Zhu Qing enrolled Fangfang in a fencing class.
Aunt Ping took care of all the trivialities for her—picking him up after school, making sure he ate, and hailing taxis to get him to lessons on time.
Every spare moment was meticulously scheduled, effectively silencing the little boy’s endless complaints of "I’m so bored."
Fangfang’s first day at kindergarten had been with Zhu Qing by his side, and now, for his first extracurricular class, she made sure to pick him up too.
After leaving the police station, the SUV turned through two blocks before stopping.
Zhu Qing’s gaze caught on the neon sign of a surgical clinic at the corner.
She recalled Doctor Cheng’s conclusion.
The severed toe’s incision was unnaturally smooth and precise—the work of professional medical tools, something an amateur couldn’t achieve.
Surgeons, clinic owners, dentists, veterinarians, experienced surgical nurses…
The list of suspects was too broad, and so far, no one fitting that description had surfaced around Lin Tingchao.
"Ding, ding, ding—"
Zhu Qing’s attention shifted to the opposite side of the street.
An elderly man sat by the roadside, chiseling chunks of malt sugar.
Years ago, during an afternoon at the orphanage, Sister Xinxin had mysteriously pulled out a tissue-wrapped piece of malt sugar from her uniform pocket.
That was Zhu Qing’s first taste of "dingding sugar." It wasn’t overly sweet, but sticky enough to cling to her loose baby tooth—until both tooth and candy ended up stuck in her palm.
If Sheng Fang ever found out, he’d never let her live it down…
Zhu Qing realized she was smiling.
Those fragments of memory, once dismissed as insignificant, now carried an unexpected warmth.
She bought a bag of the candy and headed to the fencing center.
Aunt Ping was already there, peering through the glass window.
Inside, the little boy in his fencing gear looked surprisingly professional. The young master of the Sheng family had learned fencing before, but Zhu Qing assumed he’d forgotten most of it, so she’d signed him up for a beginner’s class.
Fangfang had grumbled about going, yet ended up dominating the session, leaving the other kids in tears. Chest puffed out, he held his foil behind his back like an undefeated swordsman from a martial arts film.
These kids just didn’t get it—
Why wasn’t anyone calling him "Young Hero"?
Aunt Ping sighed in regret. The little master looked so dashing; she should’ve brought a camcorder to capture the moment and show Zhu Qing later.
Just as the thought crossed her mind, she spotted Zhu Qing in her periphery and was about to call out when a subtle gesture stopped her.
The class had just ended, and parents flooded in to towel off their kids, hand them water, and help them change. Zhu Qing pressed a finger to her lips, and Aunt Ping immediately nodded in understanding.
Fangfang had been having the time of his life, especially when the coach promised to help him collect fencing badges someday—his eyes practically sparkled with excitement. But the moment he stepped out of the training room and saw Zhu Qing waiting…
His little shoulders slumped, his mouth drooped.
Leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, Zhu Qing wore an expression that said, I knew it.
From the day they’d met, she’d called him a little actor.
Where was the triumphant fencer now? This sulking, dejected child was a far cry from the one who’d dominated the class.
She pinched his cheek.
"What’s the big idea?" Fangfang pouted, his lips nearly reaching his ears.
"Happiness switch—" She flicked his nose lightly.
Then, like a magician, she produced the dingding sugar and popped a piece into his mouth before he could react.
His eyes lit up as he savored it.
What kind of candy was this? He’d never tasted anything like it…
Sheng Fang was clearly delighted but fought to keep his smile in check, pretending to be indifferent.
Acting like it didn’t matter whether Zhu Qing picked him up or brought treats.
The car had barely started moving when a dog from the nearby seaside park dashed onto the road, stopping right beside them.
Fangfang rolled down the window, resting his chin on the frame as he stared mournfully at the pup.
"Little dog, little dog, so carefree…"
"You’re so lucky. No kindergarten, no classes."
"Dogs don’t understand words," Zhu Qing cut in. "You should say—tsk tsk tsk."
