Just minutes ago, the CID office was filled with the rich aroma of Aunt Ping’s old pigeon soup, as everyone held their bowls and discussed the case.
In the blink of an eye, the situation took a sudden turn. Mo Zhenbang swiftly assigned tasks: Zhu Qing, Zeng Yongshan, and Liang Qikai would head to the hospital and Lin Tingchao’s home, while he, along with Little Sun and Hao Zai, would investigate Lin Tingchao’s medical records, major life events, and academic history. The remaining officers would stay behind to sort out the timeline.
The moment he finished speaking, the officers set down their soup bowls, grabbed old photos of Lin Tingchao, the composite sketch of Kuang Xiaoyan, and other relevant materials, and rushed out of the office.
Everyone was busy—even Aunt Ping was clearing the dishes to go home—leaving only little Fangfang momentarily out of the loop.
Finally, Fangfang also cracked the case—
Zhu Qing was sending him to an extracurricular class he had no interest in, and the mastermind behind it all was Aunt Ping!
Behind them, the young master of the Sheng family piped up in a childish voice, demanding answers, before the group gradually disappeared into the distance.
As they passed the technical department, Zhu Qing caught a glimpse of Yao Zhiyong’s figure out of the corner of her eye.
He was slumped in a swivel chair, his thin frame swallowed by his shirt. For Kuang Xiaoyan’s composite sketch, Yao Zhiyong had spent a full three hours, but no matter how he pieced it together, something felt off. He had considered half-heartedly finishing it, but the officers were sharper than he expected—when he tried to slip it past them, one slammed the table, jolting him awake.
At last, the sketch was done. Yao Zhiyong stretched his shoulders and neck, turning to stand up.
“Hey.” Zhu Qing suddenly doubled back and slapped Lin Tingchao’s old photo onto his desk.
“Ever seen this girl?”
The girl in the photo wore a ballet dress, her posture graceful.
Yao Zhiyong squinted. “Who’s this?”
“Ever seen her with Kuang Xiaoyan?”
Leaning closer, Yao Zhiyong suddenly scoffed. “Madam, are you messing with me? This one’s clearly a rich girl—why would she hang around Kuang Xiaoyan?”
He jabbed at the photo. “Birds of a feather, you know? A sparrow trying to climb onto a phoenix—”
“So, you haven’t seen her?” Zhu Qing cut him off coldly.
Yao Zhiyong shrugged. “Still, she’s way hotter than Kuang Xiaoyan.”
His greasy gaze lingered on the photo.
Zhu Qing snatched it back.
The group had walked far before Yao Zhiyong’s muttering reached them—
“What’s with the attitude? Watch out, I’ll file a complaint.”
In the hallway, Xu Jiale mimicked Yao Zhiyong’s tone: “‘Kuang Xiaoyan thought she was a swan?’ Pah! He’s the one losing his pants at the mahjong parlor.”
Zeng Yongshan fumed. “What kind of person is that?”
Xu Jiale sneered. “You didn’t see the look on his face earlier—mocking Kuang Xiaoyan, calling her ‘what kind of trash’… even said his parents looked down on her too.”
“And what is he?” Zeng Yongshan gritted her teeth. “A scrawny, sharp-faced loser with no real job, rotting in a mahjong den day and night. Even if Kuang Xiaoyan aimed low, she’d never stoop to him!”
Three official vehicles set off simultaneously.
“Ignore trash like that.” Liang Qikai smiled as he opened the car door, then paused and tossed the keys to Zhu Qing. “You drive.”
Zeng Yongshan and Liang Qikai took the back seats.
Zhu Qing had a mobile phone, making communication easier, so before receiving Lin Tingchao’s latest address, they first headed to the hospital.
At this hour, the hospital was thick with the mingled scents of congee and other bland meals. No matter how light the patients’ diets were, the sheer number of people packed together filled the air with a stifling, antiseptic-tinged food odor.
