It was clearly after-school free time, when little Fangfang could have been comfortably lying on the sofa at home watching cartoons or rolling around on the carpet. Yet he insisted on following Zhu Qing to investigate a case, waiting in line outside for over an hour. Finally, when it was their turn, his excited little expression was completely unrestrained, as if he were on a field trip.
Coming from a family of police officers, Sheng Fang was naturally bold. He didn’t even bat an eye when hearing his colleagues mention a dismemberment case.
Now, as he lifted the curtain and stepped into Granny Huang’s dimly lit room, thick with incense smoke, his eyes sparkled with curiosity. He even politely greeted her.
"Granny Huang," Sheng Fang waved his little hand.
Coins were scattered across the table as the old woman sat with her eyes closed, murmuring incantations under her breath. She had been chanting all evening.
Once seated, Fangfang pressed his lips together—this was his promise to Zhu Qing when they were outside: no unnecessary chatter!
Even at three years old, the little boy had principles. Not only did he vow not to speak much—he didn’t say a word, sealing his lips tight like a little clam.
But that didn’t mean he sat still.
His eyes fixed on Granny Huang, he mimicked her movements, placing his hands on his knees and pinching his thumb and forefinger together as if performing his own silent calculations.
The conversation between Zhu Qing and Granny Huang, however, left Fangfang utterly bewildered.
"The practice of exchanging fates has existed since ancient times," Granny Huang slowly opened her cloudy eyes, her voice hoarse. "It requires a birth chart, personal belongings, and the flesh and blood of a living person."
This matched the statement Rong Zimei had given when reporting the case.
Zhu Qing recalled the details in the case file—Kuang Xiaoyan had secretly collected Lin Tingchao’s discarded hair ties, used tissues, even straws… The girl from a poor background once told her cousin that doing so would "steal some of her good fortune."
"Steal good fortune?" Granny Huang sneered, her withered lips twisting into an eerie smirk. "How do you know those things weren’t deliberately left behind by the rich? Those wealthy families are well-versed in dark arts."
"Are you suggesting Lin Tingchao intentionally left those personal items to lure Kuang Xiaoyan into collecting them, completing the ritual you mentioned?"
"The wealthy believe in this the most. They find someone poor with a compatible fate, win their trust with small favors, then coax them into offering their life as a wish." Granny Huang paused. "Fifteen years ago in Happy Valley, a tycoon’s daughter fell gravely ill, and they found a farm girl with a matching birth chart."
"What happened then?"
The old woman didn’t answer. She closed her eyes again, her wrinkled hands shuffling the coins on the table.
"These cursed practices… I’ve long abandoned them. Too much sin…"
Zhu Qing mentally reviewed the police records.
If Rong Zimei’s account was true, and Kuang Xiaoyan’s disappearance was indeed linked to Lin Tingchao—
Could the Lin family be using Kuang Xiaoyan as a scapegoat?
The idea of fate-exchange was just superstition masking human cruelty. Zhu Qing firmly believed that at its core, it was all about human nature.
But there were more than just mystical ways to shift misfortune.
Behind this, there might be a deeper conspiracy—and murder.
When Zhu Qing left, she tucked money beneath the incense burner. Granny Huang remained still, eyes shut, neither thanking her nor sparing a glance.
As the heavy curtain fell behind them, Fangfang—who had kept his lips sealed the entire time—immediately burst free like a bird released from a cage, circling Zhu Qing excitedly.
"Qingqing, Qingqing, can I talk now?" The little boy tugged at her sleeve, his round eyes gleaming with wonder. "Does she really know magic? Why did the coins move by themselves?"
They had only spent ten minutes in Granny Huang’s room, yet Sheng Fang seemed to have bottled up a whole speech. On the way home, he rewarded himself by chattering nonstop, like a thrilled audience member after a spectacular show.
Back home, the little master vividly recounted the night’s adventure to Aunt Ping.
Aunt Ping was an excellent listener, gasping in all the right places as she efficiently prepared thicker bedding for them—
She had suddenly felt a chill in the air before bed and decided to make adjustments.
"Just like this!" Sheng Fang pulled out a yellow sheet of paper and hastily drew a Bagua diagram on it, then scampered barefoot to fetch some coins.