"Who do you think I’m really talking to?" Fangfang shot her a knowing look.
Zhu Qing pretended to focus on reversing, playing the role of their chauffeur as she drove them home.
In the rearview mirror, Aunt Ping was laughing so hard her eyes watered.
Fangfang gazed out the window, his expression as desolate as it had been during his existential crisis at kindergarten that afternoon.
…
After getting out of the car, the little boy marched ahead on his own.
Though he was still sulking about the fencing class, his steps were light and bouncy—completely betraying his good mood.
Aunt Ping watched him and shook her head with a chuckle. "This little rascal, I don’t know where he gets his cleverness. Even now, he’s still bargaining with you."
"Back then, the old master had his schedule packed even tighter than this, and he never complained."
"When tutors came, Marysa would take him to his private classroom. Maybe he was too young to understand, or maybe… he knows you spoil him."
Zhu Qing understood what Aunt Ping meant.
When Fangfang first came home with her, he’d been far more obedient than she’d expected. Even living in the cramped, sweltering dorm at the Wong Chuk Hang police school, he never whined—just stood in front of the rickety fan, competing with it to see who could shake their head faster.
Now, knowing Zhu Qing adored him, the little boy had learned to put up a fight, puffing out his cheeks in protest.
"It’s better this way," Aunt Ping murmured.
"Yeah," Zhu Qing agreed softly. "This is how it should be."
In the original story, the gloomy little antagonist had been warped by years of repression.
But here, under the streetlights, was a child who wore his heart on his sleeve—pouting, scheming, his every thought written plainly in his bright, clear eyes.
"Qingqing, about Second Miss’s case…"
"Nineteen years," Zhu Qing said. "Murder and unlawful disposal of a body."
When the trial began, the Sheng family’s legal team had pushed for a closed hearing, hoping to keep it quiet. But given the severity of the crime, the court upheld the principle of judicial transparency and denied the request.
The lawyers then applied for a media gag order, turning the process into a drawn-out battle. In the end, while Hong Kong’s courts restricted how the case could be reported, Zhu Qing—as a relative—was still notified.
She’d heard that He Jia’er’s parents had insisted on attending. In the courtroom’s public gallery, the mother clutched her daughter’s photo, weeping until her voice gave out.
Sheng Peishan, now gaunt and stripped of her usual elegance, sat in a wheelchair, unable to bow in apology. But she kept her head lowered, tears of remorse streaming down her face.
The little girl who once followed the young mistress around had now become a prisoner, and Aunt Ping couldn't quite describe the bitterness in her heart, only sighing repeatedly.
"Why did you do this?"
"It shouldn’t have been like this, it shouldn’t..."
Only now could the case of the skeletal remains in the half-mountain fireplace be considered fully closed.
Meanwhile, Zhu Qing was focusing most of her energy on the disappearance of Kuang Xiaoyan.
After arriving home, she called Zeng Yongshan.
Following dinner, she had gone early to pick up Fangfang while her colleagues were still working overtime to wrap up the case.
By now, Zeng Yongshan had already returned home and was leisurely chewing something—likely a late-night snack after overtime work. The sound of chopsticks lightly tapping against a bowl came through the phone.
"After you left, we found Kuang Xiaoyan’s birth certificate. The household registration department had it on file—she really is the biological daughter of Kuang Wei and Gan Chunlan. Sir Liang even joked that at least the registration office didn’t drag their feet this time, sparing us another large-scale investigation. The blood type recorded at birth also serves as supporting evidence, stamped with an official seal."
"Hao Zai made another trip to Fuhe Street. The Kuang family’s old tin shack has been turned into an herbal medicine shop. The old lady running the store wasn’t close to their family, but she remembers Kuang Xiaoyan being as beautiful as her mother, like two peas in a pod."
"This means our theory was wrong."
Earlier that afternoon, when the DNA comparison results came in, the serious crimes unit had heatedly debated another possibility.
If they temporarily set aside the "life exchange" angle and considered it as a wealthy family’s dark secret—could Kuang Xiaoyan have been Lin’s Father’s illegitimate child?