Rong Zimei sat by her mother’s bedside, spoon-feeding her congee.
Liang Qikai murmured, “Caring for a stroke patient is exhausting. Even something as simple as feeding them takes forever.”
The nurse at the doorway nodded, her tone resigned. “Taking care of a patient is nothing like caring for a child. Kids might fuss, but at least they smile and cling to you, warming your heart. But patients… over time, it just wears you down.”
“But Miss Rong is very filial,” the head nurse added. “Since her mother was hospitalized, she’s either been at work or here. Recently, she lost her job at the supermarket, so she’s been here full-time.”
She sighed. “We all know her situation. Even with a job, the medical bills were a struggle. Now it’s even harder. I’ve tried to find her caregiving work in the same ward, but nothing’s come up yet.”
“You can tell she’s worn out—her face keeps getting paler.”
The head nurse watched Rong Zimei with sympathy.
She was still so young. Maybe she didn’t see it as a burden, but to outsiders, it was heartbreaking.
Inside the room, Rong Zimei held the congee bowl in one hand while gently wiping the spilled broth from her mother’s crooked mouth with the other. Half the congee made it down her throat; the other half dribbled out. Rong’s mother couldn’t speak, but her eyes brimmed with shame and despair, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
“Illness… it’s pitiful,” Zeng Yongshan whispered.
Zhu Qing stared at the scene, suddenly reminded of her own mother.
A proud woman like Sheng Peirong, trapped in an unresponsive body—if her mind was still awake, how agonizing must that be?
“It’s okay, take your time.” Rong Zimei dabbed her mother’s tears with a towel. “You’re doing better than before.”
“Miss Rong.”
Hearing the voice, Rong Zimei finally noticed the officers and turned.
After listening to their questions, she said, “I’ve never met Lin Tingchao.”
But when Liang Qikai showed her Lin Tingchao’s photo, her expression shifted.
“They look alike,” Rong Zimei murmured under her breath. “No wonder… no wonder Xiaoyan always said she could borrow her luck.”
“Officers, it has to be her.” She looked up, certain. “How is Xiaoyan now?”
“You said Kuang Xiaoyan knew Lin Tingchao at school, but Lin wasn’t her classmate.”
Rong Zimei frowned, confused.
“Then how did Xiaoyan know her?” She puzzled over it. “Xiaoyan told me she’d follow that girl in the cafeteria, even knew what she liked to eat.”
Rong Zimei recalled, “Xiaoyan mentioned that the girl was picky—no onions, no spicy food. She said only real rich girls were that spoiled.”
“Details—that’s how you tell someone’s background,” Rong Zimei said. “That’s what Xiaoyan believed.”
“Was this before Kuang Xiaoyan dropped out?”
Rong Zimei thought carefully, then shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
Just then, Zhu Qing’s mobile phone rang.
She glanced at the screen, stepped out of the hospital room, and leaned against the corridor to answer the call.
"Dr. Cheng?"
"The incision on the severed toe shows signs of muscle tissue shrinkage, indicating the person was still alive when the toe was cut off."
Zhu Qing's gaze drifted back into the hospital room. "Sister Zhen just told me over the phone."
"Is that all?"
Cheng Xinglang's voice paused briefly.
"Initial assessment suggests the victim is female. Male toe bones are typically thicker, but gender determination based solely on toe bones has a high margin of error."
"It can serve as a reference but shouldn’t be the sole basis for conclusions."
Zhu Qing nodded. "Any other findings?"
"There’s one more private matter—"
"I’ll hang up first." Before she could even process his words, Zhu Qing spotted Liang Qikai and Zeng Yongshan exiting the hospital room, shifting her focus back to the case. "We’ll discuss it back at the station."
The station had already sent over an address, and the three of them headed to the dance center founded by Lin Tingchao.
The receptionist greeted them politely.