Holding up his homemade talisman, his little face brimming with pride, he announced, "Qingqing, look—"
Zhu Qing cut him off. "Bedtime."
Fangfang’s expression turned deeply disapproving.
Rising on his tiptoes, he slapped the colorful paper onto Zhu Qing’s back and declared in his tiny voice, "Poof! You can’t see me!"
Such a mischievous little thing.
"..." Zhu Qing grabbed him by the back of his collar and hauled him off to the children’s room. "Bedtime."
"Once I learn real magic…" Sheng Fang wriggled under the covers, "the first thing I’ll do is turn you into a pig!"
......
Zhu Qing had no choice but to adjust to the suddenly intensified workload, while Fangfang had to get used to days that now felt emptier.
Truthfully, even before this, he had school, and his niece had work.
But at least in the evenings, the uncle-niece duo could curl up on the sofa together—one flipping through medical books on post-coma care, the other reading picture books. Or they’d crouch in front of the TV, giggling at cartoons.
Now, Zhu Qing often came home late, and Fangfang—under Aunt Ping’s watchful eye—would press his face against the balcony railing, eagerly waiting for her figure to appear downstairs.
Like a little "niece-watching" stone.
Fortunately, children’s moods shift quickly.
He soon found a new focus.
Standing before the calendar, Fangfang poked at the dates. "It’s Wednesday!"
Sheng Fang remembered—back at the amusement park, Zhu Qing had mentioned that Second Sister’s trial verdict would be announced on Wednesday.
"Qingqing, I want to go to court!" He looked up at her with pleading eyes.
Zhu Qing’s gaze drifted to the calendar.
Four months had passed since the Half-Mountain Skeleton Case was closed. Sheng Peishan’s trial had reached its final stage. When she received the court notice, she had mentioned it to Fangfang, but never considered taking him along.
In the original storyline, the young antagonist faced constant scorn because of Sheng Peishan. Every time he lashed out in anger, people only laughed harder—
"What? You wanna kill people like your Second Sister?"
Back then, the little villain hadn’t understood. Sheng Peishan had wronged many, but never him. When others called her evil, he fought them; when they said she deserved to die, he cursed back. No one ever taught him that family and morality were separate matters.
Zhu Qing’s mind flashed to the skeleton in the Half-Mountain villa’s fireplace.
She remembered He Jia’er’s mother, tears streaming down her wrinkled face, choking out—
"Let’s just pretend… my daughter is still out there somewhere, working as a war correspondent."
Zhu Qing didn’t want Fangfang to witness the cruelty of a loved one standing trial firsthand.
But right and wrong had to be made clear to him.
Sheng Fang listened quietly.
His cheeks were still stuffed with an unfinished custard bun, his small hands cradling a glass of warm milk as he took tiny sips.
A thick layer of milk skin clung to the corner of his mouth. Zhu Qing reached over with a tissue and gently wiped it away.
“Like a white-bearded grandpa,” she teased, her lips curling slightly.
Fangfang immediately corrected her, “White-bearded great-uncle!”
Zhu Qing had successfully diverted his attention.
But after a long pause, the little boy suddenly set down his cup.
“Don’t think you’ve won—”
“Hmm?”
“I still remember,” the young master of the Sheng family narrowed his eyes. “I’m just not going.”
Crime was crime, Qingzai had said. Second Sister would pay for what she’d done.
But the life that had vanished under her shovel was something she could never repay, no matter what.
Sheng Fang was young, but he understood these truths. That was why Zhu Qing always met his gaze squarely, speaking to him seriously, as an equal.
Qingzai told him every life was precious.
Fangfang nodded vigorously, swallowing the last soft bite of his custard bun.
He’d remember!
---
At dawn, the moment Zhu Qing stepped into the police station, she saw Little Sun and Zeng Yongshan rushing out.
They’d tracked down Rong Zimei’s whereabouts.
“The supermarket’s personnel files didn’t list her exact address. Coworkers said they weren’t close to her.”
“The old address from the household registry was outdated—Rong Zimei and her mother moved away years ago.”
“Luckily, a store clerk recalled Rong Zimei once taking leave because her mother was hospitalized. That’s how we pinpointed the hospital and the exact ward.”