After all, the odds of a successful bone marrow match between unrelated individuals were only one in tens of thousands—
And yet, the two bore a striking resemblance.
But now, the ink on the birth certificate and the neighbors’ testimonies reminded them that such speculation was unfounded.
"Kuang Xiaoyan was never DNA-tested against Kuang Wei. The resemblance was only to her mother," Zeng Yongshan said. "But if we keep nitpicking like this, it’s too far-fetched. There’s no evidence suggesting Kuang Xiaoyan wasn’t the Kuang family’s biological child."
"But how do we rule out the existing doubts—" Zeng Yongshan mused.
"Unless we confirm the bone marrow donor absolutely wasn’t Kuang Xiaoyan," Zhu Qing said.
On the other end of the line, dishes clinked softly as Zeng Yongshan seemed to set down her snack.
"Right," Zeng Yongshan’s voice suddenly brightened. "Let’s verify it?"
"I’ll pick you up now!"
They were heading to the hospital to take statements.
According to protocol, professional testimonies required two officers present.
Zhu Qing had barely been home for ten minutes, still in her work clothes, when she turned to grab her car keys.
Looking back, she saw young Sheng Fang already seated on the shoe bench by the entrance.
He had already put his little shoes back on, heels tapping against the floor as he swung his legs, looking quite pleased with himself.
If they were going to investigate, he was coming too—he’d figured it out.
"Young master, Qingqing has work to do. Be good," Aunt Ping said, pulling out a hardcover fairy tale book from inside. "We bought a new storybook yesterday at the store. Let Aunt Ping read it to you."
Zhu Qing stepped out, car keys in hand.
The night breeze lifted the strands of hair on her forehead. When she glanced back, the shoe bench still held a pitiful-looking child.
Fangfang’s eyes were glistening, like freshly washed black grapes.
"Are you coming or not?" Zhu Qing raised a brow.
Sheng Fang’s eyes widened. "Coming!"
"What’s the rule when investigating?"
"Keep my little mouth shut!" Fangfang pressed a finger to his lips, though his dimples betrayed his grin.
Their voices faded into the distance as Aunt Ping shook her head with a smile, still holding the fairy tale book.
She stood by the door, watching the aunt-and-nephew duo hurry off, then checked the time—not even 7:30 yet.
Zhu Qing had always given the child the utmost freedom and patience.
Even if she was taking the young master out for overtime work at this hour, she’d make sure to return within two hours—children needed their sleep, after all.
Aunt Ping sighed softly.
Truthfully, Fangfang was already being raised well. It was her niece who worried her, always pushing herself so hard.
In the future, she’d just have to rely on the young master to keep an eye on his aunt.
...
At 7:40 p.m., Zhu Qing’s car pulled up smoothly outside Zeng Yongshan’s home.
The window rolled down, and Zeng Yongshan leaned in, immediately spotting Sheng Fang sitting upright in the back seat.
The child’s exaggeratedly serious expression was hard not to laugh at.
"Wow, we’ve got a little detective today?" She opened the car door, teasing him.
For the young master of the Sheng family, this was high praise.
Sheng Fang couldn’t hold back his grin, proudly waving the small notebook in his hand.
Though Fangfang didn’t have a police badge or a gun, he still needed some flair for the job.
This was a notebook Zhu Qing had bought him, with four crooked characters on the cover: Case Notes.
He hugged it tightly, looking every bit the little officer on an important mission.
Zheng Yongshan fastened her seatbelt and winked at him. "Madam Zeng hereby appoints you as today’s official note-taker."
The officers of Serious Crimes Unit B were no strangers to the hospital’s hematology department.
The nurse on duty checked the records and gave the same answer as before.
"The ballet girl? I remember her. That case was well-known in the hospital back then."
"Madams, the donor and the patient really weren’t sisters."
"The donor was anonymous, and the procedure followed all regulations. If you’ve confirmed the missing person never did a compatibility test, then that rules her out. Plus, the blood types don’t match."
