The investigation had reached a stalemate, with the police groping in the dark for any breakthrough leads.
If the killer remained hidden, never appearing within the scope of their inquiries, how could the case move forward? Even more troubling—what if this wasn’t a crime committed by someone the victim knew? If the murderer and the deceased had no social connections whatsoever, the case would lack even a basic starting point, leaving investigators with nothing to grasp.
It was then that Zhu Qing caught a clue from The Hong Kong Weekly.
The time of death and the discovery of the body were close. If the journalist Deng Yuyan had indeed secretly kept a camera, she might have captured decisive evidence.
Zhu Qing immediately reported this to Mo Zhenbang. Under his direction, she hurried out to rendezvous with her colleagues and track down the journalist.
Winter was in full force, the wind howling outside.
Sheng Peirong closed the window and turned to fetch a cashmere scarf.
Her daughter had barely arrived home before heading out again. Sheng Peirong didn’t try to stop her—she simply wrapped the scarf around Zhu Qing’s neck as she tied her shoelaces, wordless but warm.
The sudden comfort around her bare neck brought a smile to Zhu Qing’s eyes. Glancing up, she spotted little Sheng Fang leaning against the study door, waving a tiny hand.
“We’ll wait for you.”
Fangfang was counting on Qing to come home early.
After all, he hadn’t been rolled into a ball and tossed out yet!
Thirty minutes later, Zhu Qing and Little Sun met Deng Yuyan at The Hong Kong Weekly’s office building.
The journalist had indeed been hiding something.
“I’m sorry—I did bring a small camera. The temple forbids photography, so I had to sneak shots inside my coat,” she admitted, handing over the device with an awkward expression. “You can tell from the fact that I’m still working at this hour—journalism is cutthroat. No matter how well-written a feature is, without eye-catching photos, it won’t get attention. I had no choice.”
“But I checked the photos repeatedly and found nothing suspicious. Otherwise, I would’ve turned them in immediately.”
“Are these all the photos? Any deletions?”
“Absolutely not. Your tech team can verify—if there’s any sign of tampering, I’ll take full responsibility.”
The police took the camera and the floppy disk, then began verifying her alibi. Deng Yuyan had been working on a feature about the transformation of Hong Kong’s ancient temples for over a month, dedicating nearly all her time to it. Her detailed notes and field records corroborated her claims.
When Zhu Qing and Little Sun returned to the station with the evidence, they found the entire B-team assembled.
Hao Zai was slurping a cup of instant noodles. “Had a late-night snack date, but now I’m stuck on overtime.”
Liang Qikai clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Share the good times, endure the bad together.”
The group erupted into laughter and banter.
“Is this what Inspector Weng meant this afternoon—about turning a corner to escape a dead end?”
Mo Zhenbang walked over to the computer. “Focus on the task.”
The screen lit up as the police inserted the floppy disk to review the photos.
The files included not just images of the Tin Hau Temple but also photos of temples across Hong Kong—over five hundred in total. The journalist’s thick winter coat had made it effortless to smuggle shots, prompting teasing from the officers about what tricks reporters would resort to in summer.
“Every profession has its tricks.”
“They say journalists are the best at surveillance and counter-tailing—they’d make great cops if they switched careers.”
Mo Zhenbang filtered the photos by time, narrowing the focus to the Tin Hau Temple.
Seventy-two shots in total.
“She took this many despite the ban?”
“If journalists followed every rule, where would the scoops come from? Hot topics are fought over—remember the exclusive on the secretive young master of Mid-Levels? That came from a paparazzo climbing a tree to snap shots of the third-floor nursery.”
The group turned to look at the niece of that very news subject.
Zhu Qing looked up. “They climbed a tree, aiming the lens at the children’s room.”
As she spoke, she spread Deng Yuyan’s supplementary statement across the desk.