Zhu Qing, Zeng Yongshan, and Little Sun arrived at the hospital, weaving through the inpatient wing until they found Room 301 at the end of the third-floor hallway.
Pushing open the door, they saw six beds packed tightly together.
Visiting hours hadn’t begun yet, so the ward was relatively quiet.
Rong Zimei sat by the bedside, massaging her mother’s palms and arms with practiced ease.
When the officers showed their badges and stated their purpose, she paused. “We can talk here.”
“The nurses will be rounding soon. I need to stay.”
“You said you found Xiaoyan’s finger?” Rong Zimei asked.
“A severed toe,” came the correction.
On the bed, Rong’s mother, severely paralyzed by stroke, let out a muffled whimper through her twisted mouth, clutching her daughter’s sleeve.
“It’s alright,” Rong Zimei soothed, patting her mother’s hand. “It’s about Xiaoyan.”
Investigations revealed the relationship between these two families and Kuang Xiaoyan was more complicated than imagined. Though Rong Zimei and Kuang Xiaoyan were “cousins,” their families had been distant—barely connected on the family tree, with little interaction over the years.
It was only after moving closer that they rekindled ties. The sundry shop owner’s testimony aligned: Kuang Xiaoyan’s parents were indeed unreliable, and the young girl often fled to her cousin’s home with her homework in tow.
After finishing her assignments, Kuang Xiaoyan would inevitably stay for meals. At first, Rong’s mother took pity and set a place for her.
But back then, the mother-daughter pair was barely scraping by themselves. Over time, the burden became unsustainable.
“Mom went to talk to Xiaoyan’s mother…” Rong Zimei recalled, her gaze distant. “She gave us some money—not much, just enough for groceries.”
In other words, for a long stretch of time, Kuang Xiaoyan and Rong Zimei had been inseparable.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Rong Zimei had provided this information in her initial missing person report. Now, her account was far more detailed.
“She’d just been fired from the clothing store and couldn’t find another job,” Rong Zimei said. “Her parents kept berating her at home, so she came to us… She kept saying she’d latch onto good fortune, that she would.”
“Xiaoyan was too proud. She refused to work as a waitress—said it was servile.”
“But with our level of education, what else could we do?”
“I told her to be realistic.” She continued, “Xiaoyan wouldn’t listen. The last time we met, we argued. She ran out of my house. I thought she’d come back, like before. But she never did.”
After that, they’d had no contact.
Meaning Rong Zimei’s claim of “three years missing” might be off by several months.
“I always said Lin Tingchao was suspicious,” Rong Zimei insisted. “You’ve found something, haven’t you?”
Yet when pressed about Lin Tingchao, she shook her head.
“Don’t know which school, don’t know her job. I’ve never met her.”
“Xiaoyan was the one who mentioned her.”
“I warned her this person seemed off, but she wouldn’t listen. She was determined to get close to Lin Tingchao.”
“Xiaoyan believed a word from the wealthy carried more weight than anything her broke cousin could say.”
“Where are Kuang Xiaoyan’s parents now?”
Rong Zimei’s lips twisted into a sneer. “One drank himself to death in a gutter. The other ran off with someone.”
Just then, a nurse wheeled in a medication cart.
Rong Zimei remained seated, carefully tucking the blanket around her mother.
As the officers turned to leave, one final question hung in the air:
“Why did the severed toe appear right after you filed the report?”
“I reported her missing half a year ago,” Rong Zimei said flatly. “The Changshawan police treated me like a lunatic.”
Zhu Qing handed her a business card. “Contact us if you remember anything else.”
As they walked away, the officers glimpsed Rong Zimei folding the card in half before stuffing it into the faded pocket of her jeans.
The nurse approached, and Rong Zimei’s voice sharpened with worry.
“Nurse, my mom kept clutching her head last night—like she was dizzy. Is it serious?”
“Could it be side effects from the blood pressure meds?”
“Not that I doubt the doctors…”
Her words faded behind them.
In the hallway, Zeng Yongshan kept her voice low. “You really think she’s uninvolved?”
“Hard to say about the rest,” Little Sun shrugged, “but Changshawan Station’s incompetence is legendary. Their complaint files pile higher than people.”