Zeng Yongshan: "Why would someone donate anonymously?"
"It’s quite common. Some people change their minds after matching, or don’t want further contact with the recipient."
"A successful match is already incredibly rare. Even if someone matches, they might back out last minute. Back then, our department all said that ballet girl was unbelievably lucky to find such a kind stranger."
The nurse emphasized repeatedly—it really was just luck. There was no need to overcomplicate it.
The police’s habit of skepticism didn’t apply here. There was no conspiracy behind this bone marrow donation.
"I don’t know the specifics," the nurse said, noticing a middle-aged doctor approaching. "Dr. Nie oversaw that surgery. You can ask him for details."
Zhu Qing, Zeng Yongshan, and their little detective followed Dr. Nie into his office.
"That surgery was like a miracle—finding a matching donor so quickly."
Zeng Yongshan pulled out her notebook. "Do you remember the circumstances at the time, Doctor?"
Sheng Fang had been looking around but immediately flipped open his own notebook when he saw her do the same.
Little Officer Sheng Fang didn’t have a fountain pen, so he pulled out a pencil from his chest pocket and began taking notes with exaggerated seriousness.
"Of course I remember. Back then, Miss Lin was so young and such an outstanding ballet dancer. Everyone was proud of her, yet also heartbroken for her."
"She was always crying, terrified she’d never dance again."
The tip of Sheng Fang’s pencil scratched swiftly across the paper.
Zhu Qing glanced over and saw he was sketching a crying girl.
"Her family kept the truth from her, but deep down, she knew. She often came to my office to ask about her real condition."
"Before the surgery, she even joked that if it succeeded, she’d give me a ‘commendation.’" Doctor Nie chuckled. "I think she meant giving me a banner of gratitude."
"Did you ever receive that banner?"
"No, but it’s alright. The surgery went perfectly—that’s the best reward." Doctor Nie straightened up, his voice brimming with pride. "Seeing patients recover is the greatest joy for us doctors."
"Though, she did write a thank-you letter."
Zhu Qing immediately pressed, "Do you still have that letter?"
"I’ve kept every thank-you letter from my patients."
Doctor Nie crouched down and pulled out a slightly aged tin box from the drawer beneath his desk.
He quickly retrieved the letter Lin Tingchao had personally handed him years ago, neatly arranged among the others.
On the envelope, written in careful script, were the words:
"To Doctor Nie."
Zhu Qing gently unfolded the letter.
It wasn’t long, but every word radiated sincere gratitude.
Lin Tingchao wrote that it was the medical staff who had given her a second chance at life.
Blotches of smudged ink on the paper suggested tears had fallen as she wrote.
"Honestly, I often think there are still so many good people in this world," Doctor Nie said. "The anonymous donor, and Miss Lin’s heartfelt gratitude after her recovery—they’re proof of the goodness in this world."
Little Sheng Fang rested his chin in his hands, watching the adults intently.
In his notebook, he neatly wrote the characters for "good person" and drew a thumbs-up beside them.
By the time they returned home, it was just past nine.
After retreating to their rooms, Zhu Qing sat at her desk, rereading the thank-you letter.
She had "borrowed" it from Doctor Nie and would have to return it after the case closed.
As she studied the heartfelt words on the page, she struggled to reconcile the Lin Tingchao who’d written this letter with the person who might have been involved in imprisoning others and believing in the superstition of "exchanging fates."
"Qing-jie."
The door creaked open slightly, and a chubby little hand gripped the edge before Sheng Fang’s head popped in.
He held up a newly written schedule, blinking up at her.
"Qing-jie, Qing-jie, two training classes a week—no more than that."
"You can’t rush learning, okay? Just like eating, you take it one bite at a time."
Zhu Qing: "..."
She had no idea where this kid had picked up such sophisticated phrases.
"‘Can’t rush learning’?"
"Lang taught me that."
It seemed Doctor Cheng had won the little master’s favor—even his nickname for him had grown affectionate.
Zhu Qing took the revised schedule.
