Night Wanderer

Past midnight, the streetlights were dim and listless.

A rain that threatened to fall had held back, leaving only stifling heat in the late-night air.

Outside the funeral parlor, a police car was parked—a Volkswagen Passat, its left rear marked with the number H3987, the window half-open.

A man and a woman stood outside, leaning against the car as they smoked. Inside, Zong Ying sat in the passenger seat, struggling to open a can of fried dace with salted black beans. The pull tab had broken, leaving her no choice but to use a knife.

The blade pierced the lid with steady force, then angled and slid around half the rim to pry it open. She turned the can upside down, but only a single greasy black bean rolled out, landing pitifully on the cold rice.

The male officer outside stubbed out his cigarette and glanced into the car. "Teacher Zong, you can still eat? I nearly threw up earlier."

"You'll get used to it after a few more scenes. Go pack up the hazmat suits—we're heading back to the station." The female officer finished giving orders to her junior before turning to Zong Ying. "Stop eating that. That lunchbox was left over from noon. In this heat, it’s definitely gone bad by now."

Her cigarette-holding fingers rested on the car window, smoke drifting inside.

Zong Ying looked up, set the lunchbox aside, and tore at the remaining half of the can lid with her bare hands.

A starving person has no scruples—Zong Ying hadn’t eaten in twelve hours.

She had rushed nonstop to three different scenes, crisscrossing most of Shencheng, carrying the stench of death with her.

Crime scene investigation and autopsies were physically demanding work. Freed from the hazmat suit, her body was exhausted—and ravenous.

Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, her uniform shirt soaked through at the back, the four-pointed star on her gray epaulette gleaming under the dim car light.

She applied too much force, and the sharp metal edge sliced through the webbing of her right hand without warning. Just then, her phone rang.

Blood welled up instantly, mixing with the food’s grease as it dripped down.

The ringing grew more urgent. Zong Ying glanced at the caller ID, then wordlessly fished an alcohol wipe from her pocket. With one hand, she tore open the packet and wiped away the grease and blood.

"Not going to answer?" The female officer outside reached into the car, about to pick up for her, when the ringing stopped.

She grabbed the phone and lit up the screen: "Sheng Qiushi—Missed Call."

A text message followed immediately: "Your brother was admitted to the ER." The officer’s eyelids lowered slightly. Then came another ding —a second message: "Needs blood. Come quickly."

The officer’s lips curled in an ambiguous smile as she turned the screen toward Zong Ying. "Going?"

Zong Ying lifted her head, the phone’s glow illuminating her face. The alcohol pressed against the wound sent sharp stings through her, but the pain faded the moment she pulled it away.

Just as she was about to respond, the phone rang again—this time, a call from the bureau.

Zong Ying took the phone back. The voice on the other end said, "Traffic accident. Need you and Xiao Zheng to head over. Sending the address now."

When she moved the alcohol wipe, blood continued to seep out, gathering into a thin line that followed her palm’s creases and dripped straight into the dace can.

She looked up again, replying to the voice outside the window, "We’re not done here yet. I’ll send Xuanqing and Xiao Zheng instead."

In the distance, the cemetery stood dense with tombstones. She averted her gaze, hung up the call, and said to the female officer outside, "Xuanqing, cover for me this time. I’ll take double next time."

Xue Xuanqing pulled open the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. A weary sigh carried a hint of frustration, but in the end, she stubbed out her cigarette and relented. "Fine. Let’s go—I’ll drop you off.""It's not on the way. The matter over there is urgent—you should hurry. I'll just take a taxi."

Xue Xuanqing watched Zong Ying step out of the car and walk away, so she turned on the high beams to light her path. The figure raised an arm in a brief wave before turning a corner and vanishing from sight.

Xiao Zheng finished tidying up and returned to the car, only to be told they wouldn’t be heading back to the station just yet—there was another scene to attend to. He sighed heavily, then noticed a wallet under his foot. Picking it up, he frowned and asked Xue Xuanqing, "Isn’t this Teacher Zong’s wallet?"