---
The criminal investigation division’s office was buried under paperwork.
Zhu Qing slammed Kuang Xiaoyan’s student records onto a desk, sending a puff of dust into the air.
“Careful,” Zeng Yongshan chided. “The doctor told you to avoid heavy lifting.”
“Reduce lifting,” Zhu Qing countered. “Not stop entirely.”
“Should I tattle to your uncle?”
At the mention of her nagging uncle, the niece immediately fell silent, leaving the remaining stack of documents for Hao Zai to handle.
"We've checked—Kuang Xiaoyan dropped out in her third year of secondary school. Here’s the list of all her classmates and even schoolmates from before that time."
"After combing through the entire school’s student and faculty records, there’s no one named Lin Tingchao."
Xu Jiale pointed to the household registration records: "There are thirteen people named Lin Tingchao in all of Hong Kong. Either their ages don’t match, or their gender is wrong."
Uncle Li took the documents and nearly laughed in frustration. "One emigrated, one passed away, one with a fake ID… and the rest are either elderly over seventy or underage children?"
Zhu Qing stared at the existing information on the whiteboard, her brow furrowed.
This situation reminded her of the suicidal girl named Lin Xiying from Hart College—back then, they’d only had a vague name to go on, and it had also led to a dead end. Back then, they’d narrowed their search to major events across Hong Kong before finally locating her.
This time, what approach should they take?
Or—could it be that this person simply didn’t exist?
Zeng Yongshan shared the same doubts.
After a moment of thought, she said, "Do you think Rong Zimei might be misleading us? Maybe there’s no Lin Tingchao at all."
"But we checked the records at Cheung Sha Wan Police Station—half a year ago, Rong Zimei really did file a report looking for her cousin. If she’s staging this whole act, what’s her motive?"
"Doesn’t seem likely. Remember what those nurses said this morning?"
Before leaving the hospital earlier, the police had already obtained the nurses’ testimonies.
Now, Zhu Qing flipped open the notepad.
"After being fired, she practically spent every hour in the hospital room."
"When she was working as a cashier at the supermarket, she couldn’t even afford her mother’s medical bills. Now that she’s providing full-time care, she’s actually saving on nursing fees."
Zeng Yongshan recalled Rong Zimei’s demeanor during their two meetings.
"Honestly, if her cousin went missing, it’s only natural she’d want to report it."
"Our professional instincts are hopeless—no matter who we meet, our first thought is to treat them as a suspect."
"I’m inclined to believe Rong Zimei genuinely doesn’t know. But before we conclude anything, we need to confirm whether ‘Lin Tingchao’ actually exists."
Zhu Qing lowered her head, her fingertips lightly tracing the list of Kuang Xiaoyan’s elementary and secondary schoolmates.
"Wait." She looked up at Xu Jiale. "Do you remember the name of the convenience store owner’s son?"
During yesterday’s phone call, the man’s reaction to hearing "Kuang Xiaoyan" had been too unusual—it didn’t seem like just a casual neighborly connection.
The store owner had mentioned his son was Kuang Xiaoyan’s elementary school classmate.
"I think the old lady did call his name…" Xu Jiale tapped his forehead. "What was it again? I swear I remember—"
"Shh!" Zeng Yongshan shot them a warning glance.
Heavy footsteps approached, growing louder.
"Shh what?" Weng Zhaolin scanned the messy office. "How many times have I told you? There’s a method to investigations."
"With the way you’re handling this… solving the case? You might as well wait for the killer to turn themselves in!"
…
As it turned out, Weng Zhaolin wasn’t wrong this time—the young officers’ lack of experience had sent them on a pointless detour in Fuk Wo Street.
Now, after leaving the convenience store at the end of the alley, they headed straight to the "Good Luck" mahjong parlor.
The moment they pushed open the glass door, thick cigarette smoke rushed at them. Xu Jiale, caught off guard, coughed violently.
He turned to Zhu Qing—the unflappable Madam remained expressionless, making him look like an amateur in comparison.
"How are you not coughing?" His voice was hoarse from the fit.
Zhu Qing: "I’m holding my breath."
Her voice came out slightly strained.
Not exactly effortless…
Frowning, she waved a hand in front of her face, trying to disperse the smoke.