"Teacher Lin," she said, leading the officers to the practice room door. "There are three detectives from the Major Crimes Division here to see you."
Lin Tingchao turned around.
They had been searching for her for two whole days.
Finally, they were face to face.
......
"Did you tell her?" Fangfang practically threw himself onto Cheng Xinglang, his round eyes wide and blinking rapidly. "Why didn’t you say it?"
His small hands clutched Cheng Xinglang’s knees as he leaned forward, holding his breath.
He was waiting for a definitive answer.
"Your niece didn’t give me a chance to speak."
Fangfang dramatically slumped his head. "No way..."
For the young master of the Sheng family, today felt like the end of the world.
There were only seven days in a week, yet Aunt Ping had given his niece eight business cards—piano, horseback riding, fencing, abacus, oil painting... not even a moment to breathe.
Fangfang counted on his fingers, growing more desperate with each tally.
No escape. If only he hadn’t whined about being "so bored, so bored, so bored" in front of his niece earlier.
As he trudged downstairs, dejected, he bumped into Cheng Xinglang delivering test results. Seizing the opportunity, he latched onto the doctor’s white coat, tugging and pleading for help.
But now, even Dr. Cheng could only shrug helplessly.
"Qingzai is ruthless." Fangfang sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I know."
The steps behind the police station were warm under the setting sun. Fangfang sat beside Cheng Xinglang, staring at the horizon as he pondered life.
Aunt Ping stood nearby, holding a thermos, soup bowls, and a lunchbox, patiently waiting for the little master to vent.
She had never seen the young master so crestfallen back when they lived on the hill.
"I care about Qingzai the most!" Sheng Fang kicked a pebble, pouting. "Today, I didn’t even watch cartoons after dinner—I rushed here to bring her soup. And how does she repay me? She—"
Cheng Xinglang pulled a fruit candy from his pocket and handed it over. "Ungrateful."
"Exactly!" Fangfang tore open the wrapper, his eyes sparkling with newfound camaraderie.
He leaned closer to the doctor, whispering conspiratorially, "Help me out, please!"
Aunt Ping pretended to adjust the thermos while eavesdropping.
The two huddled together, heads nearly touching, murmuring in secret.
By the time Fangfang stood up and waved goodbye to Cheng Xinglang—
His previously puffy, frustrated face had smoothed out.
The young master clenched his tiny fists with determination. He would convince Qingzai.
After all, their Qingzai wasn’t heartless.
She adored her little uncle!
......
In the dance studio, a dozen four- and five-year-olds stood in two rows, practicing basic moves to the rhythm of the piano.
When the children rose onto their toes, their chubby faces tensed with focus, like tiny, earnest swans. Some movements were clumsy, but their smiles broke through during spins, their round little bellies stretching their leotards.
"Watch your toes and knees," Lin Tingchao said softly, gently adjusting one child’s ankle. "Keep your eyes forward when you spin—yes, just like that."
"Take a ten-minute break, everyone. Don’t forget to drink water."
As she turned, her steps light and graceful, she led the officers to the lounge.
A plaque hung above the door:
Tingchao Dance Arts Center.
According to their research, Lin Tingchao had recently returned from studying abroad. The meticulously decorated center had filled its classes within three months of opening. Photos on the wall showed her posing with various celebrities.
"Please, have some tea."
The lounge’s leather sofa was scattered with beige cushions.
Lin Tingchao tilted the teapot slightly, her fingers long and pale, nails neatly trimmed without embellishment. When speaking, she maintained steady eye contact—neither intrusive nor evasive, just the right balance of warmth.
"Officers, may I ask...?"
The detectives placed Lin Tingchao’s photo beside a composite sketch of Kuang Xiaoyan on the coffee table.
At first glance, there was a resemblance—both had oval faces, almond eyes, and thin lips. But upon closer inspection, Lin Tingchao’s gaze was gentler, her demeanor poised. Kuang Xiaoyan’s brows were sharper, her chin slightly raised, her eyes burning with defiance, as if always ready to argue with fate.