On the day of the crime, Deng Yuyan had arrived at the Tin Hau Temple at 4 p.m., primarily taking notes but sneaking photos in secluded areas. The images were varied—architectural details of side halls, glimpses of worshippers, offerings on altars, cracks in temple thresholds…
The cursor moved slowly as the police scrutinized each photo.
Zhu Qing leaned in, studying a close-up of an ancient well on the screen. “The killer probably used this well water to freeze the victim’s joints.”
Yet even after reviewing all the photos, no direct evidence surfaced.
Deng Yuyan’s shots were meticulous—she’d even captured a faded handwritten “No Photography” sign.
Xu Jiale couldn’t help chuckling at the close-up of the sign. “Is this her version of defiance?”
Hao Zai, still holding his noodles, peered at a photo of a young monk’s back. “This little temple has monks?”
“Mostly orphans they’ve taken in.”
“They even have handcarts?”
“You think they carry offerings by hand? Use your brain.”
“Hey! Last time you asked if the offerings could be eaten after they’re removed—that was using your brain?”
Mo Zhenbang shook his head, amused.
The Yau Ma Tei Police Station’s B-team was the rowdiest. He’d expected complaints about overtime, but instead, they were chatting away like they were at a night market gathering.
“‘Inspiration strikes when you least expect it,’” Hao Zai mimicked Inspector Weng’s gesture from earlier, tapping his temple. “Inspector Weng’s words are never reliable.”
“Exactly…”
“If we can’t find anything deliberately, how can we expect to stumble on it accidentally? Solving cases isn’t that easy!”
Xu Jiale suddenly snapped to attention, saluting. “Inspector Weng!”
The room froze. Smiles vanished, throats tightened, and heads turned slowly.
No one was there.
“You’re dead!” Hao Zai set down his noodles and grabbed Xu Jiale by the scruff of his neck.
“Try that again and see what happens.”
“It’s not my fault you all fall for it every time…”
Amid the laughter and mock threats, the investigation resumed. The team buried themselves in case files again, seemingly tireless.
The night was long, and the officers had just weathered the frustration of a stalled probe.
But no one voiced defeat. As long as they were all still here, there was always a chance for a breakthrough. Dawn would come eventually.
…
Morning on Kadoorie Hill greeted them with sunlight gently dispelling the winter chill.
Zhu Qing tiptoed toward the door, hoping to slip back to the station unnoticed—only to be ambushed at the staircase.
Sheng Fang had been lying in wait, while Sheng Peirong sat on the living room sofa, both locking onto her with identical stares.
“Someone’s trying to sneak out,” Sheng Fang declared, tiny arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Came home super late last night, and now skipping breakfast?”
Zhu Qing looked to Sheng Peirong. “I just wanted to get back early—”
This time, even her mother wasn’t on her side.
“Breakfast first,” Sheng Peirong said, pulling her toward the dining table. “No energy for work on an empty stomach.”
Little Sheng Fang clambered into his high chair with impressive speed, nodding vigorously. “Exactly!”
"Coming, coming!" Aunt Ping hurried from the kitchen, carefully balancing a porcelain soup bowl in both hands. The rich aroma of slow-cooked broth rose with the steam, the liquid swaying slightly with her quick steps. "Started simmering at three in the morning—Qingqing, drink it while it's hot. You've been so busy lately; you need proper nourishment."
Zhu Qing stared at the dense, medicinal soup before her and couldn't help but chuckle.
Who drinks this first thing in the morning?
Yet this overflowing bowl wasn’t just packed with ingredients—it carried the heartfelt care of her mother, her uncle, and Aunt Ping.
Obediently, Zhu Qing sat down, cradling the bowl. Before even reaching for the spoon, she took a sip.
"Aunt Ping, is this a new recipe?" Her eyes brightened. "It’s delicious."
Aunt Ping beamed, her joy as unmistakable as a student who’d aced an exam.
"She must have a secret cookbook," Sheng Peirong teased. "If she submitted this to a food magazine, they’d probably give her a column."
Aunt Ping laughed even harder, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smoothing out. "Oh, I’m hardly that talented..."
