was about to stick in a tiny paper umbrella for decoration—
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
"Scram! Cops are coming!"
"Pack up, quick!"
The street erupted into chaos. Stall owners scrambled to roll up their goods, a blind fortune-teller yanked down his "Iron Mouth, Straight Truth" banner, and hurried footsteps pounded in every direction.
The scene reminded Sheng Fang of the animal migrations he’d seen in nature documentaries.
Super exciting.
Sheng Fang tilted his head, soaking in the commotion, when suddenly—
"Zhu Qing, help! The shaved ice is running away!"
……
Out of the corner of her eye, Zhu Qing caught sight of—
The shaved ice vendor pushing his metal cart at a full sprint, weaving recklessly through the crowd. The wheels rattled violently against the pavement.
"Shaved ice! Don’t run!" The little master kicked his short legs furiously, chasing after it, but the cart only grew farther away. His chubby cheeks wobbled with each stride. "It’s gonna melt!"
Aunt Ping stomped her feet in frustration. Too old to run fast, she watched helplessly as Sheng Fang, tiny as he was, disappeared into the dispersing crowd. Without another thought, she mustered all her strength to follow.
"Little master, stop! There are cars past the intersection!"
Zhu Qing was baffled.
Sheng Fang’s small figure was nearly swallowed by the scattering crowd—it was too dangerous. She bolted after him.
Hao Zai reacted just as swiftly. "I’ve got this!"
Amid the chaotic chase, Zhu Qing missed the first book stall but stumbled upon a second by accident.
This one sold comic books, run by a bespectacled young man.
Not him.
Zhu Qing didn’t slow down, noticing Hao Zai bounding ahead to intercept Sheng Fang. Her gaze continued sweeping the area.
Another stall displayed handmade crafts and trinkets.
Bamboo cricket cages, wind-up tin toys, colored marbles in glass jars…
Her eyes locked onto one spot.
At the stall, a slender figure was hurriedly packing up. While everyone else fled in panic, she was a beat behind, oblivious to the whistle blasts—
Because she couldn’t hear them. Only when the crowd surged into motion did she realize something was wrong and began gathering her things in a fluster.
"Song Sijia?" Zhu Qing called.
The girl kept her head down, brows knitted tightly.
Only when Zhu Qing waved a hand in front of her face did she look up, confusion in her eyes.
Zhu Qing repeated, slower this time, shaping each word carefully.
"Song—Si—Jia?"
The girl responded with hand gestures, still uncertain.
Song Sijia was answering, but Zhu Qing couldn’t understand.
She quickly flipped open the sign language handbook, scanning the pages.
Meanwhile, Sheng Fang was already happily devouring his shaved ice, swaying side to side with satisfaction.
Hao Zai had caught it for him.
"Aunt Ping, the vendor forgot to take the money."
The little tycoon wasn’t one to take advantage. He licked his lips. "We’ll pay him back tomorrow."
Hao Zai jogged back, panting. His gaze landed on the deaf-mute girl still gesturing to Zhu Qing.
His eyes widened in surprise. "You—you found her?!"
Song Sijia instinctively shrank back, clutching her stall’s goods protectively.
She had no idea who these people were, her expression tense with unease.
Zhu Qing took a deep breath, crouching down slowly. Mimicking the handbook, she signed.
"Don’t be afraid," she said aloud, matching the words with slow, deliberate gestures, locking eyes with the girl. "We just want to talk."
……
Song Sijia could lip-read but couldn’t read text.
And Zhu Qing and Hao Zai barely knew any sign language.
The handbook only covered basics—enough for simple exchanges. When Song Sijia signed "why" or "what," Zhu Qing could piece it together on the fly.
But fully grasping her meaning? Impossible.
Hao Zai dialed Inspector Mo on Zhu Qing’s mobile.
"Inspector, we found her—we found Song Sijia."
"We can’t communicate with her. Should we call a sign language interpreter?"
For now, Zhu Qing had to stall with the most rudimentary method.