The mahjong parlor was hazy with fumes. They flashed their badges at the owner, then walked straight to the innermost table.
A man as thin as a bamboo pole was about to play a tile when he spotted the approaching officers. The cigarette dangling from his lips nearly fell.
"Officers, what’s the matter?" His words were muffled by the cigarette.
Zhu Qing got straight to the point: "Do you know Kuang Xiaoyan?"
The bamboo pole’s real name was Yao Zhiyong.
He froze, then set down his tile. "You guys play without me—I’ll be right back."
"Hey, seriously?" His friends complained. "Three players? How are we supposed to play?"
Ignoring them, Yao Zhiyong led the officers to a small partitioned room at the back.
He instinctively reached for another cigarette but, meeting Zhu Qing’s sharp gaze, sheepishly stuffed the pack back into his pocket.
"Do you know Kuang Xiaoyan?" Xu Jiale repeated, this time with more emphasis.
"Yeah, elementary school classmate." Yao Zhiyong shrugged.
"Just classmates?" Xu Jiale stepped closer. "We heard you had a crush on her."
The sudden accusation hit its mark.
Yao Zhiyong didn’t realize the officer was bluffing—his expression stiffened, and he scratched the back of his head.
"Who told you that?" He scowled. "Gossipy bastards… that was years ago."
Under persistent questioning, Yao Zhiyong finally admitted it.
"Fine, I liked her. But that’s ancient history!"
"She asked me what I could give her. What a joke—food and clothes, obviously. It’s not like I’d let her starve."
"My parents never knew. If they had, they wouldn’t have approved. What kind of family did she come from? Not good enough for me."
A flash of malice crossed Yao Zhiyong’s eyes as he sneered. "Kuang Xiaoyan thought she was some kind of princess? Living in a damn tin shack, just because she was a little pretty—"
"She dropped out ages ago. I saw her once at that ‘Pretty Girl Fashion’ dump in Sham Shui Po—one of those cracked-up alley shops. Wearing cheap knockoffs, trying to strut like a model, swaying her hips."
Yao Zhiyong mimicked her with exaggerated movements, his voice mocking. "Always acting so high and mighty, putting on airs. No clue what kind of delusions she was feeding herself. A chicken’s a chicken—no way it’s turning into a phoenix."
Xu Jiale cut off his venomous reminiscing. "So you turned love into hate?"
"Officer, don’t twist my words!" Yao Zhiyong jumped in protest. "We hadn’t spoken since! Just nodded if we passed each other in the street!"
"Last time I saw her? Honestly can’t remember. After she rejected me, it’s not like I kept hanging around… Officer, I’ve got pride too."
"Do you have any photos of Kuang Xiaoyan?"
"Probably—"
"Hand them over."
"Officer, is she some celestial beauty that I should carry her photo around?" Yao Zhiyong scoffed. "I definitely don’t have one on me now, but there might be an old childhood group photo at home."
"It was probably from a school anniversary performance... Our class put on a play together, so there should be a group photo."
Xu Jiale and Zhu Qing exchanged a glance.
He nodded. "Take us to your place to look for it."
Yao Zhiyong reluctantly led them through several narrow alleys, muttering under his breath, "What a hassle, it’s been so many years... I was on a winning streak at mahjong, finally got a pure hand..."
His face twisted in displeasure as he grumbled about Kuang Xiaoyan—how she’d never given him an inch when they were younger, and now her disappearance was causing him trouble.
He stopped in front of an old house and fished out his keys.
Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale waited by the door.
Nearly forty minutes later, Yao Zhiyong suddenly held up a yellowed photo album. "Found it!"
It was from their third-grade school play—their class had performed Snow White.
"Kuang Xiaoyan wanted to play the princess, but the teacher said no. The princess had to bring her own gown, and her family couldn’t afford one," Yao Zhiyong said with disdain. "In the end, she played a dwarf, just wearing a handmade, shabby little hat."
In the photo, a group of children stood in front of a stage backdrop, dressed in various costumes.
Kuang Xiaoyan stood in the corner, her delicate face devoid of a smile, but her bright eyes shimmered with quiet defiance.
That stubborn expression matched perfectly with the photo of her at the tin shack, chin held high.