Sheng Fang gulped down his milk, set the cup down with a clink, and piped up in his childish voice, "You call her Aunt Ping, I call her Aunt Ping—everyone calls her Aunt Ping!"
The adults turned to him, puzzled.
"Qing calls her Aunt Ping," Fangfang announced, as if uncovering a great mystery. He turned to Sheng Peirong with utmost seriousness. "We should call her Sister Ping instead!"
"Young master," Aunt Ping said awkwardly, rubbing her hands together, "your father also calls me Aunt Ping..."
Fangfang’s face went blank.
Though his bookshelf held picture books about family hierarchies, this tangled web of titles had thoroughly confused him.
The room erupted in laughter, the bright sound ringing through the house, ushering in a new chapter of their busy day.
......
In the CID office, officers hunched over their desks, scratching their heads and groaning about dead-end leads—only to dive right back into case files or head out for more fieldwork.
At yesterday’s briefing, Zhu Qing had proposed a theory: the killer’s method of obscuring the time of death was highly professional. Could they be in a specialized occupation?
That insight had shifted the investigation.
Now, some officers were focusing on tracing suspects through occupational traits.
That morning, as Zhu Qing entered the station, she nearly collided with Mo Zhenbang in the hallway. He was gulping down a cup of pitch-black coffee, his brow furrowed in disgust. His shoulders shuddered involuntarily, as if he were swallowing bitter medicine.
Just watching him made Zhu Qing’s face scrunch up in sympathy.
Mo Zhenbang chuckled—her expression was a perfect match for her uncle’s.
"Good timing. Head to the victim’s house," he said. "Accompany the family to collect his belongings."
"Collect belongings?"
"The case isn’t closed yet, so the body can’t be released. But it’s been days—they need to hold the funeral." Mo Zhenbang explained, "The victim’s brother, Wei Xusheng, is handling arrangements with Huang Qiulian. We’re escorting them to retrieve clothes and photos for the service."
And so, Zhu Qing and two colleagues set off for the victim’s home.
On the way, Zeng Yongshan muttered, "Wei Xusheng isn’t doing this out of kindness. He’s just afraid of gossip—people saying he couldn’t even be bothered with his own brother’s funeral. That man..."
"Will Wei Ansheng come?"
"Probably not," Zhu Qing said. "Wei Ansheng’s condition is special. An event like this would be too much for him."
When the police arrived at the building, Wei Xusheng and Huang Qiulian were already waiting downstairs.
Wei Xusheng had clearly heard about his nephew’s survival. He eyed Huang Qiulian with open disdain.
"Abusing a child and still inheriting millions—what luck, riding on your son’s coattails."
"My brother lost his mind, working his whole life just to hand everything over to you."
Huang Qiulian ignored him, walking straight to the officers. "Can we go up now?"
Under the officers’ watchful gaze, Wei Xusheng reluctantly held his tongue, though resentment still twisted his features, as if he’d been cheated.
Zeng Yongshan leaned closer to Huang Qiulian, keeping her voice low. "Will the child attend the funeral?"
"No." Huang Qiulian shook her head gently. "His father’s greatest wish was for Ansheng to live peacefully at Sacred Heart Manor."
Their reunion hadn’t waited until the scheduled visit. After hearing how the boy sat by the window every day, waiting for his father, Huang Qiulian had taken her first leave from community work to see him yesterday. Though he struggled to express himself, the sudden light in his eyes and the faint upturn of his lips said everything. She hadn’t yet told him about Wei Huasheng’s death. Knowing her ex-husband, he wouldn’t have wanted Ansheng to appear in public before the killer was caught.
For ten years, Wei Huasheng had done everything to protect their child.
The two maids arrived shortly after—summoned by the police. With their employer gone, they had no reason to stay, but no one knew the contents of that house better than they did.
The key turned in the lock with a click.
Huang Qiulian stepped inside, pausing in the living room to take in the traces of her ex-husband’s life, as if he might still be there.