It was shorter than the last one, but wherever he’d written words himself, the handwriting was surprisingly neat and elegant.
Aunt Ping laughed. "The young master really thought you were signing him up for calligraphy classes."
Though the child’s writing was tidy, the varying pressure of his strokes betrayed his shifting emotions.
Zhu Qing stared at Fangfang’s childish script, then turned to the letter Lin Tingchao had written to the doctor three years ago.
"Handwriting naturally fluctuates. The pressure and angle should vary slightly each time."
Yesterday at the dance center, Zhu Qing had handed Lin Tingchao the statement to sign for confirmation.
Now, she closed her eyes.
She recalled Lin Tingchao’s signature from yesterday and compared it to the one on the letter.
She murmured to herself—
From what she remembered, they were identical, down to the pressure—like a photocopy.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have the original on hand for a precise comparison.
Sheng Fang offered his niece a suggestion: "Send it to the handwriting analysis department."
"There is no such department," Zhu Qing flicked his forehead. "It’s the Documents Examination Unit at the Government Laboratory."
Fangfang blinked. "Wow, your police station has so many roles."
"Just like our tea restaurant."
Zhu Qing studied the handwriting, a faint intuition stirring in her chest.
But Inspector Mo had stressed that cases must be built on evidence.
She folded the letter carefully, her brow smoothing as the investigation took a new turn.
Even little Fangfang could tell his niece was in a better mood.
Sure enough, Zhu Qing relented. "Fine, two extracurricular classes a week—as you suggested."
The child immediately mimicked a dramatic TV line, drawing out his words: "Thank you, Qing-jie, for your mercy!"
...
The DNA results showed the severed toe didn’t belong to Kuang Xiaoyan, forcing the investigation to shift focus to other missing women.
But the toe was wrapped with a birthdate, zodiac details, and that newspaper clipping, so the police narrowed their search.
"After screening missing persons reports from the last five years, we haven’t found any women matching the birth details."
"However, based on the toe bone’s calcification, the age range aligns. Meaning the victim was around Kuang Xiaoyan’s age." Little Sun flipped through the files.
After much deliberation, the team zeroed in on a critical period three and a half years ago—
When Lin Tingchao was hospitalized for surgery before leaving to study in the UK.
"That’s the key timeframe."
"Even if the toe isn’t Kuang Xiaoyan’s, I still believe Lin Tingchao is connected to this case."
"After all, we still have no leads on Kuang Xiaoyan’s whereabouts."
A ringing phone cut through the discussion.
Inspector Mo pressed the speaker button, and Weng Zhaolin’s voice came through.
"Preliminary handwriting analysis suggests the samples can’t rule out tracing. We’ll need more original samples for comparison."
"By the way, who used my name to request expedited processing?"
Zhu Qing busied herself with files, pretending not to hear.
Inspector Mo noticed her reaction and nearly laughed—since when had this rookie learned to bypass procedures?
"Strange," Zeng Yongshan frowned at her screen. "Can you all take a look at this email? Is my English failing me, or is this hard to parse?"
Sir Liang suddenly leaned in, bracing one hand on her desk.
He was so close, his posture almost caged her into her chair.
Zeng Yongshan stiffened, gripping the mouse.
It was a reply from the Julie Ann Ballet Academy in Manchester.
"Lin Tingchao deferred her enrollment by half a year because her rehabilitation wasn’t complete?" Sir Liang sounded surprised. "But the hospital clearly issued a full recovery certificate."
The team crowded around to see.
"Already recovered, why isn't she going to school?"
"Could it be for recuperation?"
A full six-month gap—what exactly happened during that time?
With this question in mind, the police paid another visit to the Lin residence.
The spacious villa was occupied only by Aunt Wu and a few servants.
"The master left for the company early in the morning."
"The mistress… at this hour, she’s probably busy at the beauty salon. Business is booming there, often keeping her until seven or eight in the evening."
"The young lady is taking turns with her partner to manage the dance center. It’s her shift this afternoon," Aunt Wu said while polishing a vase. "The dance center is thriving, you know."
