The gentle sea breeze of Lamma Island brushed against Sheng Fang's cheeks, setting the perfect mood for the little boy's weekend getaway.
But peaceful moments never last long. Zhu Qing, who knew her uncle best, could tell from his expression when he answered the phone—their vacation was over.
Now, they had no choice but to head back to the police station.
Sheng Fang loved playing house at kindergarten, and even now, he couldn’t resist assigning himself a role. Reveling in the novelty of being the boss, he mimicked Inspector Mo and Inspector Weng’s authoritative tone, giving orders. "Subordinate Zhu" and "Subordinate Xu" obediently turned to buy ferry tickets.
While the two were at the ticket counter, Sheng Fang stood alone, blowing bubbles with intense focus.
Golden sunlight spilled over the little boy as he tilted his head up, standing on tiptoe to raise his bubble wand high. Against the blue sky, the clouds looked like cotton candy. Puffing his cheeks, he blew a string of shimmering bubbles, as if trying to send them all the way up to the clouds.
Sheng Fang was an innocent child, full of whimsy but not without common sense. He’d taken astronomy classes and knew that no matter how hard he tried, these fragile bubbles would eventually pop midair.
He cupped a bubble in his small hand. "If only I could take you home."
Sunlight glinted off the bubble’s surface.
When it burst, he reached for another, suddenly curious—what did a bubble taste like?
Maybe like sun-warmed blankets, carrying an indescribable warmth.
As he turned, he secretly parted his lips.
Zhu Qing’s voice came from behind.
"Sheng Fang, don’t eat it."
Pouting, he closed his mouth.
She’d caught him again.
……
As they neared the police station, Zhu Qing dialed home.
No one picked up. She guessed Aunt Ping had probably gone to the market again.
Both uncle and nephew knew Aunt Ping had an unshakable habit—even with a fridge at home, she insisted on visiting the market daily, determined to pick only the freshest ingredients.
At this hour, she likely hadn’t expected Sheng Fang to return early, missing the call.
"We should get Aunt Ping a mobile phone," Sheng Fang suggested cheerfully.
Zhu Qing nodded. "We’ll find time to buy one."
Beside them, Xu Jiale dramatically sighed. "When will my boss get me a work phone?"
Zhu Qing raised an eyebrow. "Which boss are you talking about?"
Xu Jiale pondered seriously.
One boss had only just gotten his own mobile—during a celebration at Inspector Mo’s place, his wife had teased him about the two-page report he’d written to justify the request.
The other boss winced every time someone took an extra egg tart during afternoon tea…
Sheng Fang patted his shoulder like a little adult, offering comfort.
Xu Jiale: "Are you guys hiring?"
"Not enough space right now," Sheng Fang shook his head earnestly. "Ask again after we move."
……
The case had taken a new turn.
The victim, Zhou Yongsheng, had planned to rent a place on Lamma Island but vanished after his identity was exposed. According to the landlord, Zhou had mentioned another female tenant.
The supposed "suicide pact" from a decade ago had initially raised no suspicions, but new evidence showed Zhou had been withdrawing cash in batches before his death—clearly preparing funds for a staged demise.
Stranger still, just as Zhu Qing reported this lead, another discovery surfaced: Gu Niman’s family members had all died within the past ten years. The two threads intertwined, suggesting the "suicide" might have been a meticulously planned murder.
Zhu Qing hurried back to the station, a tiny figure struggling to keep up behind her.
Working with a child was inconvenient—no matter how bright, kids still needed care.
But the moment they stepped into the CID office, Sheng Fang patted his chest confidently. "Don’t worry, I’ll find someone to look after me."
Zhu Qing was swamped.
When she returned with photocopied documents, she saw Sheng Fang on tiptoe, pouring himself a glass of water.
Their eyes met briefly.
"Don’t mind me," he waved. "Make yourself at home."
TV was off-limits, but the kid had memorized enough dramas to keep himself entertained—though his mixed-up lines made Zhu Qing laugh.
