Fangfang and Aunt Ping emerged from the mobile phone market in Mong Kok and immediately headed to a nearby department store.
In the children's section, a sleek black bicycle, as stylish as a motorcycle, caught Fangfang's attention. The little boy eagerly lifted his short legs to "test drive" it, ringing the bell on the handlebars with sheer delight.
After swiping his card triumphantly for the new bike, Fangfang passed by the eyewear counter on his way downstairs. He picked out a pair of tiny black sunglasses, perched them on his little nose, and strutted confidently toward the Yau Ma Tei Police Station to stake out the place.
However, Sheng Fang’s timing was off—his niece was at her busiest.
Under the setting sun, the shadows of the little uncle and his niece stretched and intertwined.
Fangfang tilted his head, eyes brimming with anticipation.
Zhu Qing glanced at Aunt Ping with a questioning look—
What’s going on?
When she was a child, she had never properly learned to ride a bike. The welfare home had an old, discarded adult bicycle—no one knew whose it was—and that became her first practice tool. No one held the frame for her, no one taught her how to balance. The young Zhu Qing simply climbed onto the seat again and again, gritting her teeth and picking herself up after every fall. Through trial and error, she figured it out, eventually pedaling far and wide on her own.
Now, her gaze lingered on Fangfang’s little bike. With its multiple stabilizing wheels, he wouldn’t fall or get hurt. Interacting with children was simple—it felt like having a conversation with her younger self. Zhu Qing crouched down and gently patted Fangfang’s small shoulder.
"You’re the best little kid!"
Spring.
Fangfang’s eyes sparkled like stars.
That praise was both encouragement for the little boy and a gift to the stubborn little girl she once was.
She had learned to ride a bike with barely any falls, speeding around like a true cycling prodigy!
Zhu Qing pinched Sheng Fang’s cheeks playfully, just like when they watched cartoons together and saw heroes gaining sudden bursts of energy.
She waved at Fangfang. "Gotta go!"
With a screech of police sirens, Zhu Qing was off, leaving Fangfang with nothing but a noseful of exhaust fumes.
He glanced back at his bike’s rear seat.
"Wanted to take Qing for a ride," Fangfang muttered to himself. "Next time, then."
The little boy had come to the station specifically for this "chance encounter," but now it had turned into a lonely one-man show. Fortunately, it was shift change, and familiar faces streamed in and out. As he practiced pedaling in the open space, scattered applause occasionally sounded behind him.
Aunt Ping’s smile deepened. Somehow, this little master had truly infiltrated the Yau Ma Tei Police Station. He might not know every officer by name, but he had acquaintances in every department—always ready with a cheerful greeting.
Dr. Cheng Xinglang passed by just as Fangfang attempted to pedal while standing.
Coincidentally, the doctor’s praise mirrored his niece’s: "You’re the best little kid!"
Aunt Ping stifled a laugh.
These adults—each more indulgent than the last. The little master might actually start believing he’s invincible.
Time to bring him back to reality.
"You’d be even more impressive if those training wheels came off," Aunt Ping suggested gently.
"Go ahead, take them off," Fangfang challenged.
Dr. Cheng interjected, "You’d get flattened."
Silence.
Fangfang’s cheeks puffed up like balloons.
After a beat, Dr. Cheng added, "Flat’s not so bad."
Aunt Ping, wise with age, knew how to read people. Dr. Cheng usually loved teasing the little master, laughing as the boy huffed in outrage. But today was different—he’d backtracked almost immediately.
She observed quietly, already piecing things together.
After Dr. Cheng left, Aunt Ping lowered her voice. "Little master, have you noticed how the handsome doctor’s acting different?"
Fangfang blinked up at her with innocent eyes. "Different how?"
Aunt Ping chuckled and shook her head—
Right, he’s still too young.
…
Miss Xiang from the women’s shelter handed Shu Yingying’s address over to the police.
The modest single room was a temporary refuge arranged by volunteers.
When the knock came, Shu Yingying opened the door to two officers flashing their badges.
Confusion flickered across her face, her brow furrowing involuntarily, but she stepped aside to let them in.
The room was spotless, a lone suitcase standing in the corner.
She was clearly preparing to leave—perhaps for good—yet all she could take with her fit into that single bag.