She hadn’t thought things through—she’d brought the handbook but forgotten pen and paper.
Luckily, Song Sijia pulled out a notebook, flipping to a blank page, and gestured for Zhu Qing to use it.
Since the girl couldn’t read, Zhu Qing resorted to drawing. Simple stick figures, like the ones Sheng Fang scribbled.
Hao Zai turned back just as Zhu Qing sketched a thumbs-up on the page.
Hao Zai: "…"
No clue if it meant anything, but for now, this was their only way to keep her from bolting.
Trying to explain Dr. Xu Mingyuan’s manipulation through makeshift sign language or doodles? Unrealistic.
Unsure if Song Sijia fully understood her lip-reading, Zhu Qing pointed to the handbook’s illustrations and signed.
"Safe."
"Don’t. Be. Afraid."
Song Sijia’s frown deepened. She leaned back, poised to flee at any second.
"Zhu Qing…" Sheng Fang’s voice floated over.
The little master couldn’t finish his shaved ice—too cold for a baby in autumn’s chilly breeze.
Finally obedient, he slipped his tiny hand into Aunt Ping’s, ready to head home. He’d meant to say goodbye to his niece, but Zhu Qing was too busy, exchanging only a nod with Aunt Ping before turning away.
Aunt Ping whispered to Sheng Fang.
"Little master, Zhu Qing’s definitely going to scold you tomorrow."
"Out past bedtime at 10 PM, sneaking downstairs. And then chasing that shaved ice cart—almost ran into the street…"
Truthfully, he hadn’t planned to dash into traffic, but the kid knew arguing was pointless. He stayed silent.
At this moment, he turned back and looked at his niece’s retreating figure, feeling a faint trace of unease.
"Aunt Ping," Sheng Fang said with a heavy heart, "I hope she solves the case today."
Perhaps only then would Zhu Qing be in a good enough mood to let him off the hook.
Little Sheng Fang kept glancing back as he walked away, watching Zhu Qing at work.
"Go for it, Zhu Qing!" he silently cheered, clenching his fists.
In front of the sundry stall, Song Sijia’s hands fluttered nervously in front of her.
It was unclear whether she was refusing to communicate or simply expressing fear.
Zhu Qing didn’t know how long she had been gesturing, but slowly, the tension in Song Sijia’s shoulders began to ease.
Finally, Song Sijia drew a smiley face in her little notebook and handed it over.
Zhu Qing wasn’t sure if this method of communication was effective, but until a sign language interpreter and social worker arrived, it was all she could do. Little Fang had adorable dimples, and whenever he drew stick figures, he always added two little dimples at the corners of their mouths. Following his lead, Zhu Qing sketched an even bigger smile next to the one Song Sijia had drawn.
The other woman’s eyes visibly softened.
The world was loud and chaotic, but Song Sijia couldn’t hear it.
Yet, she could see kindness.
Fifteen minutes later, Inspector Mo arrived, accompanied by a sign language interpreter.
"We can’t rule out the risk. Let’s take Song Sijia back to the station—gently explain to her," Inspector Mo instructed the interpreter, "that we must follow procedure to protect her."
"I’ll contact the social worker right away," Hao Zai said.
They hadn’t stopped working for days.
On the way back to the station, the shrill whistles of the night market still seemed to echo in Zhu Qing’s ears.
She rubbed her aching temples.
They had found her. Just like that.
After that, the procedures unfolded as if time itself were pushing them forward.
In the CID office, colleagues bustled about—some coming in, others leaving, each bringing new updates.
"Inspector Mo and Uncle Li are personally interrogating Xu Mingyuan. He looked disappointed when he heard Song Sijia had been found."
"The social worker arrived and has been staying with Song Sijia. The interpreter explained everything, so she’s no longer panicked. Earlier, it must have been the chaos of the night market—she couldn’t hear or express herself, so she felt unsafe."