"I need to head out," Zhu Qing said, pulling a file from the stack. "Call Aunt Ping for me."
The little boy hopped down from the swivel chair.
The office phone was near Sister Zhen’s desk.
Sheng Fang peeked over, asking politely to use it.
The whole CID division adored him—Sister Zhen pinched his round cheeks affectionately. "Since when do you need to ask? Go ahead."
Chubby fingers tapped the keypad, each press emitting a cheerful beep.
Soon, a familiar voice came through the receiver…
Minutes later, as Zhu Qing stepped out with case files, she ran into Dr. Cheng.
Surprised, she asked, "What brings you here?"
He handed her a re-examination report.
This doctor was always welcome.
"You’re here—!" Sheng Fang came running out.
The coroner’s schedule was different—Cheng Xinglang was technically off-duty but on call.
He’d just finished the re-examination when the little troublemaker phoned him.
Sheng Fang had an excellent memory—after their last promise to ride motorcycles together, he’d memorized the number.
True to his word:
No need for Zhu Qing to worry. Sheng Fang would find his own babysitter.
"Zhu Qing!" Zeng Yongshan called from the hallway. "Ready to go?"
In a rush, Zhu Qing scribbled her home number for Dr. Cheng. "Just contact Aunt Ping to pick him up."
Sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the corridor.
Cheng Xinglang stood motionless, his tall frame accentuated by the sharp cut of his black coat. Beside him, Sheng Fang mirrored the pose—hands casually pocketed, chin lifted like a tiny, dashing gentleman.
Zhu Qing glanced back repeatedly.
The little boy tugged at Dr. Cheng’s sleeve.
In unison, the pair gave her a reassuring thumbs-up.
……
"The Gu family… something’s seriously off," Hao Zai rubbed his arms, as if warding off a chill. "Four family members, all dead within ten years."
In the car, the yellowed case records circulated among the team.
March 16, 1987: Ms. Gu fell to her death.
It had been a clear day—she’d carried a quilt to the rooftop. The rusted railing gave way the moment she leaned against it. Witnesses said she’d still been clutching the blanket when she landed.
January 19, 1992: Mr. Gu drowned during a fishing trip.
According to the pier attendant, the old man had stubbornly sat on dangerous rocks despite repeated warnings. When they recovered his body, his trusted fishing rod was still clutched in his hands.
A week ago, Gu Hongbo, Gu Niman’s younger brother, died in a car accident.
Tests revealed his blood alcohol level was dangerously high.
"Based on the evidence, it’s been ruled an accident."
"The tenement building where Ms. Gu fell to her death had long-standing complaints about its deteriorating railings—delays by the developer led to irreversible consequences. The pier where Mr. Gu drowned claims several ‘stubborn old fishermen’ every year who ignore the tide tables. As for her brother’s crash—with that level of intoxication, he’d have tripped walking, let alone driving."
"Interviews with relatives, colleagues, and neighbors confirmed the Gu family had no debt disputes, romantic entanglements, or enemies. Their social circle was simple."
"They were just an ordinary family. The only anomaly was Gu Niman’s ‘suicide for love.’"
"Unless… the Gu family discovered the truth behind it."
Hao Zai flipped through the case files and shook his head. "Honestly, they should’ve hired an exorcist back then."
The police car pulled up outside an apartment building.
A decade ago, after Gu Niman’s death, reporters swarmed the Gu family’s doorstep. Unable to bear the harassment, they moved three times.
"It took forever to track down this address," Zeng Yongshan said, glancing up at the doorplate. "This was their last home."
In recent years, Gu Niman’s parents and brother had lived here—until they passed away, one after another.
Three firm knocks later, the door cracked open to reveal a puffy face.
Her eyes were swollen, her voice hoarse. "Who are you?"
Gu Hongbo’s girlfriend, Tang Tingting, let the officers in after hearing their purpose.