Xue Xuanqing glanced at it, and her temper flared instantly. "Damn it, how’s she gonna hail a cab without any money?!"

The police car pulled out onto the street, but Xue Xuanqing scanned the roads without catching sight of Zong Ying.

Xiao Zheng said, "I’ll give Teacher Zong a call." But Xue Xuanqing abruptly turned the car around, her tone sharp with irritation. "Don’t bother. Let her be."

Taxis were scarce at this hour, and Zong Ying had never been lucky. After much effort, she finally flagged one down, only for the driver to lean out and say in a mix of Shanghainese and Mandarin, "Hey, there’s already someone in the back. Officer, you’ll have to wait for another car."

Despite the "available" light being on, he claimed the car was occupied after being stopped. Zong Ying couldn’t afford to wait any longer, so she gave the hospital address and asked if it was on the way. The driver replied, "Well, it is, but I’ll have to check if the gentleman in the back minds." He actually turned to ask, "This lady has urgent business at the hospital."

A voice from the back seat responded politely, "I’m in no hurry. Please, go ahead."

Hearing this, Zong Ying opened the rear door and got in. Only then did she have a moment to tend to her injury.

A four-centimeter gash ran from the base of her thumb across her palm, deep enough that her hand was slick with blood when she opened it.

She reached into her pocket with her left hand, only to find she’d run out of alcohol wipes. After a brief hesitation, she asked the driver, "Do you have any tissues?"

The driver glanced at the empty dispenser. "Bad timing—just ran out."

Zong Ying was about to clench her fist when the "no-hurry gentleman" beside her suddenly offered a handkerchief—plain cotton, highly absorbent.

She froze.

"It’s unused. Clean."

His face was shadowed as he spoke. He wore a white shirt and black trousers, a briefcase resting on his knees, and a black folding umbrella at his feet.

Though the air was stifling, it wasn’t raining.

Yet his umbrella was wet, a small puddle forming on the floor mat.

Zong Ying averted her gaze, took the handkerchief, and muttered a curt thanks.

"Don’t mention it," he said.

She pressed the cloth firmly to her palm to stem the bleeding.

The driver turned on the radio, tuning into a late-night news and politics talk show with audience call-ins. The program had been running since Zong Ying’s childhood—her grandmother used to remark how strange it was that so many people were awake at this hour.

Those rushing about at night carried stories most never saw.

Tonight, the car sailed through every green light without stopping until it reached the hospital.

Once parked, Zong Ying reached into her pocket for her wallet—but it wasn’t there.

The "no-hurry gentleman" spoke up considerately, "Since it’s on the way, consider it a shared ride. No need for separate payment. You’re in a hurry—go ahead."

The driver, hoping for extra fare, protested indignantly, "You two don’t even know each other! How can you call it a shared ride?""We've already met," he said, extending his hand in a gesture of farewell, the very picture of an old-school gentleman seeing someone off.

Zong Ying still clutched the bloodstained handkerchief in her hand. As the door was about to close, she thanked him once more, only to receive his reply—

"No need for thanks. We'll meet again."

He remained seated steadily, his face illuminated by the dim light, wearing a composed smile. Zong Ying wanted to take a closer look at that face, but he had already shut the car door.

The car turned around and drove out of the hospital's north gate once more.

Zong Ying stood rooted to the spot for three seconds before swiftly turning and stepping onto the stairs, hurrying into the building.

This was her second visit to the hospital in twenty-four hours.

The first had been yesterday morning when she avoided Sheng Qiushi's outpatient clinic to undergo a cranial MRI, though she hadn't retrieved the results.

The second was now—someone needed blood, and she happened to be the donor. Despite being half-siblings, they inexplicably shared the same rare blood type.

She entered the elevator and went up to the seventh floor. The electronic wall clock in the hallway displayed "02:19:37," a string of crimson numbers flashing as if each second was a matter of life and death.