Wei Xusheng hadn’t been back since his last explosive argument with his brother, when he’d flipped the dining table. Now, he marched straight to the master bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe. Since the body couldn’t be retrieved yet, the funeral would use the deceased’s clothes in place of the remains. He pulled out several tailored suits, holding them against himself and checking the sleeve length in the mirror.
Zeng Yongshan said flatly, "Every item removed will be logged as evidence."
Wei Xusheng’s face darkened. He tossed the suits back with a scoff. "Who’d want this garbage?"
In the study, Huang Qiulian gingerly opened Wei Huasheng’s cherished photo album.
She hadn’t expected the first page to hold a family portrait of the three of them. The laminated photo was pristine, but the creases in the album’s spine betrayed how often it had been revisited. Even after all this time, he’d never let go of that ordinary happiness they’d once shared.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they traced the image.
In the corner, the maids whispered about their job searches—how every employer demanded a month’s wages held back, something Wei Huasheng had never done.
"Eight years here... I’ve grown attached," Sister Shuang sighed. "The new employers treat us like strangers. Mr. Wei was never like this."
Zhu Qing recalled the testimony from the old servants of the Wei family and asked, "Did Mr. Wei keep track of daily expenses? Like fruits, milk, and such?"
They immediately shook their heads, almost in unison. "How could he?"
"Mr. Wei would sometimes stay away from home for a few days each month, but he still covered our three meals. We could eat whatever was in the fridge, and he never questioned it."
"Last month, when my grandson fell ill, he was the one who told me to use sea cucumbers to make soup for him. Later, he even asked several times how my grandson was doing."
Huang Qiulian wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and turned away. "Was it Sister E who mentioned it? Back then, Huasheng did say the household expenses were high."
The two servants exchanged glances.
In this household, they had never seen Wei Huasheng fuss over such things.
Zhu Qing flipped through her notebook and turned to Huang Qiulian. "Did you notice anything unusual about the expenses at the time?"
"I didn’t pay attention." Her gaze returned to the photograph in her hands. "Huasheng took care of everything in the house."
Huang Qiulian lowered her eyes, lost in thought.
Back then, he had been so considerate. Every morning before leaving for work, he would prepare fresh ingredients for all three meals, even going out of his way to stop by her favorite bakery for freshly baked cakes.
The photo album didn’t contain many pictures.
She flipped through several pages before finding one where Wei Huasheng was actually smiling.
Huang Qiulian’s fingertips brushed over the photograph.
He should have smiled more often.
"Madam," Huang Qiulian said softly, "I’ve made my choice. Let’s use this one for the funeral portrait."
……
With his beloved niece away, the house felt empty.
The little master wandered around restlessly before climbing onto the sofa and grabbing the remote to turn on the TV.
The television in their new home was much bigger than the one in their old place in Yau Ma Tei. Enjoying the luxurious experience of a private cinema, he held a plate of grapes, popping them into his mouth one after another, his cheeks puffing up like a squirrel hoarding nuts.
The morning news was broadcasting something dull, and Sheng Fang wrinkled his nose before decisively changing the channel.
After pressing the remote over a dozen times, he finally landed on the children’s channel. But after watching cartoons for a while, he started flipping through channels aimlessly again.
Before heading into her study, Sheng Peirong caught sight of the little boy lounging on the sofa, munching on grapes while watching TV.
By the time she finished her paperwork and came back out, her little brother was still glued to the screen—only now, the scene had become much livelier. A row of Transformers figures sat neatly beside him, and he cradled a talking Ultraman in his arms, patting its head and turning its eyes toward the television.
Sheng Peirong had always been known for her relentless drive, packing her schedule from dawn till dusk. Even after her health took a turn, forcing her to slow down, seeing her little brother waste his time like this made her frown.
As the eldest sister, she couldn’t just stand by. She walked over and sat down beside Sheng Fang.
"Watching TV all day?" she asked.