Pointing to a portrait on the wall, she said tearfully, "He’s gone. Only twenty-two."
The young man in the photo grinned brightly, his teeth perfectly aligned.
A family photo on the coffee table showed Gu Hongbo standing between his beaming parents.
"He has no family left," Tang Tingting murmured, tracing the portrait. "With his parents gone, I had to arrange everything."
"I thought he was an only child. I only learned later his sister was… that famous actress."
"Did he rarely mention her?"
Tang Tingting nodded. "Hongbo never brought her up. I found out by accident. I get it—it must’ve been too painful."
She’d never met his parents but often heard him describe them as understanding and devoted.
The apartment felt hollow as she sorted through his belongings, each piece a memory.
Zhu Qing bent down. "This drawing—?"
It was a sketch.
Tang Tingting carefully lifted a corner. "The funeral was so chaotic, I didn’t notice anyone drawing. The cemetery staff said an old man had been sketching there for years."
Zhu Qing studied it. "It’s incredibly detailed."
"Only a few friends came to say goodbye. We had no idea someone was capturing the moment."
Zhu Qing’s gaze froze on one corner.
Amid the tombstones’ shadows stood a figure in a fisherman’s hat—a stark contrast to the mourners wiping tears nearby.
"Who’s this?"
"No idea… I didn’t see him there."
"My parents didn’t approve of us. I was still trying to convince them when…" Her voice broke. "Now it’s too late. Twenty-two years old, reduced to ashes."
"All that’s left is this portrait… and this sketch."
She looked up, exhausted, her eyes lingering on his smile.
After routine questioning, Zhu Qing turned back at the door. "One more thing—what was the funeral date?"
...
Liu Wei, Gu Niman’s obsessive fan, had been detained for days, stubbornly sticking to his story—
"I just happened to run into Zhou Yongsheng. That coward…"
The police weren’t buying it.
A fan who still wept for Gu Niman a decade after her disappearance—yet coincidentally crossed paths with Zhou Yongsheng on the day of his death?
Now, the case had a breakthrough.
Uncle Li slid the sketch across the table.
The rough but vivid strokes unmistakably depicted Liu Wei lurking behind the tombstones.
"Gu Hongbo’s funeral and Zhou Yongsheng’s death were the same day," Uncle Li said darkly. "Talk."
Liu Wei clenched his fists, staring at the drawing.
"Manman’s gone," he whispered. "I just… wanted to send her brother off for her."
"How did you find them?"
A decade ago, the Gu family moved repeatedly to escape paparazzi. By now, the media had lost interest—until Zhou Yongsheng’s "resurrection." Even the police took days to trace them. Yet this fan had tracked Gu Hongbo’s death with eerie precision.
Silence stretched, grating.
A knock interrupted. Little Sun opened the door, accepting an old yearbook from a colleague.
He flipped to a marked page and slammed it onto the table, rattling a cup.
"Liu Wei," he jabbed at an entry. "This isn’t just a coincidence, is it?"
"You weren’t just her fan. You were her classmate."
Liu Wei’s fingers trembled over the tiny printed name—like the boy who once hunched in the classroom’s darkest corner.
Back then, only one person ever acknowledged him: the girl who’d rush in late, flashing him a smile.
Later, she became a star. He remained a shadow, watching silently.
When news broke of her "suicide," even that was stolen from him.
"I knew she had a brother. It wasn’t a secret."
"All these years, I kept track. That day, I brought flowers to Manman’s grave. The caretaker mentioned a new burial—her brother."
"He was alone. I went for her."
Next door, in the observation room, Mo Zhenbang overheard the younger officers murmuring.
"At first, I thought it was just a coincidence that they were the same age. Who knew they were actually classmates?"
"It's been ten years, and Zhou Yongsheng still went to bid farewell to Gu Niman's younger brother. Could he really be such a devoted lover?"
"Devoted? If he had truly intended to die for love back then, he wouldn’t have transferred his assets. After scheming so meticulously, now he’s playing the role of a tragic romantic?"