Lin Tingchao’s eyes lingered on the sketch before she set the teapot down, turning it slightly. Then she picked up a teacup and brought it to her lips.
"Do you know Kuang Xiaoyan?" Zhu Qing asked directly.
Lin Tingchao’s fingers stilled.
"Kuang Xiaoyan?" She tilted her head slightly, smiling. "Is she an employee here? When the center first opened, I was very strict with hiring, so turnover was high. Maybe if you tell me her English name, I’d recognize her."
Zhu Qing pointed at the composite photo, sliding it toward Lin Tingchao. "She’s been missing for three years."
Lin Tingchao lowered her gaze, her fingertips resting on the image. After a long pause, she started to shake her head—
Then the detective’s voice cut in.
"Ms. Lin, we did some research on our way here."
"Seven years ago, you won first prize in the Hong Kong Youth Ballet Competition. Back then, your old ankle injury flared up, and doctors advised you to withdraw. But you insisted on finishing the performance after taking painkillers."
"Many judges were heartbroken, thinking they’d lost a prodigy. Yet against all odds, you persevered."
Zeng Yongshan flipped open her notebook, scanning a hastily scribbled line. "Coincidentally, around that time, Kuang Xiaoyan entered your life."
Superstitions about "borrowing lifespan" to alter fate were rampant among the wealthy.
Lin Tingchao’s foot injury, which doctors had warned could end her dancing career, suddenly improved—just as Kuang Xiaoyan began appearing frequently by her side.
Was it a coincidence? Had Lin deliberately sought Kuang out? Or had she discovered that Kuang could "ward off misfortune" for her and started exploiting her?
But the inconsistency lay in their ages: seven years ago, Lin was seventeen, and Kuang was sixteen.
Would a wealthy girl of that age really understand such things? And how had Kuang, who dropped out of school at fifteen, ended up at Lin’s elite private school?
"Three and a half years ago, you were secretly hospitalized for aplastic anemia."
"The doctors said the odds of finding a matching bone marrow donor for your condition were lower than winning the lottery. Out of millions in Hong Kong, only a handful could match."
"Yet, from admission to the transplant surgery, it took you less than a month."
Lin Tingchao’s eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly.
"All the medical staff said you were unbelievably lucky."
"The surgery went unusually smoothly, and soon after, you left to study in the UK." Zhu Qing looked up. "And Kuang Xiaoyan just happened to vanish around that same time."
The lounge fell silent.
Only the distant strains of a piano drifted in, accompanied by children counting beats in their small, clear voices.
"Now, we’ve found this." Zeng Yongshan pulled a transparent evidence bag from her briefcase.
Inside was a close-up photo of a severed toe, alongside a slip of paper bearing Kuang Xiaoyan’s birth details.
Lin’s lips quivered slightly. She turned her face away, unable to look.
Zhu Qing: "We’ve uncovered evidence that Kuang Xiaoyan… might still be alive."
Lin Tingchao’s head snapped up, her pupils constricting.
"Where is she?" Zhu Qing asked, enunciating each word. "Is she being kept by your family—"
"Locked away somewhere dark?"
Children’s laughter echoed in the distance, making the stifling atmosphere in the room even more oppressive.
Liang Qikai stepped in smoothly: "Miss Lin, please come with us to the station for questioning."
Lin’s hands clenched and unclenched on her knees.
"That’s not how it is. You’ve misunderstood." After a long pause, she regained her composure. "Give me a moment—I need to arrange my teaching schedule."
As Lin walked toward the front desk, Zhu Qing murmured to Zeng Yongshan, "If she truly believed their similar appearances could swap destinies, that’s beyond absurd."
"Yet it’s that very absurdity that made Kuang Xiaoyan so obsessive. One was a privileged heiress; the other, a girl in hand-me-down uniforms living in a cage home…"
"Lin Tingchao, though—why would she ever associate with Kuang? They were from different worlds. Unless she genuinely bought into the superstition. What do you think?"