"Can we go out and play?" Fangfang pressed his little face against her arm.
"Sure," Sheng Peirong said.
Sheng Fang hadn’t expected his sister to agree so readily. His eyes lit up instantly.
"Yay!" he cheered. "Then can we—"
Sheng Peirong smiled. "How about trying a violin lesson? I’ll go with you."
Sheng Fang immediately straightened up, staring fixedly at the TV screen. "Actually, I don’t feel like going out anymore."
The Ultraman in his arms dutifully echoed, "Actually, I don’t feel like going out anymore."
……
In the afternoon, another team of officers returned to the Tin Hau Temple with newly developed photographs.
The side hall where the murder had taken place remained cordoned off with police tape, but the rest of the temple had reopened, though the number of worshippers had dwindled. Only a handful of elderly devotees lingered in the courtyard.
A small novice monk in yellow robes swept fallen leaves with a broom. Frail and slight, his robes fluttered in the wind, the hem occasionally brushing against the dry leaves on the ground.
Master Mingkong introduced the child to the police—his Dharma name was Huizhu, a five-year-old abandoned at the temple gates as a baby and raised there ever since.
During the initial investigation, the police had completely overlooked him. It was only through Deng Yuyan’s photographs that they realized the little monk had been present.
Despite his young age, Huizhu swept with practiced ease. Though the adults had never spoken to him about the murder, the clever child had already pieced together bits of the story from hushed conversations among the worshippers.
As a result, the police found him surprisingly cooperative.
Uncle Li took out a photo of the deceased, Wei Huasheng. "Little Master, have you seen this man before?"
Huizhu stood on tiptoe to examine the picture before shaking his head.
With so many visitors coming and going daily, it was hard for a five-year-old to remember every face.
"It’s four o’clock," Master Mingkong said, patting the boy’s back. "Time for scripture recitation."
The little monk set down his broom and was about to follow his teacher when the officers called out.
"Wait a minute!"
Xu Jiale suddenly frowned. "Master Mingkong, does he always recite scriptures at this time?"
"Like clockwork," the master replied, taking Huizhu’s hand. "Children get distracted easily. We can’t afford to delay even a minute."
"Even on the day of the incident?"
"Every single day, without fail." Master Mingkong had already started leading the boy toward the scripture hall. "Officers, we really must go now."
Uncle Li quickly pressed further. "How many novice monks are there in the temple?"
"Just him."
Uncle Li and Xu Jiale exchanged a look.
Deng Yuyan’s statement was clear—she had arrived at the temple at 4 p.m. on the day of the murder. If the little monk had been reciting scriptures then, who was the child in the monk’s robes in her photo?
Once Master Mingkong and Huizhu were out of earshot, Xu Jiale pulled out the photograph for comparison.
"This novice seems… skinnier than the child in the picture?" he said uncertainly.
Their voices drifted back on the wind as they walked away.
"Why did you put your robes on inside out again?"
"It was an accident…"
"Don’t be careless. Last time, you even lost a set."
"That was the wind! I hung them in the backyard…"
……
The new discovery only deepened the mystery.
Later that afternoon, the police waited until Huizhu’s scripture recitation was over before questioning him further. The five-year-old couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his robes had gone missing—understandable for a child his age. That he could provide any clues at all was impressive enough.
But what did this unexpected lead really mean?
"It's been verified." Xu Jiale handed the notebook to Inspector Mo. "The chanting records of the supervising monk are complete. They entered the chanting room at 3:50 PM that afternoon. Multiple devotees saw them go in together, and the chanting never stopped. Through the windows, they could be seen inside the whole time."
"Reporter Deng Yuyan has been working on a temple feature and had no prior acquaintance with Wei Huasheng. Background checks show she had no motive. Moreover, the photo timestamp was confirmed by the tech team—it was indeed taken at 4:10 PM on the day of the crime."
"It was precisely because the little novice was in the chanting room during the initial evidence collection that we overlooked him."