Zeng Yongshan spoke gently, explaining their purpose in a few calm sentences.
"Miss Shu, no need to worry," she said softly. "This is just routine—it’ll be quick—"
"Will you contact my husband?"
Zeng Yongshan replied, "We’ll verify through other channels."
Shu Yingying’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly.
Perched on a plastic stool, fingers tightly interlaced, she answered each question methodically.
She didn’t know Zhou Yongsheng or Qin Wen. Over the past decade, she’d moved frequently with her husband, recalling each address clearly—neighbors could vouch for her.
It was only days ago that she’d finally gathered the courage to leave while he was away. She didn’t know when he’d return, and she feared another beating would leave her too injured to flee to Kai Tak Airport.
All these years, Shu Yingying had tried resisting before. She’d even called the police, but nothing ever came of it. This time, she wanted no further entanglement.
Domestic violence… even if he was convicted, how long would he actually serve? Once released, she’d be his first target. Escaping Hong Kong might seem passive, but it was the best solution she could devise.
In these final days, her emotions were tangled. Hope and dread intertwined—she’d never felt luck was on her side. And sure enough, at this critical moment, she’d somehow gotten dragged into a murder case.
As the questioning continued, her fragile hope withered.
Shu Yingying thought, I’m not getting away this time either.
But then the female officer met her gaze, taking in her bruised face with unwavering resolve.
Closing her notepad, Zeng Yongshan spoke with quiet conviction.
"We’ll expedite the verification. It won’t delay your plans." A pause. "And in the future… live well."
Shu Yingying froze.
She recalled those nights when a kitchen knife was pressed against her throat, threatening her not to divorce. She also remembered the last time she rolled up her sleeves, revealing bruises and scars to her mother. Her elderly mother trembled, afraid to touch her for fear of causing pain, yet still urged her—"Just endure a little longer. Talk to him properly. Maybe he’ll change."
Now, the female officer’s words, "Safe travels," echoed in her ears.
She suddenly felt dazed. So, it was really possible to leave just like this.
Her eyes lowered, tears glistening.
After leaving Shu Yingying’s residence, Zeng Yongshan and Hao Zai unconsciously quickened their pace.
The investigation had reached a critical stage, and time was running short.
"She moved six times in ten years. Each time, she stayed indoors, and the neighbors can vouch for that."
"If we can confirm this, it rules out any possibility of her having an affair."
Meanwhile, at the police station, faxed documents arrived.
The file on Huang Jiewen filled an entire page.
"She’s the one who returned the ticket," Xu Jiale said, waving the paper. "So, this is the 'new wife'?"
"Can we get a copy of Huang Jiewen’s ID photo?"
"Forgot about that—I’ll go fetch it later."
"But what good will a photo do? Are we supposed to search the entire city for her?"
A few chuckles rose in the office.
Weng Zhaolin walked past with a stern expression.
The case wasn’t solved yet, and these people still had the nerve to joke around.
He certainly wasn’t laughing.
Bang! Bang! Weng Zhaolin slammed his hand on the desk. "What are you all standing around for? Keep looking for evidence!"
On the other side, an airline clerk adjusted her glasses, scrutinizing the printed surveillance photo.
The woman in the image was wrapped in a camel-colored coat, her face half-hidden behind sunglasses, a scarf wound tightly up to her chin.
"She spoke very softly. I could barely hear her," the clerk said. "The refund process was completely compliant and went through quickly."
The clerk couldn’t provide any further leads.
But after repeated cross-checking, the police confirmed a crucial detail: the day she processed the refund was the same day the media exploded with reports of the "famous director’s resurrection and subsequent murder."
"Refunds come with hefty fees. International trips are usually planned well in advance—people don’t cancel them for no reason."
"Especially not at such a sensitive time… The timing is too coincidental."
This couldn’t just be a coincidence.
Given their relationship, she would’ve at least waited for the truth to come out.
After leaving the airline, the police rushed to the travel agency.
"This woman?"
"Is this a surveillance photo? Without a clear shot of her face, how could we possibly recognize her?"
"Honestly, I don’t remember. It’s peak season—we handle hundreds of customers daily."
...
The investigation pressed on urgently.
Clues about Huang Jiewen, the woman who returned the ticket, were scattered and complex. The dusty paper archives alone took hours to sift through, and piecing everything together wouldn’t happen overnight. In the CID office, phone rings mixed with officers calling their families, the noise stretching from dusk well into the night.