"You’re asking about Miss Lin’s recovery period?" Aunt Wu set down the cloth. "Back then, she had just undergone surgery, and my daughter-in-law suddenly went into labor. The family was swamped, so I took a long leave to return to the countryside and care for my grandchild. That absence lasted over two years."
"By the time I came back, the young lady had already gone abroad to study."
"Are there others who might have information?" Zeng Yongshan asked.
"Probably not," Aunt Wu shook her head. "The mistress is very particular about hiring. Over the years, I’m the only one who’s stayed."
Zeng Yongshan jotted down notes. "In all these years, have you noticed any unusual behavior from Miss Lin?"
"Unusual behavior?" Aunt Wu replied. "Someone who’s walked through death’s door might naturally change in temperament."
Resuming her polishing, Aunt Wu turned back. "Madam, why are you asking this? Are you still investigating that girl who was peeping in the courtyard back then?"
Uncle Li pointed in a direction. "What’s that basement usually used for?"
"Originally, it was the young lady’s practice room. Later, the master and mistress said the ventilation was poor, so it was locked up."
"You officers have sharp eyes, noticing that."
Zeng Yongshan cut straight to the point. "Mind if we take a look?"
"The keys have gone missing, no idea where they are," Aunt Wu said, puzzled. "Officers, why are you so interested in the basement?"
......
The officers split into teams to expand their investigation.
Mo Zhenbang and Zhu Qing drove to the middle school Lin Tingchao had once attended.
Sunlight streamed through the car window, casting shadows on the photo in Zhu Qing’s hands.
It was a group shot from seven years ago, capturing Lin Tingchao’s victory in a ballet competition.
After checking in, they headed straight to the principal’s office.
"Of course I remember her—Lin Tingchao. We even had TV crews interviewing her back then," the principal said with a smile. "She was the pride of our school."
Zhu Qing pointed to the edge of the photo. "What about this person?"
In the corner, a blurred figure was staring intently at the podium.
The longing in those eyes stood in stark contrast to the cheering students around her.
"This…" The principal removed his glasses to wipe them. "Who is this? I don’t recognize her. Was she even a student here?"
They questioned nearly every faculty member.
Each time, the reaction was the same—drawn first to Lin Tingchao’s radiant presence at the center, only noticing the corner figure upon prompting.
"Who is this? Never seen her before."
"She looks… odd, doesn’t she?"
"Not familiar. I don’t think she was from our school."
"Isn’t this backstage? Maybe she was a competitor from another school."
Zhu Qing and Mo Zhenbang walked across the campus.
"If the staff can’t help, we’ll have to track down former students," Inspector Mo said. "Graduates, transfers—no one gets overlooked."
One lead after another turned into dead ends.
Zhu Qing’s notebook filled with crossed-out names.
"Needle in a haystack isn’t working," Mo Zhenbang rubbed his temples.
Just then, Zhu Qing approached a janitor mopping the hallway.
"Auntie, sorry to bother you. Have you seen—"
"Step aside," the janitor waved without looking up. "No time for distractions. The office wants this done by two, and there’s an inspection."
Before she finished, a pale hand gripped the mop handle.
Next thing Mo Zhenbang knew, his efficient subordinate was swiftly mopping the floor while holding out the photo with her free hand.
"Ever seen her?" Mo Zhenbang added, pointing to the corner figure. "Did this girl attend the school?"
The janitor squinted, deepening the wrinkles at her eyes.
Zhu Qing was prepared—she pulled out a pair of reading glasses from her pocket.
"Where’d you get those?"
"Aunt Ping’s."
"I’ve seen her," the janitor said, studying the photo. "She was lingering by the dorm once, asking if a certain student lived there."
Mo Zhenbang pressed, "Was it Lin Tingchao?"
"Can’t recall the name," the janitor said. "It’s been so many years…"
"Was this girl a student here?" Mo Zhenbang pointed to Kuang Xiaoyan’s blurry image.
"All I remember is she was wearing the uniform."