"But this... it’s contradictory. If he cared about Gu Niman, why would he go to see her brother off for his final journey?"
"Could it be—" Hao Zai suddenly lowered his voice, "that he killed Gu Hongbo?"
"Secrets never stay buried. What if the brother discovered the truth about his sister’s so-called 'suicide' and sought justice, only to..."
The voices from the interrogation room filtered through the monitor.
"When I saw him at the cemetery, I almost didn’t recognize him."
"He stood far away, just like I did."
As he recalled, Liu Wei’s gaze fixed on a distant point, as if his thoughts had wandered far away.
"I flipped through old entertainment magazines from back then. He used to have long hair and wore round-framed glasses, like some artsy type."
"Now he’s a completely different person—short hair, no glasses."
Uncle Li remembered the suspicious points pinned to the whiteboard during the case analysis meeting.
He set down his pen and leaned forward slightly. "When you followed him, how was his gait? Steady?"
"Rock solid," Liu Wei said. "I tailed him the whole way, and he walked straight as an arrow."
"Followed him the whole way," Uncle Li raised an eyebrow, "yet somehow lost him right at the theater entrance?"
"That’s how it happened," Liu Wei insisted. "I’ve told you everything. Believe it or not."
Zhu Qing stepped out of the observation room and pulled out the re-examination report again.
Dr. Cheng had specifically requested a slit-lamp microscope examination, which was sent to the central lab for scheduling. The results had only come in this morning. Myopia is irreversible, especially for someone like Zhou Yongsheng with severe nearsightedness—it’s impossible for his vision to suddenly recover unless he underwent corrective surgery or wore contact lenses. Yet the report clearly stated there were no signs of surgical alteration on Zhou Yongsheng’s corneas.
"So the killer deliberately..." Zeng Yongshan moved closer to examine the report.
"The killer took the time to remove the victim’s contact lenses after murdering him."
"In a life-or-death situation like that, why would the killer risk wasting precious seconds on such an action? There must be a special reason."
This was an attempt to sever investigative leads.
"Special lenses? To prevent the police from tracing him through optometry records?"
Following this lead, the police launched an in-depth investigation.
A review of Zhou Yongsheng’s ophthalmology records from ten years ago revealed—
irregular astigmatism, abnormal corneal thickness, and severe myopia.
Such complex vision issues required custom-made specialty lenses, and there were no more than five opticians in all of Hong Kong capable of producing them.
The task force officers visited each of these shops one by one.
After thorough screening, they finally made a breakthrough.
"We’ve got him!" An officer rushed into the meeting room with immigration records. "He was using the identity 'Qin Wen.' This isn’t the first case like this—old IDs from emigrants who never canceled them circulate on the black market, selling for tens of thousands apiece."
"The old-style ID issued in 1983 only had text, but in 1987, he renewed it with a new version—this time with his photo."
"The databases of the Immigration Department and the Registry of Residents don’t communicate."
"Someone helped him exploit this loophole, allowing 'Qin Wen' to successfully obtain a new photo ID."
"How was this possible?"
"Let’s not forget, he was a famous director—how could his income be low? The funds Zhou Yongsheng siphoned off back then were no small sum. That money had to be useful for something."
With this, the truth gradually came into focus.
Ten years ago, Zhou Yongsheng faked his "suicide for love," then lived an entire decade under the updated identity of "Qin Wen."
...
The name "Qin Wen" was like a key, turning quietly to unlock Zhou Yongsheng’s hidden decade.
Tracing utility payment records, the police eventually tracked him to Peng Chau—an island even quieter than Lamma.
Everyone had assumed Zhou Yongsheng spent those ten years in hiding, but the scene before them shattered that assumption.
A white cottage stood peacefully, its garden meticulously trimmed.
A handwritten wooden sign leaned against the door, reading "Do Not Disturb" in unhurried strokes.
At the end of the pebbled path sat two wicker rocking chairs.