When Zeng Yongshan and Hao Zai returned to the station, the clock had just passed eight.
Shu Yingying’s testimony had been verified, clearing all suspicions. Though tickets issued around the same time weren’t unusual, the police, meticulous as ever, spent hours double-checking this coincidence.
Before heading back, Zeng Yongshan made a detour to Shu Yingying’s temporary residence. Excitedly, she told Zhu Qing how Shu Yingying, upon learning she was no longer a suspect, finally smiled and repeatedly thanked the police.
Zeng Yongshan exhaled deeply. "I said, 'It’s our duty.' Funny—I’ve said that line so many times, but today, it actually felt meaningful."
Zhu Qing listened, smiling.
She’d never met Shu Yingying, but she could imagine the relief on her face.
"Have you eaten?" Zhu Qing pulled a bread roll from a paper bag at the corner of the desk.
"Wow!" Zeng Yongshan eagerly accepted it. "Did you hear my stomach growling?"
She tore open the packaging and devoured it, ready to dive back into work.
As the investigation hit a wall, Zhu Qing hauled out the thick case file on the old "lovers’ suicide."
The heavy file thudded onto the desk, stirring up dust.
This dossier, retrieved from headquarters after layers of approval, had been used early on to assist in solving Zhou Yongsheng’s murder. The deeper they dug, the more convinced the team became—to crack this case, they had to uncover the truth behind the decade-old "suicide."
They were getting closer to the answer.
Ten years ago, Zhou Yongsheng had secretly transferred his assets, planned a "lovers’ suicide," and staged his own death to disappear with his true love. For a decade, he lived under a new identity in the outlying islands with her. But now, immigration authorities were cracking down on dual citizenship, forcing him to flee Hong Kong before his fake ID expired.
Yet, before he could escape, Zhou Yongsheng was murdered at Xia Guang Theater.
Zhu Qing bent over the documents, flipping through page after page.
Autopsy reports, witness statements… Everything was there—except the most crucial piece: the recovery photos from the scene.
She combed through the file again, confirming nothing was missing, then stared at the blank space where the photos should’ve been.
"Yongshan," Zhu Qing looked up, "why aren’t there any body photos in here?"
Zeng Yongshan, mid-bite, pointed at the empty slot. "There should’ve been a label here. Probably fell off over the years."
"The files we usually access aren’t the originals. Photos of severely decomposed bodies are encrypted," Zeng Yongshan explained. "Sensitive cases—close-ups, bloated corpses..."
She paused, grimacing. "Those are stored separately at the original archive site."
"The original archive?" Zhu Qing’s gaze lingered on the file as she picked up the phone. "So, it’s still at Yau Ma Tei Police Station."
Just the thought of the body’s bloated state made Zeng Yongshan lose her appetite. She gulped water, about to dissuade Zhu Qing, but the call was already dialing.
Zhu Qing: "I need to see the recovery photos from the lovers’ suicide case ten years ago."
Zeng Yongshan leaned closer to the receiver.
Dr. Cheng’s voice came through—gentle yet restrained.
"Are you sure you want to see them?"
Zeng Yongshan sighed quietly.
Since when had Zhu Qing ever backed down from anything?
...
Cheng Xinglang’s slender fingers turned the key. Click. The door to the forensics imaging room unlocked.
He pulled a file from the top shelf, matching the case number.
"The photos from the scene might be too much for you to handle." Cheng Xinglang's voice brushed past her ear.
Zhu Qing looked up, unexpectedly meeting his gaze.
In the confined space of the audiovisual archives room, even the faintest rustle of fingertips against the file folder was amplified, becoming unnervingly clear.
Before coming, Zeng Yongshan had specifically pulled Zhu Qing aside to warn her.
The term "bloated corpse" might just be a common professional phrase in textbooks, but witnessing it firsthand was an entirely different experience—one that couldn’t be captured by mere words.
"I can handle it," she nodded, her voice soft but firm.
It was the first time Cheng Xinglang had seen this expression on her face—her lashes trembling slightly, yet her hand stubbornly outstretched.
After a brief pause, he finally opened the file.
The grotesque features of the bloated corpse were horrifying.