By all accounts, this was an urgent situation, but her fatigue-induced rapid heartbeat made it hard for her to feel any additional panic.

She pulled out her phone to call Sheng Qiushi, but he was already striding toward her.

Zong Ying hid her injured right hand in her pocket.

Sheng Qiushi grabbed her without a word and led her straight to the ward.

It was the intensive care unit, so Zong Ying only glanced inside before heading to the neighboring room for the blood draw.

Zong Ying didn’t ask about the emergency. Sheng Qiushi, standing nearby filling out forms, volunteered the explanation: "Zong Yu's uncle was taking him home when they got into an accident. Zong Yu was rushed here for treatment, but his uncle wasn’t so lucky—he died on the spot. Zong Yu's mother has been notified and should be arriving soon."

As he spoke, the intern nurse rolled up Zong Ying’s light blue shirt sleeve to her upper arm, tightened the tourniquet, and swabbed a large area of her inner elbow with cool iodine and alcohol.

The intern nurse hesitated under the bright light, struggling to locate a vein.

Outside in the hallway, hurried footsteps approached.

Through the door, Zong Ying heard her aunt’s voice—loud, urgent, a mix of frantic questions and complaints. She tried to enter the ward but was stopped by the nurses, which only fueled her frustration, making her rant even more.

Late-night emotions were like a rollercoaster—unpredictable and prone to extremes.

Her aunt was thoroughly agitated, while Zong Ying remained uncharacteristically calm.

The intern nurse still hadn’t mustered the confidence to proceed, beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

Zong Ying said, "Let me do it myself."

"Huh?" The intern nurse looked up in surprise, but Sheng Qiushi interjected, "Listen to her."

He tucked the pen back into his white coat pocket. "She used to be very skilled when she worked at the hospital. Learn from her." He handed over the forms and was about to step out to greet Zong Yu's mother and Zong Ying’s aunt when he overheard the latter complaining loudly—

"Why hasn’t Zong Ying arrived yet? After drawing the blood, it still needs to be processed and irradiated—since they’re full siblings, direct transfusion isn’t possible. All of this takes time, and not a moment can be wasted! Call and hurry her up."

"This family member seems quite knowledgeable, even aware of processing and irradiation. Sounds like she has experience," another nurse remarked casually as she collected the forms.

Sheng Qiushi had reached the door but didn’t open it.Outside, the voices continued, "If Zong Ying were still working at the hospital, we wouldn’t have to wait like this!" Aunt suddenly directed all her frustration and resentment toward Zong Ying: "Giving up being a doctor, and now look where she’s ended up! Qinglin is always busy with the company and doesn’t even keep an eye on her! She’s just as strange as her mother now, dealing with corpses all day, reeking of that awful smell. Who would want to date her? Such bad luck—she’d better watch out or she’ll never get married!"

Zong Ying lowered her head, found a vein, and inserted the 16-gauge needle through the skin into the vein.

The transparent tube took on color as the triple blood bags gradually filled with each sway.

She closed her eyes slightly. With no chair back to lean against, she could only press herself against the wall for a bit of support.

Sheng Qiushi pushed the door open and stepped out, closing it behind him. He greeted Aunt and Zong Yu’s Mother outside before leading them to the consultation room downstairs to wait, lest their noise disturb others.

The corridor outside regained its quiet, while the room seemed to hum with the scent of blood.

The numbers on the blood collection monitor steadily climbed. The trainee nurse took out an adhesive bandage and applied it to the needle insertion site on Zong Ying’s arm. Zong Ying then said, "Give me two more."

Only then did the trainee notice the wound on her right hand. Quickly removing the needle and wrapping the bandage, she handed over the remaining adhesive strips.

Zong Ying swiftly applied them, pulled down her sleeve, and stood up—only to be hit by a wave of dizziness.