"Hard to say." Zhu Qing shook her head. "But her reaction to hearing Kuang might be alive… that was real shock."
Zeng Yongshan: "Too unnatural, right?"
They leaned against the corridor outside the lounge, voices hushed. Through the frosted glass, the blurred figures of children in the dance studio moved rhythmically.
Liang Qikai maintained a respectful distance from Lin, neither rushing her nor intruding, only occasionally signaling the time with a glance.
Then, a soft voice called from the end of the hallway.
"Auntie?"
Zhu Qing turned to see a little girl in a pale yellow leotard peeking around the corner.
It was Yesi—somehow, she’d run into her again.
"Wow, it really is you!" The child dashed over joyfully.
Zeng Yongshan gaped. "Are you now the collective honorary aunt of every kindergarten in Hong Kong?"
"I have no idea how this happened…" Zhu Qing sighed, pinching Yesi’s cheeks affectionately. "But here we are."
——
Lin Tingchao didn’t go straight to the police station. Instead, she invited the officers to continue their questions at her home.
The Lin family villa nestled into the mountainside, its gardens lush with flowers.
Aunt Wu hurried out at the sound of the car. "You’re back, Miss."
Lin nodded, the tension in her brow finally easing as she smiled. "Aunt Wu, could you fetch the old photo albums?"
While Aunt Wu went to retrieve them, Lin gestured for the officers to follow.
"I did know Kuang Xiaoyan," she admitted.
"Why didn’t you say so earlier?"
Lin exhaled.
"The first time I saw her, she was cowering in an alley, being beaten by her mother. I gave her my coat when I passed by after school."
"But later… she began acting strangely."
Lin frowned, recalling.
"My family has a dance studio. From outside, you could see me practicing through the windows." She opened the studio door, pointing. "One afternoon, I noticed Kuang standing there, clumsily mimicking my moves. Her stare was… intense."
"Once, on a whim, I cut my hair short—just to my shoulders." Lin indicated the length.
"The next day, Kuang showed up with the exact same haircut. Every strand identical, down to the curve at the ends."
Aunt Wu returned with the albums, interjecting, "That girl would lurk in the garden corners, staring at Miss Lin. I thought she was a classmate and invited her in once—but she bolted. We nearly called the police, but Miss Lin said she meant no harm. She’s always been too forgiving."
"Did your parents know Kuang?" Zeng Yongshan asked.
"Not really. I mentioned her once. When Dad heard she’d been following me, he had someone investigate. Found out she lived in a tin shack—father a drunk gambler, mother’s work…" Lin trailed off, then added, "He warned me to avoid ‘that kind of person’ and offered to chauffeur me to school."
Lin flipped open an album, extracting a group photo from a youth dance competition seven years prior.
There she stood on the winner’s podium, radiant.
"Look here," she said. "Kuang Xiaoyan is in the corner. No idea how she got in."
"So I distanced myself."
"But truthfully, we were never friends." Lin’s voice turned firm. "When you first asked about her, I genuinely didn’t recall immediately—and that severed toe photo horrified me. Of course, I remembered soon after, but I didn’t want to discuss it. Dad was right: people like her bring trouble. Kuang never gave me a single pleasant memory."
"Instinctively," Lin concluded, "I withheld it."
"Oh, my parents are upstairs. Do you need to speak with them? Aunt Wu can show you."
As Zeng Yongshan and Liang Qikai followed Aunt Wu upstairs, Zhu Qing wandered into the garden.
Her steps halted at the exact spot where Kuang Xiaoyan used to stand.
"Tingchao, have some sweet soup."
"No thanks—it’ll make me gain weight—"
"You silly kid..."
Through the floor-to-ceiling window, Zhu Qing could see Lin Tingchao laughing and chatting with her parents.