Uniform? Zhu Qing and Mo Zhenbang exchanged glances.
How did a sixteen-year-old dropout, living in a subdivided flat, get hold of a custom-tailored uniform from an elite private school?
Seven years ago, Kuang Xiaoyan had deliberately sought out Lin Tingchao.
This discovery energized Mo Zhenbang and Zhu Qing, speeding up their investigation.
Yet afterward, no one else recognized Kuang Xiaoyan in the photo, leaving them with no further leads.
Just as the case hit a wall, a dean suddenly recalled—
"There was a girl back then who was inseparable from Lin Tingchao. She might know something."
"What’s her name?" Zhu Qing asked.
The dean scribbled a name on a notepad.
"Su Leyi," Zhu Qing murmured, staring at it.
That name…
It felt familiar somehow.
"Zhu Qing, lend me your phone for a callback," Mo Zhenbang said.
A superior borrowing a subordinate’s phone—Inspector Mo made a mental note to request a mobile from his wife later.
The call connected, relaying newly uncovered information.
After a brief exchange, Mo Zhenbang handed the phone back to Zhu Qing.
"Before studying in the UK, Lin Tingchao made a secret trip abroad," he said slowly. "Under the guise of medical treatment, the destination was a Southeast Asian country."
The evidence confirmed Kuang Xiaoyan had met Lin Tingchao at school.
Rong Zimei hadn’t lied—yet Lin Tingchao had deliberately omitted this detail.
But if Lin Tingchao admitted to being stalked by Kuang Xiaoyan, why hide that Kuang Xiaoyan had appeared at school?
Inspector Mo’s orders were clear: avoid alerting their target.
Until they uncovered the real purpose behind Lin Tingchao’s post-surgery secret trip, caution was paramount.
......
At 4 PM on Friday, Zhu Qing stood outside Weston Kindergarten.
Fangfang still hadn’t come out, and on the other end of the phone, Zeng Yongshan’s voice still echoed in her ears.
"We’re following Lin Tingchao. She went shopping today."
"Bought so many dresses without even blinking… these rich people don’t even look at price tags!"
"Wait, I forgot you’re rich too!"
Yesterday, Uncle Li discovered a basement in the Lin family villa.
Kuang Xiaoyan was still missing…
Uncle Li wanted to apply for a search warrant, but with insufficient evidence, the higher-ups wouldn’t approve it.
"Where are you headed now?" Zeng Yongshan asked.
After getting her answer, Zeng Yongshan reminded her, "Inspector Mo said to keep the investigation low-key. Don’t expose yourself."
"Got it." Zhu Qing pocketed her mobile phone, her gaze sweeping toward the kindergarten gate.
The school bell rang, and children poured out in a flood.
Fangfang, with a backpack almost bigger than himself—mostly empty—bounced along, the bag hopping up and down with every step, swaying cheerfully.
Sheng Fang stopped in front of Zhu Qing, tilting his head left, then right, his eyes sparkling.
The sun must’ve risen from the west—Qing Zai actually had time to pick him up from school!
"What brings you here?"
"Come on, I’m taking you somewhere." Zhu Qing took the little one’s hand.
As usual, Sheng Fang didn’t need to ask questions.
Just follow—it wasn’t like Qing Zai would sell him off.
Ten minutes later, Zhu Qing’s car stopped in front of the "Tingchao Dance Arts Center."
"Want to go up and investigate?"
Fangfang raised his little hand in excitement: "Undercover mission!"
Fangfang wasn’t a rookie at playing a little spy. He was experienced, never slipping up.
With his niece picking him up and even taking him on a case, his every step radiated joy.
Happiness had come too suddenly.
Today was definitely his lucky day!
The sound of a piano drifted from the practice room, its melody echoing down the hallway.
The little young master bobbed his head to the rhythm, tapping along, before Zhu Qing gently nudged him into the reception area.
"Sit tight and don’t wander off."
Fangfang stood on tiptoe, sweet and obedient, leaning close to Zhu Qing’s ear to whisper in his tiny voice.