Twisted soft tissues, swollen limbs, peeling skin…
These were no longer cold descriptions from a textbook but vividly displayed before her eyes.
Cheng Xinglang had filtered them—the first photo he handed her was relatively mild, a close-up of the victim’s hand.
Then came the collarbone, shoulders, calves, abdomen.
When he noticed Zhu Qing’s gradually slowing breaths, he adjusted the pace of handing her the photos.
"Is that a facial close-up?" Zhu Qing suddenly leaned in to ask.
The swollen, distorted features were barely recognizable.
Only then did she notice his fingers partially covering the photo.
She gently pushed his hand aside, and the moment their fingertips touched, both froze.
Now she understood his intention.
The most jarring part was the victim’s mangled flesh. Zhu Qing inhaled sharply and turned away abruptly.
"Closing your eyes would’ve been quicker," Cheng Xinglang remarked dryly as he swiftly tucked the photo back into the evidence bag, his tone resigned yet amused.
He said most officers vomited the first time they saw something like this—utterly humiliating.
But at this moment, Zhu Qing only took a large step back, steadying herself with sheer willpower.
"Another hurdle cleared," he said, his eyes warm with approval. "Brave detective."
...
The shift ended earlier than Zhu Qing expected. When she got home, an excited Sheng Fang came running out.
"Qing-jie, Qing-jie, where did you go?"
"We?"
Aunt Ping pointed to the balcony.
The little one had insisted on waiting there for his niece, refusing to budge no matter how much she coaxed him. So she had bundled him up like a little dumpling and sat outside with him in the cold breeze.
Aunt Ping pretended to admire the night view, but Fangfang was dead serious.
His eyes were glued to the street until he finally spotted Zhu Qing’s figure.
Sheng Fang noticed—Cheng Xinglang had walked her home.
"Your eyesight is that sharp?" Zhu Qing marveled.
"I’m a cop," Fangfang patted his little chest proudly.
"Next time, take me with you," he added.
Zhu Qing ruffled his hair.
What a generous little soul—thinking they’d sneaked off to have fun without him, yet all he did was blink pleadingly and ask to tag along next time.
"We were working overtime," Zhu Qing said. "It was work."
Aunt Ping’s ears perked up discreetly.
The police station was just a stone’s throw away—if Zhu Qing ran, she could make it in two minutes. Yet that handsome doctor had insisted on escorting her home!
"Qingqing, that—"
Aunt Ping tried to casually pry for details, but the conversation between niece and uncle had already shifted.
On the soft carpet, Zhu Qing sprawled lazily while Fangfang nestled beside her.
Whenever his niece was home, the little one stuck to her like glue.
He was even sweet enough to massage her shoulders when she turned over.
"Fangfang, you’re a massage master."
"Of course! Next time, you have to book me again!"
"Sure, what’s your number?"
"I’m 8888!"
Zhu Qing burst out laughing. "You remembered."
The whiteboard nearby was covered in dense notes.
But thanks to Fangfang’s colorful doodles, the grim case files gained a touch of liveliness.
In just a few days, the police had been tirelessly chasing leads in this case.
Jiang Xiaowei (the wife), Jiang Yifan (the son), Liu Wei (the obsessive fan), Shu Yingying (the domestic violence victim)... Names flashed through Zhu Qing’s mind.
Each time, they seemed close to the truth, only to realize they were on the wrong track at the last moment.
Her gaze fixed on three names at the center of the whiteboard. She erased "Shu Yingying" but kept key details about her.
That "wife" living with Zhou Yongsheng in the outlying islands—could she be Huang Jiewen?
A savior complex...
Where on earth did he find so many women who "needed saving"?
...
At dawn, not a single officer in CID’s Team B arrived late.
The case still had no breakthrough. Tabloids sensationalized it daily, and higher-ups kept bombarding Weng Zhaolin’s office with calls—now, even the ringtone gave him a headache.
Fuming, Weng sir paced around, scrutinizing their work, but found nothing to criticize. He coughed dryly and retreated.
"This case is cursed. He dies, and she cancels her flight right after—if they’re not connected, I’ll eat my hat."
"But no matter how we dig, there’s zero trace of any link between them."
"The landlord in Ping Chau said the rent was paid yearly at first, then 'Qin Wen' switched to three-year payments. All these years, the landlord never met the woman—everything was handled by 'Qin Wen.'"