"So, Huizhu was supposedly chanting, yet a little novice mysteriously appeared in the photo." Liang Qikai frowned. "Could the killer have used a child disguised as a novice to lure the victim to the side hall?"
Zhu Qing compared the testimonies of the old maid Xu Yue'e with the current two maids, then looked up.
The word "ghost" on the whiteboard was enclosed in quotation marks. She stared at it for a long time before speaking. "Huang Qiulian mentioned that the 'ghost' the victim referred to initially meant that six-year-old sick child."
Someone blurted out, "Could it be reincarnation coming for revenge?"
"Thwack!" Uncle Li smacked the person's head hard with a case file. "Keep spouting nonsense, and next time I'll use a baton."
Mo Zhenbang motioned for Zhu Qing to continue.
"Why was the victim so convinced the 'ghost' haunting him was that child? It was an incident from 26 years ago. If an adult was following him, why would he associate it with the child?" Zhu Qing walked to the whiteboard, pointing at the timeline. "And the timing is peculiar. Sending the child to Sacred Heart Manor, suddenly believing Huang Qiulian was innocent, buying his current house and completely moving out of the old tenement—all happened eight years ago."
"If it was just about avoiding painful memories, why wait two years after the incident to move?"
"Could something else have happened in the old tenement?" Zeng Yongshan chimed in.
Zhu Qing continued, "Also, the old maid Xu Yue'e said the victim always felt the household's fruits and milk were disappearing too quickly..."
The meeting room fell silent, the colleagues' breathing suddenly loud and clear.
"Clatter—"
Liang Qikai's pen accidentally dropped to the floor.
Everyone snapped out of their daze, collectively inhaling sharply.
"You're saying... that 'ghost' had been living in his house all this time?"
Zhu Qing turned to Mo Zhenbang. "Inspector Mo, can we request a re-examination of the child abuse crime scene?"
...
Around 5 PM, Aunt Ping received a call from Zhu Qing.
"Looking for the little master?" She hastily wiped her hands and trotted over. "Hold on, I'll get him."
Hearing it was Zhu Qing calling, little Sheng Fang puffed up his chest like a proud penguin, swaying over with an air of importance.
His face was full of smugness—clearly, Qing was missing him!
Sheng Fang picked up the phone, ready to bask in his niece's affection, only to be met with a blunt announcement.
"You didn’t come to the station after school today, did you? We’re all out on assignment."
The police station operated at a relentless pace, and every move by the Major Crimes Team B was urgent. Amid the intense investigation, Zhu Qing had squeezed in a call home, worried the little one might make a wasted trip.
Sheng Fang’s face fell. "Well, excuse you, but Uncle is very busy too," he huffed.
"Go be busy, then." Zhu Qing ended the call briskly.
Clutching Aunt Ping’s mobile phone, Sheng Fang let out a "hmph!" before diving back into the ball pit with a dramatic flop.
The phone, though bought some time ago, looked brand new, as if just unboxed. Aunt Ping fretted over imaginary scratches from the plastic balls, wiping it with her sleeve before tucking it away carefully.
"School? Pfft," Sheng Fang grumbled under his breath. "Poor Qing, doesn’t even know it’s the weekend."
Then, through gritted baby teeth, he muttered, "Such a presumptuous Qing!"
Aunt Ping and Sheng Peirong exchanged knowing glances but stayed silent.
Who was the presumptuous one, really?
...
After submitting the application, the police swiftly obtained the keys to the old tenement.
It was a classic pre-war building, its mottled walls bearing the marks of time.
Evening had fallen, and the hallway was thick with the aroma of home-cooked meals from neighboring units. A few longtime residents peeked out curiously.
Wei Huasheng had never sold the property. The entire unit lay under dust-covered sheets, swirling into the sunset-lit air as officers moved about.
"Why are the police here?"
"Haven’t you read the papers? The Mr. Wei who used to live here was murdered..."
Whispers rippled through the hallway.