"But Song Sijia refuses to identify Xu Mingyuan. According to the interpreter, Song Sijia has a deaf friend who told her about the address of the Kang’en Medical Center’s healing group in the newspaper. She just wanted to try her luck when she walked into the facility, but of course, no one understood sign language. Her world was silent, too quiet and lonely—Song Sijia never truly held hope for this healing group or expected anyone to understand her."
"Who knew that on that very day, after leaving Kang’en Medical Center, she would run into Xu Mingyuan?"
"Xu Mingyuan grew up in his aunt’s home, next door to a teacher from a special needs school who knew sign language, so he could communicate with Song Sijia."
Zhu Qing noted down: "When did Song Sijia start accepting treatment from Xu Mingyuan?"
"Ten days ago."
Which was shortly after You Minmin’s death.
"Song Sijia told the interpreter that Xu Mingyuan was the best doctor she’d ever met. He was incredibly patient, always putting himself in the patient’s shoes and considering their perspective."
"She really won’t testify against him."
"If Song Sijia refuses to cooperate, we can’t charge him."
"The other four victims can no longer speak. The accountant from the healing group can only prove he illegally obtained patient records, but Xu Mingyuan’s real crime is inciting suicide."
"What now? Is there anything else we can do?"
The Criminal Investigation Division office fell silent.
The calm after the storm left everyone exhausted.
Was this all they could do?
They had prepared for a tough battle, only to feel like they’d punched cotton.
"But at least we saved Song Sijia from suicide," Liang Qikai said. "That’s something."
……
By the time Zhu Qing got home, it was late at night again.
Truth be told, none of the officers from the Serious Crimes Unit B wanted to go home. Even though they had found Song Sijia, the broken chain of evidence had stalled the case once more. Burdened by this helplessness, no one was willing to call it a day—everyone clung to the hope that if they just pushed a little harder, they might find a way forward.
Maybe there was still a clue buried in the thick case files. Maybe they had overlooked a crucial detail.
It was Inspector Mo who finally ordered everyone to leave.
The investigation was important, but people couldn’t collapse from exhaustion. He forbade any officers from staying overnight at the station. Though everyone appreciated his concern, following orders to the letter was impossible—even at home, they carried thick stacks of files, shutting themselves in their rooms to keep working.
The healing group’s membership list lay sprawled across Zhu Qing’s desk.
Names filled the pages, most marked in blue or black ink. Out of the 470 female members, 19 had initially been uncontactable—now, Song Sijia’s name had been crossed off.
Eighteen remained.
Zhu Qing reorganized the remaining names by date.
The healing group had been active for three years. What if some of the members who joined in 1993 or 1994 had already passed away?
Could there be more than just four victims?
If the case had been buried, perhaps uncovering past tragedies would yield the evidence they needed to convict Xu Mingyuan.
The desk lamp stayed on.
Though her door was closed, a sliver of light seeped through the gap at the bottom.
Aunt Ping, who often woke at night, noticed she was still awake and sighed in concern outside her door.
It felt like decades ago, when Sheng Peirong—Zhu Qing’s mother—had been just as relentless. Like her, Zhu Qing gave everything she had to whatever she did.
Soft footsteps approached, and Aunt Ping gently knocked.
She entered with a glass of warm milk.
"Still not sleeping?" she asked, setting the glass on the desk.
"Almost done," Zhu Qing murmured, eyes still fixed on the files. "Just checking a few more names."
Aunt Ping knew arguing was pointless and mentally planned the next day’s menu.
She’d have to prepare nourishing soups—different each day—to replenish the girl’s energy.
With a final glance, Aunt Ping closed the door behind her.
Zhu Qing adjusted the lamp, casting a warm glow over the documents, illuminating every word.
She knew hers wasn’t the only light still on tonight.
Every detective in Serious Crimes Unit B was still working.
Together, they combed through old case files, cross-referencing Xu Mingyuan’s clinic records with the healing group’s membership list.
United in purpose, they sought out the missing members, ensuring their safety before crossing their names off the list.
One by one.
Zhu Qing closed the last file, finished the warm milk, and carried the glass to the kitchen to wash.