"Huang Jiewen used to work in foreign trade, but her company went under ages ago. Former colleagues say they haven’t heard from her in years."
"She’s still using an ID card from 1983—no photo. How are we supposed to find her?"
Yesterday, colleagues joked that even if they had her ID photo, they couldn’t just scour the streets with it.
Now, they didn’t even have that chance.
Behind her, the team debated, but Zhu Qing sat at her desk, replaying the airline’s surveillance footage.
Her focus never wavered from the screen.
The clip was only three seconds long, but she’d watched it over fifty times.
She stood and asked the tech team to slow it down frame by frame.
The grainy footage played in increments.
The motion of the sunglasses-wearing woman adjusting her scarf was dissected.
The angle paused on her back.
Zhu Qing’s pen tapped the screen. "Here! Stop!"
"Can you slow it further?"
The image froze again.
Zhu Qing suddenly turned around and began rummaging through a pile of witness statements, the papers rustling noisily.
Zhu Qing asked, "Are all the statements from the cast and crew of Eclipse back then here?"
Xu Jiale looked up. "They're all there."
"What about the stunt double's testimony?"
"Stunt double?" Xu Jiale pulled out the list. "There's no record of a stunt double in the crew registry."
At ten in the morning, Zhu Qing and Mo Zhenbang arrived at the film set.
They tracked down Old Liu, a former crew member from the Eclipse production.
Old Liu was still adjusting prop boxes when he heard the police’s purpose for visiting and scratched his head in confusion.
"You mean that stunt double?"
"Her name… I can’t remember it now. Honestly, I don’t think we ever used it. Whenever we needed her, we just called her ‘the double.’"
Old Liu recalled that the stunt double had been personally selected by the director. Zhou Yongsheng had coached her meticulously, refining every movement and angle until it was flawless.
The girl had treasured the opportunity—working with a renowned director was rare, and she had thrown herself into the role with remarkable dedication.
"Speaking of that double… She was always the first on set and the last to leave, barely even stopping to eat. For a newcomer, this was like winning the lottery—of course she gave it her all."
"Everyone on set knew, but Director Zhou forbade us from talking about it. Using a stunt double doesn’t sound good—people would say the lead actress wasn’t committed."
Later, when the film became a classic, the studio made no mention of it in their promotions.
"Back then, Director Zhou was proud of it. He said no one could tell the difference between the double and Gu Niman—not a single shot gave it away."
"You’ve seen Eclipse, right? Sure enough, when the movie came out, nobody noticed."
Old Liu suddenly seemed to remember something. "The stunt double… I don’t think it was ever reported. How did you find out?"
Just days earlier, Zhu Qing had paid a high price for a rare copy of the film on VHS.
She hadn’t spotted any discrepancies either—it was the male lead, Lu Yongyan, who had casually mentioned it in his statement.
"That was all ten years ago. The details are fuzzy now. She was quiet, always keeping to herself in some corner of the set, but the moment Director Zhou yelled ‘Action!’, she’d dart right over."
"Her looks? Average, I guess. Stunt doubles aren’t hired for their faces—she wasn’t there to replace Gu Niman’s close-ups."
"The camera only focused on the real lead actress. Sometimes we even thought she was trying too hard—naive, really."
Old Liu sighed. "Back then, everyone on set said Gu Niman was born for the spotlight. With her looks, fame was inevitable. We joked that if Gu Niman got to feast, her little stunt double would at least get the scraps. Being a double to that level—it was worth it."
"She was lucky to be picked by Director Zhou."
"But who could’ve guessed? Gu Niman did become a star, but she’s long gone now…"
Zhu Qing reopened Lu Yongyan’s statement.
She turned to Mo Zhenbang. "Lu Yongyan said Zhou Yongsheng was extremely strict with the double. Even the angle of her arm in a high-rise jump scene had to be perfect."
Mo Zhenbang asked, "Is there any way to contact that stunt double?"
Old Liu rubbed his hands awkwardly. "Let me think… You’re really putting me on the spot here."
Zhu Qing handed him her card. "If you remember anything, call us anytime."
…
When Mo Zhenbang pushed open the CID office door, only a few officers remained at their desks, buried in case files.