"Same as the therapy group mission, no problem." He gave a chubby-fingered "OK" sign. "I’m a seasoned cop."
Zhu Qing had barely settled in when the door opened.
Lin Tingchao’s business partner walked in.
It was only this morning that Zhu Qing remembered—the first time she’d visited this dance center, she’d seen a name on the business license hanging on the wall: Su Leyi.
The same Su Leyi their school’s dean had mentioned—
Lin Tingchao’s inseparable classmate back in their student days.
Now, Zhu Qing was here for that very classmate.
This was also her first time meeting Su Leyi in person—young, gentle, with a perfectly polite smile.
"Sorry," Su Leyi said, sitting across from her and placing a flyer on the coffee table. "I was overseeing a rehearsal. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting."
Their conversation began swiftly.
Fangfang, the professional little spy, swung his legs on the sofa.
He knew better than to interrupt when things went over his head.
"The elite class is the most popular…"
"Even the inter-school competition champions chose our studio."
Twenty minutes in, he kept his ears perked.
They’d moved on to discussing the founding of the dance studio and the struggles of their early days.
Then Zhu Qing felt her pager vibrating incessantly in her pocket.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Only her colleagues would spam-call like this in an emergency.
What were they warning her about?
"I heard you’ve only been open for three months," Zhu Qing said casually. "It’s impressive to achieve so much in such a short time."
Fangfang gazed up at her like a proud little elder.
Qing Zai was so good at chatting today. All grown up.
"It was tough at first," Su Leyi admitted.
"But step by step, we persevered."
Fangfang munched quietly on the complimentary cookies.
"Established studios must have steady clientele," Zhu Qing remarked offhandedly. "Like Golden Ballet next door?"
"You know about Golden Ballet?" Su Leyi said. "At first, we struggled to enroll students, while Golden Ballet was packed every day."
"A friend mentioned it." Zhu Qing picked up a cookie, splitting it neatly. "But your student numbers look strong now."
The comment seemed to stroke Su Leyi’s pride.
"We overtook them in just three months."
"Honestly, seeing their enrollment numbers at first, I was too jealous to sleep."
Su Leyi spoke with confidence: "My partner said, ‘If you’re jealous, replace them.’"
Zhu Qing’s eyes flicked up.
Fangfang didn’t understand what she’d uncovered, but he widened his eyes dramatically in solidarity.
She stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth.
This little spy was overacting.
Su Leyi’s eyes gleamed with triumph: "And we did it."
"Now we’re fully booked—only one spot left in the elite class."
Click. The reception door swung open.
Zhu Qing looked up—and finally understood why her pager had been buzzing nonstop.
Inspector Mo’s orders had been clear: investigate discreetly, don’t blow your cover…
Yet here was Lin Tingchao, who shouldn’t have been at the studio, standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" Su Leyi asked, surprised.
Lin Tingchao dangled a silk scarf from her fingers: "Just remembered I needed this for tomorrow’s outfit."
Zhu Qing studied her, and for a moment, it was like seeing—
Kuang Xiaoyan in that seven-year-old group photo, staring greedily from the corner.
If you’re jealous, replace them…
"Swapping fates"—but whose fate, exactly?
Could envy really let someone steal another’s life?
"Madam, what brings you here?" Lin Tingchao’s gaze settled on Zhu Qing.
Su Leyi froze: "Madam?"
The air turned stiff.
Zhu Qing patted Fangfang’s head. "Bringing my nephew to sign up for dance classes."
Sheng Fang was scandalized.
Qing Zai would betray him like this?!
"Fangfang, is that really you?"
A soft, sugary voice cut in.
Little Yesi burst into the room, dragging the young master away: "You’re learning ballet too? Amazing!"
Fangfang: "…"
Seconds later, the little lord stood in the practice room, utterly defeated.
Surrounded by chubby little swans, he reluctantly raised his "swan wings."
He really needed to get a mobile phone—
Hello, 999? Arrest Qing Zai too.
The prison for bad adults was getting too crowded!