The sweet aroma of dessert seemed to drift past her nose—this family appeared so blissfully perfect.
A piano, a dance studio, endless doting... everything felt so warm.
Yet Kuang Xiaoyan had once stood right here, watching these very scenes.
What had been going through her mind back then?
Kuang Xiaoyan had become an enigma. The police pieced together fragments of her life, but the truth only grew more elusive.
On the ride back to the station, the team reviewed their notes.
"The key now is to verify who donated bone marrow for Lin Tingchao’s surgery last year—whether it’s connected to Kuang Xiaoyan..."
"Also, Kuang Xiaoyan told Rong Zimei they met at school, but they never attended the same one."
"Lin Tingchao claims they met in an alley, after which Kuang Xiaoyan started stalking her... Their stories don’t match at all."
"Stalking after school, mimicking Lin Tingchao’s every move, collecting her discarded items for ‘good luck’? That makes no sense. Did Lin Tingchao just casually drop hair ties and tissues while walking?" Zeng Yongshan frowned. "I think Lin Tingchao’s lying. But what is she hiding?"
...
Fangfang waited at home all evening, but Qing-jie was stuck at work again—no word, as usual.
Eventually, the little one couldn’t keep his eyes open, drifting off without realizing it.
By dawn, he stirred awake, bleary-eyed.
The baby koala clung to Qing-jie’s arm again.
"You’re finally back."
"I’ve been back for ages." Zhu Qing pinched his soft, doughy cheek. "I carried you to bed last night."
Fangfang, still half-asleep, was about to whine when he suddenly jolted upright.
"My proposal!"
"Right here." Aunt Ping walked over, holding a crumpled sheet of paper. "The young master worked on this all night before dozing off with it."
Last night, Aunt Ping had taken the "proposal" to flatten it, only to forget immediately.
Now, she handed it to Zhu Qing.
Sheng Fang sat upright on the bed, tilting his head up—equal parts hopeful and anxious.
This was the proposal Cheng Xinglang had helped Fangfang draft—
"Recommendations for Optimizing Sheng Fang’s Curriculum"
For characters he couldn’t write, Fangfang had Aunt Ping demonstrate, resulting in uneven letter sizes but zero typos.
A masterpiece of sincerity.
Zhu Qing deciphered the scrawl:
"No more arithmetic—I already know it all."
"Piano lessons unnecessary—fingers plenty nimble."
For "arithmetic," Fangfang used symbols.
Beside the piano doodle, ten stubby fingers morphed into elegant pianist’s digits.
"Hate oil painting. Smells awful." Zhu Qing eyed the "nose-pinching stick figure" and guessed the rest. "Keep fencing and horseback riding—so cool!"
Aunt Ping gasped. "Qing-jie, you actually understood all that?"
Last night, she’d worried no one would decode these hieroglyphics.
Yet Zhu Qing knew her uncle better than anyone. For "cool," he’d just drawn a smug little face with starry eyes—and she got it instantly.
Zhu Qing smirked, setting the proposal on the coffee table.
Sheng Fang’s gaze followed the paper, waiting eagerly.
When his niece stayed silent, he scrambled to his room and returned with solemn ceremony, presenting a fountain pen—
"Your approval, please!"
"Approve what?" Zhu Qing raised a brow. "Your handwriting’s a mess. Add calligraphy lessons."
Sheng Fang’s eyes bulged, mouth gaping wide enough to swallow a quail egg.
In this household, did the "little uncle" have zero authority?
Puffing his cheeks, he fumed—
Why does Qing-jie get to be the tyrant?!
"I’ll think about the rest." Zhu Qing tapped the proposal with the pen. "But tonight, you’re going to fencing."
Sheng Fang suddenly stepped back, snatching chopsticks from the table as a makeshift sword.
"Whoosh! Whoosh!" The tiny warrior mimicked his coach’s parries.
"Not going!"