A soft throw blanket draped over one of them—both practical and decorative, exuding domestic warmth.
The place was utterly tranquil, remote to the point of isolation.
For ten years, Zhou Yongsheng seemed to have lived well.
Shedding his old identity, fulfilling his artistic dreams, moving to the outlying islands for a reclusive life.
The police questioned a handful of locals along the way—
"That house belongs to a cultured couple. The husband must be a writer—always sitting in the yard with a pot of tea, working on his manuscripts."
"They live in the white house down the slope. My kitchen window faces their walking path. Nearly every evening, I’d see them strolling. The gentleman always supported his wife so carefully, walking slowly. She was frail, wearing long sleeves even in summer, and he’d constantly adjust her collar for her."
"A man that attentive is rare."
"His wife?"
The officers exchanged glances.
Was this the person Zhou Yongsheng had sacrificed everything to be with?
The wooden door creaked faintly as they pushed it open.
Inside, the home was tidy and inviting.
The kitchen was fully stocked—clearly, they cooked often. Opening the fridge revealed just half a carton of milk and two eggs. Zhu Qing crouched, fingers brushing frost from the freezer.
Moving to the living room, the fabric sofa lacked the opulence of Zhou Yongsheng’s former leather one but radiated homely comfort. Plush throw pillows lay scattered about, and critically acclaimed film DVDs were stacked haphazardly by the TV.
"The real wife struggled to raise their son alone, while his mistress Gu Niman 'died for love'..."
"And here he is, hiding away in his own private paradise."
Further in, the bedroom was neatly made, the nightstand dusty and devoid of photos.
Zhou Yongsheng no longer wore glasses—with his prescription, he’d have relied entirely on contacts.
On the bathroom counter sat a bottle of contact lens solution.
Zhu Qing picked up the 500ml bottle, shaking it to find it nearly empty.
A half-used travel-sized bottle sat beside it.
"Where is this 'wife' everyone mentioned?"
As the investigation progressed, the fog began to lift.
"Yongshan," Zhu Qing said, "didn’t Zhou Yongsheng tell his son he couldn’t bear to leave him?"
Zeng Yongshan nodded. "Jiang Yifan said the great director’s acting was so convincing, even he believed it."
But what if it wasn’t acting at all?
Perhaps Zhou Yongsheng truly intended to leave for distant shores, which was why he kept appearing—just to catch a few more glimpses of his son.
“They’re planning to flee,” Zhu Qing suddenly said.
They deliberately left the large bottle of contact lens solution unopened, and the food in the fridge was gradually cleared out.
They were preparing to leave Ping Chau—perhaps even Hong Kong altogether.
“The Immigration Department is conducting a full review of dual citizenship cases, requiring secondary verification.”
“This time, they’re cross-checking original records and entry-exit logs. Someone like him, who fraudulently assumed an immigrant’s identity, won’t pass inspection.”
“Report it to the police station,” Uncle Li said. “Check airline ticket purchases. I suspect that mysterious ‘wife’ of his is leaving with him.”
…
At two in the afternoon, sunlight spilled lazily across the streets as Sheng Fang, the little boy, bounced cheerfully beside Cheng Xinglang.
“Where are we going?” Fangfang tilted his chubby face upward, looking more well-behaved than ever.
Cheng Xinglang hadn’t actually planned to go far.
But the little rascal had been clamoring for snacks, so he took him downstairs.
Yet the Yau Ma Tei Police Station was too close to home—just around the corner, the familiar building came into view.
Sheng Fang immediately turned away, pretending not to see it.
Going home was absolutely out of the question.
The aroma of tea restaurants wafted through the air.
Cheng Xinglang ordered the little boy a chilled lemonade, a favorite among kids.
He wasn’t experienced with children, but he knew they shouldn’t drink anything too sweet.
“Less sugar.”
The mix of blackcurrant juice and lemon water made Sheng Fang beam with delight.