"Seriously, a third-grade photo?" Xu Jiale rolled his eyes. "How are we supposed to recognize anyone from over a decade ago?"
"This is the only one left," Yao Zhiyong said.
Zhu Qing carefully placed the photo into an evidence bag. "Please come with us to the station to assist with a sketch."
Inside the police van on the way back, the confined space made Zhu Qing suddenly aware of the cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes.
She lifted her collar and wrinkled her nose.
Just a short while in the mahjong parlor, and the stench of tobacco had seeped deep into her clothes.
Her nephew’s nose was sharper than a puppy’s—if he caught a whiff, he’d surely lecture her with grave concern—
"Qing-jie, smoking is bad for your health!"
...
Sheng Fang could feel the sincerity of Weston Kindergarten.
Since the start of the term, their schedule had been full of creative twists, all designed to keep the little ones entertained.
Today, Teacher Ji had them playing "Little Supermarket."
The day before, the children had brought household items from home, and with the classroom supplies, they set up their "shelves" and began the game. The class, including Sheng Fang, had thirteen kids, split into two groups—shop assistants (who also handled checkout) and customers. The customers were already immersed, shuffling around the shelves with tiny steps.
With thirteen kids divided into two groups, one was left over.
The little young master put on his most earnest expression. "Teacher, can I be the supermarket boss?"
Teacher Ji: "..."
"No, we didn’t assign a boss role."
Fangfang pressed on. "What about HR manager?"
This was a term Sheng Fang had just picked up—his niece and colleagues had mentioned it after investigating a supermarket HR manager.
The worldly little boy had seen it all, leaving poor Teacher Ji struggling to explain the rules every time.
Teacher Ji sighed deeply but held firm. "Our game only has shop assistants, cashiers, and customers."
"Fine," Sheng Fang finally relented. "I’ll be a customer."
Yesi and Jinbao, who had chosen to be shop assistants, curiously crowded around.
In unison, they asked, "Why?"
"Because shop assistants and cashiers have to do math," Fangfang whispered. "Duh."
Yesi and Jinbao gasped in realization.
"Teacher! I want to be a customer too!"
"Me too!"
The chorus of tiny voices erupted again as the other kids, oblivious to the reasoning, simply followed the trend.
Teacher Ji had a headache.
But she maintained a professional smile. "Alright, alright, settle down. We’ll draw lots to decide."
With the lottery system, Fangfang’s influence was neutralized.
Luckily, the trio of best friends all drew "customer" roles.
They wandered the shelves, chattering about last night’s events.
"I went dancing," Yesi said. "Wore the new shoes Mommy gave me."
Jinbao: "I played at the gold shop again. Same as every day after school."
When Sheng Fang shared his own adventure, his friends gasped in awe.
"What did you ask the fortune teller?"
"Qing-jie said even if the kindergarten shuts down, it won’t matter," Fangfang sighed. "She’d just pick a new one."
Who would’ve thought? The little master had been outmaneuvered by his niece.
The other two, while sympathetic, brainstormed a new plan.
"We could just buy the kindergarten!"
As Teacher Ji passed by, she overheard their brilliant new idea.
Buy the kindergarten—open when they felt like it, closed when they didn’t. Perfect.
"Right!" Fangfang’s eyes lit up. "And Teacher Ji—"
Teacher Ji braced herself.
Surely they’d fire her—she was always so strict with them.
But the soft, earnest voices that followed made her feel like she was floating on a cloud.
So warm.
"We’ll give Teacher Ji a raise!"
"That way, she won’t nag us!"
"Turn a blind eye..."
"Add a hundred bucks!"
"A thousand!"
"More," Jinbao mused. "How much is ‘more’?"
Fangfang declared, "A billion, obviously!"
Teacher Ji’s headache vanished, replaced by overwhelming emotion.
The kids were far more generous than the principal.
...
At seven in the evening, the lights of the Yau Ma Tei Police Station CID room shone brightly against the dusk.
Sheng Fang, ever the busybody, had dragged Aunt Ping along after dinner to "visit the team," clutching his lunchbox.
This time, Aunt Ping had brought three thermal flasks. The moment the lids came off, rich aromas filled the air.