The door to the children's room wasn’t fully closed—likely because Sheng Fang, wanting to stay alert for his niece’s return before bedtime, had asked Aunt Ping to leave it slightly ajar.
Zhu Qing peeked inside and saw that the little one had kicked off his blankets again.
She stepped into the room.
The child slept curled up in a ball, his head not resting on the pillow but instead hugging it tightly in his arms.
She had suggested buying him a plush toy to cuddle at night, but the little one always pouted and insisted it "wasn’t cool." Yet here he was, treating his pillow like a teddy bear.
Zhu Qing leaned down to tuck him in properly, about to leave when she caught his drowsy mumbling.
"Snowflake ice… run, run, don’t run away!"
"Qing-jie, plant watermelons… pull watermelons—"
She moved closer, listening, then watching.
This little one—even in his dreams, he was smiling.
......
The next morning, before the meeting began, Hao Zai discovered a notebook tucked among the case files.
It belonged to Song Sijia, used to exchange "smiley faces" with Zhu Qing. While helping organize the stall yesterday, he’d accidentally brought it back.
Flipping open the light green cover, he found small stickers inside.
"And this," he turned to the inner pages.
The first few sheets were filled with crooked, uneven handwriting.
Like a child just learning to write, struggling with stroke control, the characters were larger than coins.
Song Sijia had written simple words:
"Big," "small," "sky," and so on…
Numbers too. For "8," she’d drawn two small circles and connected them.
Rows of numbers filled the pages.
Some, the police deduced, might be daily stall earnings.
Others were indecipherable, seemingly meaningless.
"The notebook is new—the purchase date is written under the cover. So these words and numbers must’ve been written recently."
Zhu Qing leaned in. "Was Song Sijia learning to write?"
"So, a completely illiterate deaf-mute woman…" Hao Zai mused, "suddenly starts learning characters at twenty-five?"
Other officers gathered around.
"Yesterday at the stall, she wore her hair in a high ponytail, tied with a pearl hairband," Zhu Qing murmured, then asked Hao Zai, "Wasn’t there an accessories stall next to hers?"
Had Song Sijia bought the hairband there, or traded for it?
The discussion continued, lingering even as they entered the meeting room.
Song Sijia seemed different from the other four victims. Their medical records radiated despair, while she—newly literate—jotted down earnings with childlike numbers, decorating the pages with cute stickers.
Her psychological records labeled her a severe depressive, like the others.
But those files were unreliable. Xu Mingyuan would never leave incriminating evidence. He’d kept them all these years precisely because they couldn’t convict him.
In the meeting room, some fell silent; others whispered.
Zhu Qing twirled a pen, brow slightly furrowed.
She suddenly asked, "When did Song Sijia move out?"
"Not long ago, probably. Her family home wasn’t unlivable—just remote."
"Now she rents a cramped cubicle apartment. The rent’s high for its size. If her stall earnings were this meager, she’d barely afford food after paying it."
"Her parents… when she was little, they delayed treating her fever until she became deaf-mute. Then they resented her for it. Buying hearing aids? Impossible. Even if they had money, they’d never spend it on her—and they didn’t have much to begin with."
"Those unclear numbers—could they be savings? Each sticker marking progress toward buying hearing aids?"
Zhu Qing stopped spinning her pen. "If Song Sijia fought to escape her family, that’s completely unlike the other victims."
The room erupted.
"Wang Yingtong was diagnosed infertile. She just wanted her husband to say he’d love her even without children."
"Ding Panxiang raised a mentally disabled son alone, giving everything for no warmth in return. Not that she demanded repayment, but facing decades of darkness… she chose to leave this world with him."
"Deng Qiaorong begged her siblings and parents to treat her kindly, then realized—why should they? She had nothing to offer."
"You Minmin just wanted to be seen…"
But Song Sijia was different.
She left because she’d awakened—
She didn’t need her parents anymore.
Her sky wouldn’t collapse without them.
Selling at stalls, learning to write, adorning herself with hair accessories, saving for hearing aids…
Her world wasn’t entirely dark.