Zhu Qing pulled out the decade-old statements from the film crew and compared them with Lu Yongyan’s latest testimony.
Liang Qikai had spread open a psychology book he’d borrowed from the library.
The page he was on had been unconsciously creased at the corners—it was a chapter analyzing the roots of rescuer personalities.
He jotted down key points in bold, decisive strokes.
Liang Qikai frowned in thought.
Codependent salvation… Was Zhou Yongsheng’s protection driven by love, or was the woman in Pingzhou simply his perfect rescue project?
The wall clock ticked steadily, the second hand never pausing.
At exactly two in the afternoon, Zhu Qing received a call.
Mo Zhenbang stepped out of his office and waited for her to hang up. "Well?"
Zhu Qing’s brow furrowed slightly as she slowly lowered the phone.
"No trace of the stunt double. Old Liu, the studio… No one can find her. It’s like she vanished into thin air—not even a name in the records."
Zhu Qing thought back to Old Liu’s joking tone on the phone earlier.
"She was Gu Niman’s personal stunt double. With Gu Niman dead, what use does she have in this industry?"
"Use…" Zhu Qing murmured the word softly, as if the answer hovered just out of reach.
What was this stunt double’s purpose?
Zhu Qing mentally replayed every scene and shot from the film.
Which moments had the double performed? She couldn’t tell the difference.
The door burst open with a bang as Xu Jiale practically crashed into the room.
"Unbelievable."
"Immigration’s records aren’t synced. We wasted all this time only to find out—another fake identity!"
"What do you mean?" Hao Zai leaned in. "Fake identity?"
Xu Jiale tossed a printout onto the desk. "The signature on the refund slip doesn’t match the one on the immigration forms. Look—it’s not the same person."
"Same trick as Zhou Yongsheng. His current wife’s ID is forged too."
"If we hadn’t coincidentally placed the two signatures side by side, we’d never have thought to check for fake identities."
"Zhou Yongsheng faked his death with a fake ID. Who would’ve guessed—"
His voice cut off abruptly.
A personal stunt double disappearing without a trace. A current wife with fraudulent documents.
The two pieces of information connected, pointing to one possibility.
The office fell silent, save for the click of Liang Qikai capping his pen.
Xu Jiale, flushed and sweating despite the weather, wiped his forehead with a tissue.
Someone whispered, "Is it her?"
"The woman living in that white house in Pingzhou for the past ten years—" Hao Zai looked up, dazed. "Was she the stunt double?"
A collective hush.
Xu Jiale crumpled the tissue and lobbed it squarely at Hao Zai’s head.
Liang Qikai quietly closed his book.
He had stepped forward countless times to shield his mother. Later, when she fell ill, he took on the role of her caretaker, leaning over her hospital bed. Back then, he was still young, and whenever his mother wept, he saw himself as a little hero, never feeling anything was amiss. It wasn’t until certain moments in adulthood that he would occasionally freeze in realization.
For instance, during the case of the real and fake Lin Tingchao, Liang Qikai stood by the hospital bed of Rong Zimei’s mother—he knew all too well how exhausting it was to care for a patient. Even something as simple as feeding them could take an enormous amount of time.
Yesterday, at the police station cafeteria, the forensic examiner mentioned a psychological term related to savior complexes.
He hadn’t expected to understand that mentality so completely. He refused to believe it, but the more he tried to deny it, the more vivid those memories became. So after work, he rushed straight to the library, digging deeper into the subject.
“Is it really ‘her’…? Then where is she now?” Zeng Yongshan snapped out of her daze, finding her voice again.
Liang Qikai’s grip on the pen tightened slightly, his palm damp with sweat.
His gaze lingered on the books and notes spread out before him.
“If this is Zhou Yongsheng’s psychological issue…” he suddenly spoke up.
When such a savior complex turns pathological, it breeds an intense desire for control.
“The other person—Chunri—might resist, just like Zhou Yongsheng’s first love, who left him for good.” Liang Qikai paused. “Or… the other person could be completely tamed, willingly dependent, making it impossible to break free.”
“She even canceled her flight ticket,” Uncle Li’s knuckles tapped lightly on the desk. “So it’s the latter.”
“Ping Chau?” Liang Qikai said. “She might have gone back to that white cottage.”
…
The police didn’t waste a second, immediately heading to Ping Chau.