Gritting his milk teeth, he growled—
Complete with sound effects: "En garde!"
Zhu Qing didn’t even look up, arm outstretched to pin his forehead.
The flailing lordling’s stubby legs kicked uselessly.
"Aunt Ping!" The baby’s wail echoed through the living room. "She’s bullying me!"
...
Back at her desk, Zhu Qing barely had time to set down Fangfang’s symbol-filled proposal before diving into the case.
"Lin Tingchao’s medical records show an anonymous marrow donor, but it wasn’t Kuang Xiaoyan—she never did compatibility tests."
"Seems like pure luck, finding a match."
"Last year, Lin’s dad paid a fortune to a feng shui master to revamp his office with crystal grids. If he buys into ‘fortune-stealing rituals,’ what wouldn’t he do?"
"But why dump the toe at a trash site? If it’s dark magic, shouldn’t it be buried in a sacred spot?"
"Maybe the ritual was over, and they tossed it randomly... until trash-picker Aunt Zhong found it. Feels off, but I can’t pinpoint why."
The conference room buzzed with theories, every lead a disjointed puzzle piece.
The whiteboard overflowed with notes, photos, and charts—a tangled web with no thread to pull.
"The breakthrough lies with Lin Tingchao."
"Rong Zimei said Kuang Xiaoyan remembered Lin’s favorite snacks. That level of detail can’t be faked. Too specific. Dig deeper—turn that school inside out."
"A dropout sneaking into a elite academy? Someone must’ve noticed. Students, teachers, cafeteria staff, janitors—question everyone."
"Three years ago, the marrow donation could’ve been coincidence. But Kuang vanished right after? Bring in Lin’s fortune-teller for ‘tea.’ Let’s hear his ‘advice.’"
By noon, Zhu Qing finally caught a breath in the canteen.
Munching a sandwich, she flipped through Fangfang’s Curriculum Optimization Proposal.
Then, a tall figure entered her periphery.
Cheng Xinglang balanced a tray, his white coat swaying. More intriguing—a report peeking from his pocket, the words "Kuang Xiaoyan" visible.
"Dr. Cheng!"
He sat across from her, catching her stare. His lips quirked.
"DNA results for Mo Zhenbang." Cheng Xinglang said. "Just delivered samples to forensics this morning."
The police discovered through database comparison that Kuang Xiaoyan's father, Kuang Wei, had a prior theft conviction, and his DNA information had been recorded in the criminal database due to his involvement in the case.
A report that would normally take two days to process was now placed in front of her by Cheng Xinglang.
"I was planning to deliver it this afternoon," he said.
He slid the report to the edge of the desk, clearly catching the flicker of excitement in Madam's eyes.
"Playing advocate for the little one," Cheng Xinglang tapped his slender fingers on the report. "About the extracurricular class—can you make an exception?"
Zhu Qing hadn’t expected their little elder to carry so much weight.
"Fine," she said, hooking the report with her fingertip and snatching it away before he could react. "We’ll talk later."
Before Cheng Xinglang could respond, the report vanished from his grasp.
When he looked up again, all he saw was the flick of her ponytail disappearing around the corner of the cafeteria.
Even reports were getting robbed these days.
Dr. Cheng chuckled, calling out to the empty air, "Your coffee."
The freshly bought latte on the table was still steaming.
"Keep it!" her voice echoed from down the hall.
In the corridor, Zhu Qing suddenly froze.
Her eyes locked onto the conclusion of the DNA report.
How could this be?
When she turned back, Cheng Xinglang was leisurely stirring his coffee, as if he had anticipated her return.
"There are only two explanations for a DNA mismatch," he said.
"Either Kuang Xiaoyan and her father Kuang Wei share no blood relation—"
Zhu Qing’s eyes gleamed with clarity. "Or that severed toe doesn’t belong to Kuang Xiaoyan at all!"