Her life was improving, bit by bit.
"Is it possible she never intended suicide?"
"That’s exactly what she told the sign language interpreter and social worker. Maybe she wasn’t shutting people out—maybe she meant it…"
"From the start, Xu Mingyuan never targeted her. Convincing a hopeful girl to die? What a project."
Inspector Mo summarized: "Then why put her on the list?"
The answer was obvious.
"A decoy. He never planned to include her." Xu Jiale stood abruptly. "From Xu Mingyuan’s office window, you see both the Kang’en Medical Center and our parked police cars across the street."
"He clutched Song Sijia’s file deliberately, but the real prey was someone else." Zeng Yongshan’s eyes sharpened. "The true records were likely destroyed."
As tension peaked, Liang Qikai rushed in.
"Xu Mingyuan’s aunt—" He slapped photos on the table. "Despite his wealth, he lets his dementia-ridden aunt live here. No hidden reason—she stays for the lively atmosphere."
In the photos, though cramped, the elderly woman and two friends sat around a faded little table, faces bright with laughter.
This was a promotional photo Liang Qikai found at the Kowloon Sanatorium.
"These two were friends the elderly lady made at the Kowloon Sanatorium," Liang Qikai explained. "The nurses said the place felt like an old-style housing estate, and she loved chatting with her friends there. She hated the upscale sanatoriums for being too quiet. When she first moved in, she often sat in the courtyard with her friends, basking in the sun and sharing gossip… But later, as her condition worsened, she gradually lost energy."
"The nurses and caregivers were reluctant to talk at first. It took a lot of effort to get this out of them. Xu Mingyuan slipped them money every month, hoping they’d take extra care of his aunt."
Every Tuesday, Xu Mingyuan would visit his aunt.
If the police’s initial theory was wrong, then Tuesday didn’t symbolize darkness, punishment, or torment at all—
Uncle Li suddenly realized: "At the radio station, I heard the producers say they were frustrated about the last-minute schedule change for the premiere."
Zeng Yongshan rushed out of the meeting room to verify with a phone call.
The sound of flipping files echoed in the room.
Soon, she hung up.
"The show Yin Yang was originally set to premiere on the weekend, but due to scheduling conflicts, it was moved to Tuesday for an early release."
"You Minmin didn’t deliberately choose Tuesday to commit suicide—she timed it with the premiere of Yin Yang."
"It wasn’t Tuesday… There was never any Tuesday pattern!" Someone slammed the table. "What was Deng Qiaorong’s exact time of death? The tea stall manager said they only noticed she was missing the next day. That means the time of death is uncertain—it could’ve been Tuesday, but if it was past midnight, it was Wednesday."
If there was no such thing as a "Tuesday deadline"—
Time had suddenly become even more urgent.
The police still couldn’t confirm whether Xu Mingyuan had chosen a fifth target.
Nor did they know when his meticulously designed death ritual would unfold.
This uncertainty had the entire Major Crimes Unit on edge.
"Three names from the Healing Society’s membership list still need verification!"
Team B of Major Crimes flipped through the Healing Society files again.
Every passing second was a reminder—
This was the final stretch.
……
Monday afternoon, 3:15 PM. The clock in Yau Ma Tei Police Station ticked relentlessly.
Xu Mingyuan’s 48-hour detention period was about to expire, and the evidence against him remained flimsy.
As officers escorted him through the common area, an old television played a live broadcast of the 60th-anniversary celebration at Hedderwick College.
Through the grainy static, the news ticker announced:
This is Hong Kong’s first elite through-train school. Its affiliated Weston Kindergarten is preparing a cultural performance.
"Now, a special report," the anchor’s voice echoed down the hallway. "Attending guests include founding alumni, current Education Bureau officials…"
Xu Mingyuan suddenly stopped.
He stared silently at the screen.
Memories from the therapy room flooded back, echoing in his mind.
A girl clutching her uniform, her face pale.
"Why are they bullying you?"