Fangfang sipped through a colorful straw, swaying his head as he basked in the afternoon sun.
Such a perfect weekend—did Dr. Cheng really have no plans?
“Dr. Cheng, where were you originally going?”
The moment he heard the answer, Fangfang’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“I can go to the gym with you too!”
“You’d get flattened by the dumbbells.”
Passing by a cinema, Sheng Fang tugged eagerly at Cheng Xinglang’s sleeve. “Let’s watch a movie! There’s cartoons!”
“You and me?” Cheng Xinglang bent down. “Watching a movie?”
“Who else would you call?” Fangfang tilted his head.
“…”
No answer came.
The little one crossed his tiny arms. “Guilty conscience, huh?”
…
A police cruiser roared into the station.
Doors swung open in unison.
Just as they were about to enter the building, another patrol car screeched to a halt, lights flashing.
Xu Jiale rolled down the driver’s window, waving a document.
“‘Qin Wen’ booked tickets through a travel agency in Central—using the new ID and passport!”
Minutes later, the meeting room was brightly lit.
“Originally, ‘Qin Wen’ used an old photo-less ID to apply for a passport and emigrate overseas.”
“When IDs were updated, Zhou Yongsheng used Qin Wen’s old, unrevoked ID with his own photo to successfully obtain a new ID and passport.”
“The system couldn’t link it to the old passport. If he leaves the country, he’ll truly have faked his death and assumed a new identity.”
“A woman booked tickets for nearly the same time.”
“Shu Yingying, thirty-nine years old.”
“Flight out next Wednesday.”
This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision—they had meticulously planned this escape.
From the day Gu Niman’s younger brother had the car accident, they had been waiting for this moment.
“Dig into Shu Yingying’s background,” Mo Zhenbang said. “I want every connection between her and Zhou Yongsheng.”
…
The second half of Fangfang’s delightful weekend was spent in the lab with Dr. Cheng.
What was so special about a bubble-blowing toy bought on Lamma Island? Dr. Cheng took him to visit the forensics team, where they made their own bubble machine.
Fangfang was having a blast but still remembered to call Zhu Qing for check-in.
When the call connected, his niece’s voice was unexpectedly energetic.
Busy all day, yet full of vigor—the case must have had a major breakthrough.
Now the little one lay on the fold-out bed in Dr. Cheng’s office, swinging his tiny feet as he chatted with Zhu Qing over the phone.
A long silence followed on her end.
Fangfang guessed she was probably staring at the caller ID, her frown deepening.
“Why aren’t you home with Aunt Ping yet?”
In the background, Zeng Yongshan chuckled. “Dr. Cheng’s got a knack for handling kids, huh?”
“Put Dr. Cheng on the phone,” Zhu Qing said.
The little master’s brain instantly sounded the alarm.
“Okay, gotta go now!” Fangfang glanced at Cheng Xinglang, who was reading nearby.
In the quiet office, the voice from the mobile phone was crystal clear.
Just as Cheng Xinglang set his book aside and reached out—
“Bye-bye!” Fangfang’s chubby finger jabbed the end-call button.
Cheng Xinglang: “…”
“I didn’t get to speak.”
“Cut me some slack,” Fangfang said in his baby voice. “I was afraid Qing would make you send me home.”
Fangfang decisively hung up on Zhu Qing.
Humming a tune, he heard Dr. Cheng’s phone chime with a message.
“She says…” Cheng Xinglang smirked. “You’re dead.”
“I’m not scared,” the little one said breezily, propping his chubby cheeks in his hands. “Our Qing would never hit me.”
Dr. Cheng lounged lazily, long fingers tapping the keys.
Fangfang scrunched his tiny brows, eyeing him suspiciously. “What are you telling my niece?”
“‘You’re not scared…’” Cheng Xinglang raised an eyebrow, mimicking him. “…‘huh?’”
The tiny uncle pounced like a SWAT team member, scrambling for the phone. “Hey—ah!”