The nurse reacted, reaching for the glucose solution to give her, but Zong Ying had already walked out and shut the door behind her.

She entered the elevator, descending to the second floor.

The stark white ceiling light in the elevator made her uneasy. Zong Ying simply closed her eyes. With a ding , the doors opened, and as she opened her eyes, she saw Sheng Qiushi squeezing in.

He pressed the button for the first floor. "I have an emergency consultation to attend to—I’ll be back soon. Go rest in the consultation room for now." With that, he ushered Zong Ying out.

Zong Ying walked to the nurse’s station, where a nurse was busy making tea. An old acquaintance, she looked up and blurted out, "Dr. Zong!"

"Nurse Liang," Zong Ying acknowledged. The nurse slid two paper cups toward her. "Water for your family. I’m about to do rounds—if you’re heading to the consultation room, you can take these with you."

A few tea leaves floated or sank in the water, the surface reflecting a pale light. Zong Ying picked up both cups and walked toward the consultation room.

Pushing open the door, she was met with the harsh glare of double-row lights—cold and unfeeling, like lying under surgical lamps, leaving no room to hide.

Zong Yu’s Mother sat motionless on the sofa, hands covering her face, barely holding back her crumbling emotions.

Aunt looked up at her. Zong Ying handed her the paper cup.

Aunt glanced at her uniform, then frowned at the strange smell. "On duty today?"

"Yes."

"Did you come from work?"

"No. The mortuary." Zong Ying’s hand, holding the cup, remained suspended in the air.

Aunt’s expression shifted slightly, but she didn’t reach for the cup.

Zong Ying set it down on the coffee table, then straightened up and walked to the window, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the sofa by the wall.

"Look at how hard your job is now, and for so little pay. A young woman like you, carrying that smell—it’s really not appealing. I was blunt earlier, but it’s for your own good."

For your own good.

The night grew heavier, more stifling. Thunder rumbled outside, but pressed against the glass, Zong Ying couldn’t catch even a breath of fresh air. The room was suffocating, like sinking into quicksand, thick vines coiling around her, dragging her down.Aunt spoke again, "It's been a while since you've been home, hasn't it? You should go back when you have time. Living alone for too long will make you withdrawn." "Your father is away on business at this critical time, and who knows what trouble Xiaoyu might get into. You're her elder sister after all, you ought to look out for her a bit." "Are you going back to work today?"

Zong Ying watched as Aunt's dry lips kept moving, then shifted her gaze to the paper cup.

The tea she had offered remained untouched.

A flash of lightning struck right against the windowpane. Zong Ying turned and looked down at the street below.

A familiar figure emerged from the building—white shirt, black trousers, carrying a briefcase and an umbrella. Zong Ying recognized him—it was the unhurried gentleman from the taxi earlier.

A clap of thunder roared, and the rain finally began to fall. Plane tree leaves struggled in the wind and rain as he opened his folding umbrella.

Only then did Zong Ying notice the white Möbius loop printed on the black canopy, with the numbers "9.14" beneath it.

That was her umbrella.

Author's Note:

The unhurried gentleman: Hello everyone, I will be Gong Gong's most upright male lead.

Zong Ying: Upright? Then why did you steal someone's umbrella?

The most upright status of this one cannot be shaken. The above should know their place.

A few explanations:

Direct blood transfusions between close relatives are indeed not recommended, as they can easily cause transfusion-associated graft-versus-host disease (TA-GVHD), which has a very high mortality rate. If absolutely necessary, the blood must be irradiated before use. Also, fresher blood isn't necessarily better.

Forensic pathologists who perform autopsies at crime scenes typically specialize in pathology. In reality, forensic work isn't limited to this area—there are also specialists in DNA and toxicology (though in smaller jurisdictions with shortages, one forensic examiner may handle multiple roles depending on local circumstances).

Due to certain reasons, this story should be considered set in an alternate universe. The characters have no real-life counterparts or prototypes. No further explanations will be provided hereafter.