"Aunt Ping’s here with evening soup for everyone!"
The little young master’s quirky phrasing was something only Zhu Qing fully understood.
Her nephew’s self-invented "evening soup" was his take on "afternoon tea."
The colleagues' stomachs growled before their voices could rise in appreciation.
This was the slow-simmered matsutake mushroom and old pigeon soup that Aunt Ping had spent the entire afternoon preparing. The aroma of the fragrant mushrooms and tender pigeon meat was enough to make anyone’s mouth water.
"Everyone gets a share, everyone!" Aunt Ping chuckled cheerfully as she deftly ladled out bowls of soup, first serving the colleagues at their workstations before deliberately setting aside two portions—one for Inspector Mo and one for Weng Zhaolin.
The colleagues from Team A next door, who had stayed behind to finish their reports, were practically drooling, craning their necks to peek over. Team A wasn’t nearly as fortunate—they lacked both a considerate boss like Team B’s leader and a runaway heiress colleague, so naturally, they missed out on such a delicious treat.
Little Fangfang carefully carried a bowl of soup toward John’s office, taking slow, steady steps.
Fangfang was always reliable—Aunt Ping had repeatedly reminded him. This soup, simmered for hours with premium herbs, was meant to replenish the energy of hardworking colleagues, so not a single drop could be spilled.
Weng Zhaolin needed the nourishment too.
"Yours," Fangfang said, unable to knock with his hands full, so he nudged John’s office door with his tiny foot instead.
Weng Zhaolin stood up to open the door. "I get some too?"
The crease between his brows smoothed out, as if soothed by the warmth of this thoughtful gesture.
"Of course you do!"
His stern expression melted instantly.
In the police station, people rarely included him when sharing good food. Only this young master of the Sheng family—first sharing rice pudding with him, then handmade sweet soup, and now bringing him soup…
Each time, it sent a wave of warmth through his heart.
Weng Zhaolin lifted the bowl to his lips, savoring the rich, savory broth spreading across his tongue.
This was the taste of home—just like years ago, when he’d first joined the force and his mother would bring him soup.
Lost in nostalgia, he reached out to pat Sheng Fang’s little shoulder, only to find empty air.
The boy had already scampered off on his short legs.
Fangfang still had to play assistant to Zhu Qing—
No time to listen to Weng Zhaolin’s sentimental words.
At her workstation, Zhu Qing sipped her soup while keeping an eye on the forensics department.
Yao Zhiyong had been brought in to help with a composite sketch for three hours now, and the technicians were still tweaking details based on his descriptions.
"Three hours and still no progress? Can’t he even remember his first love’s face?"
"What did she even look like…?" Hao Zai murmured. "I heard she was pretty?"
"Pretty, sure, but ambition was written all over her face. Yao Zhiyong said she’d preen in front of the mirror at some rundown clothing store, wearing cheap knockoffs like they were designer."
So far, the police had few leads.
Everyone said the missing woman, Kuang Xiaoyan, was striking—the kind who turned heads on the street. But coming from a tin-shack background, she couldn’t live up to the ambition burning in her eyes. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t break free from the mud. No matter how fiercely she flapped her wings, fate kept her grounded. All she could do was watch enviously from the shadows as others thrived.
"Maybe that’s why someone from a wealthy family took advantage of her."
"That’s not entirely fair. Are only those born into privilege allowed to want a better life?"
The office fell silent, save for the sounds of sipping soup and rustling papers.
Then, hurried footsteps shattered the quiet.
"Inspector Mo, we’ve found Lin Tingchao!"
"Actually, not Lin Tingchao," the officer corrected. "It’s ‘Lin Tingchao.’ Rong Zimei only heard the name from Kuang Xiaoyan, and since ‘Ting’ isn’t a common character, she got it wrong."
"We’ve been searching for ‘Lin Tingchao,’ which is why the records turned up nothing."
The officer placed a ballet competition photo on the table.
In the center stood a graceful young girl, poised on her toes, a confident smile on her face.
"Lin Tingchao, first prize in the 1988 Hong Kong Youth Ballet Competition."
"After high school, she went to study at the Juilliard Ballet Academy."
He then pointed to an attached newspaper clipping—
Prodigy Lin Tingchao Selected for Overseas Training in the UK
Zeng Yongshan picked up the article.