Inspector Mo signaled an officer to shut the door, cutting off the prying eyes.
Zeng Yongshan stepped gingerly onto the creaking staircase.
The narrow wooden steps groaned underfoot, as if on the verge of collapse, yet stubbornly held firm.
Zhu Qing ran a hand along the banister, her fingers coming away coated in grime.
Ten years ago, an infant had been thrown down these very steps, blood soaking the wood at the landing.
Inside, murmurs from the officers punctuated the silence.
"A ghost lived here?" Hao Zai pushed open each door in turn. "Storage room? Guest bedroom?"
"Back then, the household had the victim, Huang Qiulian, the child, and the old maid. If there really was an extra person, how could they not have noticed?"
Unless this "ghost" wasn’t living there.
But hiding—exceptionally well.
"Old maid Xu Yue'e was getting on in years."
"As for Huang Qiulian, the maid said she was always a bit absent-minded, often forgetting to deduct pay for holidays. Coupled with postpartum depression, she was in a daze..."
"Wei Huasheng left early and returned late, consumed by work. But after the abuse case, he lived alone, hyper-aware of every sound."
The officers fanned out, combing every inch from the kitchen to the bathroom, leaving no cupboard unchecked.
Liang Qikai crouched to inspect the gap beneath the fridge, while Xu Jiale tapped along the walls for hidden compartments.
"If someone really hid here..."
"Where would they be?"
Hours of meticulous searching yielded nothing.
Finally, they stood before the sealed door of the nursery beside the master bedroom.
A lovingly prepared yet never-used nursery. The child meant to grow up here had instead been sent to Sacred Heart Manor.
Three stacked cardboard boxes blocked the wardrobe, their tops piled with unopened bags of baby supplies.
"It's a shame the original blueprints of this tenement were lost during the renovations in the 70s."
The officers moved aside the clutter accumulated over the years, revealing the wardrobe behind it, its surface adorned with cartoon stickers.
Zhu Qing slowly pulled open the wardrobe door.
A musty, sour stench rushed out. Inside, the wardrobe was crammed with baby clothes—tags still attached, yet the collars had yellowed with age.
As she pushed aside the tiny garments one by one, her fingers suddenly brushed against parallel scratch marks on the lower section of the inner wall.
"Inspector Wen from Mong Kok Station mentioned how haphazardly these tenements were built." Zhu Qing rapped her knuckles against the wardrobe's paneling, producing a dull thud. "Back then, the police searched every inch of this building. Unless the suspect could shrink their bones—"
Her words trailed off as her brow furrowed. Her fingers paused on one particular board.
It was hollow.
The officers swiftly stepped forward, clearing all the clothes and panels.
As the final plank was removed, a backboard came into view—its exterior disguised with wood-patterned wallpaper. In the dim light, it blended seamlessly with the surrounding panels, indistinguishable from the real thing.
Mo Zhenbang tapped the board lightly. The crisp echo confirmed their suspicions.
"Old tenements often had ventilation gaps left during wartime..." He mused for a moment. "But these spaces were usually extremely narrow—so much so that they weren't even noted on the property deeds."
Mo Zhenbang carefully lifted the last panel.
The wardrobe's backboard slid open just a crack, releasing an even thicker wave of decay.
The beam of a flashlight pierced the cramped space—no more than forty centimeters wide.
"During the incident, the 'ghost' never left."
"In fact, for the two years that followed, it remained here."
The space was unbearably tight, its width barely enough to fit a normal adult.
Inside lay a few empty cans, their expiration dates reading 1986. In one corner, moldy diapers were piled up, stains still visible.
As the flashlight swept across the scene, everyone held their breath.
Through the long passage of time, they could almost see the scene from a decade ago.
Here, a person had once lurked—a grotesque figure hiding in this lightless crevice, greedily observing every moment of the "family" outside.
Day after day, year after year.
Finally, the light settled on the inner wall, where crooked words had been carved with fingernails:
"Amazing Daddy."