"At the anniversary ceremony, in front of everyone… If it crashes down before them, those bullies will suffer for life."
"During the wish ceremony, what do you want to wish for? To fly away with the balloons—"
The girl kept her head down, always down.
He handed her a tissue. "Don’t be afraid. Don’t you want an escape?"
The escorting officer urged, "Let’s go."
Xu Mingyuan’s lips curled into an eerie smile. "Officer, can I just finish watching this?"
Meanwhile, at Weston Kindergarten, the same 60th-anniversary celebration was being screened.
The only difference was that this wasn’t a news broadcast—the sister school’s ceremony was livestreamed via closed-circuit television to affiliated institutions.
In the kindergarten’s AV room, children sat cross-legged on soft mats.
The principal pointed at the screen, her voice gentle. "These are all outstanding seniors from Hedderwick College."
"They’ll perform piano, cello, ballet…"
"The cultural performance is about to begin. Let’s watch together and see how the seniors shine on stage." Her gaze swept over the children’s attentive faces. "First is the balloon-release wish ceremony. When you advance to the secondary division, you’ll get to participate in meaningful events like this too."
On screen, the scene shifted.
A girl in a white dress appeared on the rooftop of the school building.
The red ribbon around her waist matched the string of the balloon in her hand, tangling together.
The kindergarteners gasped, their tiny voices chiming in.
"No, no…"
"Don’t let go of the balloon!"
"Can I play with it?"
The emcee’s enthusiastic voice rang out.
"Now approaching us is Lin Xiyin, a top scholarship recipient from Class 5A."
The camera zoomed in, focusing on her face.
Her eyes were hollow as she walked slowly toward the edge.
The wind whipped her white skirt and hair wildly.
Behind her left ear, a strand of hair stuck out unnaturally—chopped unevenly, a stark contrast to her shoulder-length black locks.
Her worn canvas shoes stopped at the rooftop’s edge.
She looked up at the red-stringed balloon in her hand.
Then she let go.
Her toes lifted, and she leaped—
Screams erupted from the students below.
The camera shook violently. The emcee fell silent. Chaos ensued.
The air froze. The balloon string slipped free, drifting away.
At that moment, a figure lunged forward like lightning.
Zhu Qing’s hand brushed the balloon string before seizing the girl’s wrist just as she began to fall.
"Hold on!"
"Give me your other hand!"
Officers rushed in one after another, forming a human chain to pull the fragile girl back.
They strained, veins bulging, as if their sheer effort could undo the lives they hadn’t saved—
Wang Yingtong. Ding Panxiang. Deng Qiaorong. You Minmin.
Each had believed death was the only escape. If only someone had grabbed them like this, if they’d held on just a little longer…
A fraction of a second, one more breath—maybe everything would’ve been different.
Stay alive, and everything could change.
The girl’s slender figure, along with her white dress, dangled in the air above Hedderwick College.
Until—
Another hand reached out, pulling her up inch by inch…
The officers finally hauled her back from the brink.
The sunlight gently caressed the girl's pale face as her frail frame trembled, tears silently streaming down.
The TV screen froze on this moment.
At the police station, Xu Mingyuan stood rooted to the spot.
Meanwhile, in the kindergarten's media room, the children widened their eyes in awe.
"Whoa—"
"Is the superhero here?"
"It's the police! Madam and the officers!"
In a flash, Sheng Fang darted to the front of the TV.
The kindergarten principal nearly stopped breathing, gasping as she covered her mouth, her gaze fixed on the screen.
Her heart pounded like a drum. After what felt like an eternity, she finally found her voice again: "Children, please sit down."
"I won't sit!" Sheng Fang stood before the TV, bouncing even more excitedly than a popping candy. "See that? That's my niece!"
He lifted his little chin proudly. "My niece."
Below, Jin Bao and Little Yesi sat with sparkling eyes.
They waved their chubby little arms, swaying with joy as if they were at a concert.
The two toddlers cupped their hands around their mouths and cheered—
"Wow! Woo-hoo!"