"In yesterday’s Hong Kong Youth Ballet Competition, contestant Lin Tingchao performed her routine despite injury and took first place."
"Reports indicate that the dancer had suffered a recurring ankle injury two weeks prior and was advised by doctors to withdraw. Her outstanding performance was achieved with the aid of painkillers."
She raised an eyebrow. "So she’s real. If Rong Zimei claims she deliberately got close to Kuang Xiaoyan, does that mean it really was about ‘swapping fates’?"
The police didn’t believe in such superstitions, but some people did.
Could the Lin family really have been involved in something shady?
The thought cast a heavy silence over the room.
……
Rumor had it the composite sketch was nearly finished.
Fangfang wanted to see, but Zhu Qing firmly kept him at his desk. If he wanted to play with puzzles, she said, he could go buy one at the toy store in Causeway Bay—no fooling around at the station.
This case still confused Sheng Fang, so his involvement was minimal.
Stuck at Zhu Qing’s workstation, he slumped over the cool desktop, idly flipping through case files with his small hands.
"So—bo—ring—" he drawled, swinging his little legs.
Zhu Qing’s pen paused mid-signature. Without looking up, she said, "Tomorrow, I’ll sign you up for fencing classes. The school’s in Wan Chai."
"Once your week’s packed, you won’t have time to be bored."
The little boy jerked upright, eyes wide. "No, no!"
He refused to relive his "childhood" of tedious tutoring—that was even worse than now.
Fangfang patted his chest proudly, declaring that someone as smart as him didn’t need formal lessons. Hadn’t he taught himself drums with just Teacher Jinbao’s guidance?
"No boasting," Zhu Qing said, rapping his forehead lightly with her pen.
The child clutched his head, pouting. "Too—hard!"
Zhu Qing still remembered the first time she’d met Fangfang—she’d lifted the little rascal right off the ground.
Dangling mid-air in his Iron Man costume, the chubby kid kicked his legs, revealing a child-sized fencing uniform adorned with medals under the cape.
"No quitting halfway," Zhu Qing said firmly, leaving no room for argument.
The young master of the Sheng family protested—he was just bored, not tired of his cushy life.
Who wanted a week packed with classes? None of them even interested him!
"The puzzle results are out." Technician Chen hurried over, holding a freshly printed composite sketch. "Yao Zhiyong made several adjustments—this is the final version."
Everyone gathered around to look.
Only little Fangfang remained, pouting as he glared at his niece's retreating back.
"Is this Kuang Xiaoyan?"
"She does bear a striking resemblance to Lin Tingchao—six or seven parts alike."
Zeng Yongshan suddenly remembered something and turned to Zhu Qing. "Didn’t Granny Huang mention something yesterday about... exchanging fates? That their appearances had to be similar too?"
"If Kuang Xiaoyan imitated Lin Tingchao because they already looked alike, but their destinies were completely different—"
"Then to have her fate exploited by the wealthy just because of that... how tragic."
For now, it was all baseless speculation. Inspector Mo Zhenbang set down the sketch and made a decisive call. "Let’s go see Lin Tingchao."
The team rushed out, but just then, a phone rang.
Sister Zhen, the administrative staff, answered and called after them—
"Wait! Doctor Cheng says the severed toe test results are in!"
Before heading out on the case, Zhu Qing had handed her child over to Aunt Ping.
Now, Aunt Ping was busy clearing soup bowls and spoons around the office.
Behind her, the little young master narrowed his dark, grape-like eyes, tilting his head slightly with every step, radiating an air of righteous accusation.
"Confess! Was it you?" Fangfang declared, as if cracking a case. "You’re the one who told Zhu Qing the fencing instructor’s number!"
"Indeed, young master. Found it in the old business card box at the Peak Villa."
"For horseback riding, I booked Coach Chen from Sha Tin Stables—the same one who taught your eldest sister back then..."
"Oil painting lessons at the Arts Centre, plus abacus and astronomy. Seven days a week—I gave Zhu Qing eight business cards in total."
The little one planted his hands on his hips, mimicking a TV judge’s stern tone—
"Wow, Aunt Ping, you’ve got an answer for everything!"