……
The kindergarten came up with new activities every day. Yesterday, the kids had played supermarket shoppers, and now they were running a tea café.
"Fangfang," Yesi sidled up to him. "Are we playing customers again?"
"Of course!" Jin Bao nodded vigorously. "The café owner has to do math problems!"
"Nope." Sheng Fang shook his little head.
Today was different.
He tiptoed toward the "Cold Drinks Stall," raised his chubby hand, and declared, "Teacher Ji, I want to be the milk tea master!"
Little Sheng Fang was the first to raise his hand, securing his spot as the milk tea master of the Cold Drinks Stall.
During setup, Teacher Ji made him a tiny name tag and stuck it on his chest.
"Sheng’s Milk Tea!" Fangfang tugged at his shirt, proudly showing it off to his friends.
"So cool!" Yesi squealed, bouncing excitedly. "Next time, we’ll buy the whole café!"
Jin Bao was already discussing IPO plans with her.
"Jin Bao," Sheng Fang said sagely, "We’re just kids. We have to take things step by step!"
How could they always aim for the top right away? His niece had told him—even if they had money, they couldn’t just throw it around.
Yesterday, they’d just finalized the deal to buy the kindergarten. Now they were already plotting to acquire a tea café?
Who would even run it?
Little rule-follower Juan also found his perfect role, sporting an "Environmental Health Department" badge on his chest.
He paced around the classroom like a proper inspector, occasionally crouching down to swipe a gloved finger along the floor.
"The bread cabinet has dust," Juan told Jin Bao. "Please clean it immediately."
Jin Bao gave a thumbs-up. "Got it."
"Trash needs sorting—recyclables, food waste…" The tiny environmental officer scribbled notes in his notebook with utmost seriousness.
Yesi peeked over his shoulder.
He couldn’t even write—just drew a bunch of little circles, pretending to be literate.
The classroom buzzed as each child settled into their roles.
Some wore chef hats as dim sum masters, others practiced cashier skills with toy calculators. Little Yesi dashed around like a whirlwind, playing the delivery boy.
Café manager Little Wen patted Jin Bao’s shoulder. "Jin Bao, the kitchen floor needs another mopping."
"On it!" Jin Bao mimed mopping, swinging his short arms enthusiastically.
Sheng Fang scampered over on his little legs, propped himself up by the cardboard window, and chirped, "Welcome!"
He imitated Uncle Ming from the police canteen: "What’ll ya have?"
"I want… I want…" The little girl playing a regular customer hesitated, glancing back at Teacher Ji.
"There’s a menu," Teacher Ji reminded her, holding up a hand-drawn one.
"We’ve got pearl milk tea, silk-stocking pearl tea, caffeine-free pearl tea—" Sheng Fang announced. "Today’s special: extra-large pearls that won’t choke you!"
"Silk-stocking pearl tea!" The girl cheered, leaning on the cardboard window. "Less sweet, no ice!"
Then she turned, hugging her doll, and headed to a seat. "And a plate of rice rolls—do the egg tarts have flaky crusts?"
Sheng Fang’s cheeks flushed pink with delight, his eyes sparkling.
How could kindergarten be this fun?
The most amazing playground in the world…
Had to be Weston Kindergarten!
He rubbed his hands together eagerly, waiting for Teacher Ji to hand him the milk tea, foam, and pearls.
The young master of Sheng’s Cold Drinks was beyond ready.
Until Teacher Ji handed him a little handmade basket.
An empty plastic cup stood in for the milk tea, crumpled brown paper pretended to be the drink, and white cotton balls acted as foam.
Colorful little discs played the role of pearls.
Little Master Sheng locked eyes with Teacher Ji.
He needed a phone to dial "999" and report a scam.
Even teachers were frauds.
"What’s wrong?" Teacher Ji bent down, ruffling the milk tea master’s hair.
The little boy turned to gaze out the window, his expression world-weary—
Nothing. Just seeing through the illusions of life.