Amid the howling sea wind, discussions rose and fell.
“Everyone says it’s deception, but what if it’s love?”
“‘Love’ beautified by control? We always thought the great director was just making art—turns out he was living it.”
This was the police’s second visit to the white cottage on Ping Chau.
Walking along the gravel path, they noticed the flowers in the yard had bloomed, but they looked bleak against the cold wind.
The door was slightly ajar. Zhu Qing gave it a gentle push, and with a creak, the wooden door swung open.
Zeng Yongshan and Zhu Qing exchanged glances.
Moving quietly, as if afraid to disturb something, they stepped inside.
Then, suddenly, they stopped.
The lady of the house—she had indeed returned.
Her silhouette was even frailer than they’d imagined.
On the windowsill rested an oversized pair of sunglasses.
She was the figure from the airline’s surveillance footage.
The sea wind roared, slamming the door against the wall with a loud “bang.”
Slowly, the woman turned her face toward them.
In that instant, Zhu Qing remembered the photos—
The bloated corpse, the blurred features.
She had seen similar case files back at the police academy.
The key to finding a body double was matching height, weight, silhouette, and bone structure.
And now, standing before them was Gu Niman, the woman who was supposed to have died in a lovers’ suicide ten years ago.
Zhou Yongsheng had meticulously chosen a stand-in—all to keep the real her by his side.
Now, the room was flooded with painfully bright light.
She tilted her head slightly, the short strands of her hair lifted by the wind, revealing a face that had once captivated countless people.
But from her cheeks down to her shoulders, grotesque, festering scars now twisted across her skin.
Gu Niman sat barefoot, curled up on the windowsill.
Her pale, fragile figure mirrored the iconic shot from the film Lunar Eclipse—the one promoted as “pure as moonlight.”
These past ten years had been Zhou Yongsheng’s decade of faking death.
And for Gu Niman, they were ten years spent living in his shadow.
…
School was about to let out, and the little ones in the junior class chattered away.
Like thirteen tiny sparrows, they chirped nonstop.
A co-teacher, who had once worked at a middle school, tried to console Teacher Ji.
“Count your blessings. At least this is a kindergarten—sure, they’re noisy, but their tiny voices are still cute,” she said. “Back when I taught Form Three, the boys were going through voice changes. When a few of them talked at once, it sounded like a cattle farm.”
Teacher Ji burst out laughing, then turned to hear the kids excitedly sharing their after-school plans.
“I’m going to the seaside park!”
“Mummy’s taking me on the tram!”
“I’m going to Third Aunt’s house!” Jin Bao declared.
Jin Bao proudly informed his classmates that aside from his own family, he had a whole clan of nouveau riche relatives.
Third Aunt was one of them.
A clan of nouveau riche? Teacher Ji couldn’t help but feel envious.
If only she could strike it rich too.
“Because Daddy and Mummy are going on a date,” Jin Bao explained. “So I’m going to Third Aunt’s to play with my cousin.”
Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he added, “Daddy even bought flowers!”
The conversation took a fresh turn as the kids latched onto this new topic.
“Is today Valentine’s Day?” Baby Yesi blinked.
“Maybe!” Jin Bao said seriously. “Daddy told Mummy that every day with her is Valentine’s Day.”
The teachers nearby unconsciously softened their movements, smiles tugging at their lips.
“My mummy wore her prettiest dress.”
“They’re going to watch a musical!”
Sheng Fang sat quietly in the corner, nibbling on a snack, his little ears perked up in fascination.
All this talk about dating was entirely unfamiliar to him.
“My daddy and mummy went on a date too.”
“Last week, my sister and her boyfriend went to the movies!”
Teacher Ji hid behind the bookshelf, stifling a laugh.
These little gossipmongers traded family updates like they were hosting a tea party.
Finally, Sheng Fang spoke up. “Is going to the movies a date?”
“Of course it’s a date!”
“Fangfang, they even show it in dramas!”
Sheng Fang’s tiny brows furrowed deeply.
Like Aunt Ping, he had zero interest in sappy romance shows.
“Someone asked my niece to go to the movies,” he said, a note of worry in his voice.
“Shh, shh, shh…”
Every little head in the class swiveled toward him, round eyes brimming with curiosity.
Someone had asked their flying niece out to the movies—
This was a crisis!!!
