Zong Qinglin was so furious that he was at the point of reckless speech, his hands trembling as he spoke.
Zong Ying turned her head to look at the phone lying on the ground. The screen struggled to light up for a few seconds before finally going completely dark.
She had missed Sheng Qingrang’s call.
Lifting her gaze, she kept her voice restrained: “Can’t we talk properly? Was it necessary to smash the phone?”
Her questioning only fueled Zong Qinglin’s anger further. He raised his hand to slap her—
Before his palm could even graze a strand of her hair, Zong Ying abruptly seized his wrist, resisting this unreasonable outburst with all her strength. She fixed her gaze on him, eyes brimming with discontent, and gritted her teeth as she said, “A clear conscience fears no accusation. If you truly have nothing to hide, why be so afraid of rumors? Why let it anger you this much?”
Her breathing grew rapid, her facial muscles tensing as the aggression in her words surged: “As for my mother’s case—since you never bothered to investigate it back then, insisting it was suicide without question—then there’s no need for you to trouble yourself now. Whether I investigate it or how I do so is my business, none of yours.”
Her words sharp and her breath uneven, Zong Ying flung his hand away and strode to the right, bending down to pick up the shattered phone.
She pressed the power button hard, willing it to turn back on, but it remained lifeless.
The broken device felt even colder in her hands, yet she still slipped it into her pocket and hurried down the steps, heading out.
She had always been silent and tolerant. Even as a child, when she heard of her mother’s unexpected death, she hadn’t cried or made a scene. This sudden display of defiance and resolve was something Zong Qinglin hadn’t anticipated. Stunned and even angrier, he turned and shouted after her, “Stop right there!”
Zong Ying halted mid-step, pausing for two seconds in the vast darkness before merely tilting her head slightly and leaving behind the words, “Take care of yourself.” Then she strode briskly out the gate.
First came the battle for shares, then the scandal of fraud—Xinxi was now in turmoil. That Zong Ying could calmly tell him to take care of himself was already the utmost courtesy.
She had sold off all her shares and no longer had any ties to Xinxi. With the family relationship strained to this extent, there might never be any further intersection between them.
Cars filled with people returning home passed her by, while Zong Ying walked alone into the night. The streetlights cast a perfunctory glow on the path ahead, while the road behind her remained shrouded in darkness.
Was walking away the same as cutting all ties?
Standing on the quiet, narrow lane of the villa district, Zong Ying watched car after car pass by, heading home. In the distance, the lights of countless households flickered—none of which had anything to do with her.
She let out a long sigh. She wanted to make a call, but her phone was broken. She wanted to return to her apartment, but taxis were scarce in the villa area.
Walking aimlessly, exhaustion soon weighed her down. With no destination in mind, only hunger and the early autumn night breeze kept her company.
Zong Ying sat down by the roadside.
An ambulance wailed past on the main road, its siren piercing the night. Across the street, a row of small shops sparsely illuminated the darkness. Not far away, people danced in the square, while scattered pedestrians strolled under the dim glow of the streetlights. A mischievous Xiao Nan even eyed her curiously, tugging at an elder’s sleeve and asking, “Why is that auntie sitting on the ground? Is she a beggar?” The elder scolded softly, “Don’t speak nonsense, child!”
After sitting for about ten minutes, a taxi suddenly screeched to a halt in front of her.
Before it had even fully stopped, the passenger door swung open, and Sheng Qingrang hurriedly stepped out, bending down to ask, “Miss Zong, what’s wrong?”Zong Ying looked up at him. The streetlight still only illuminated half of his face, yet she could clearly see the anxiety and unease written across it.
She suddenly felt much calmer, her voice softening as she asked, "How did you find me?"
Sheng Qingrang took out his phone, his tone still urgent. "I saw you weren't home, so I checked your location. But when I called you, I only heard a brief argument before the call suddenly cut off. I was worried—" He abruptly stopped himself and asked instead, "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
Zong Ying didn’t particularly care about his explanation, but the way he kept talking made this night feel a little more human, no longer so bleak and bewildering.
She sighed in relief, and a rare, genuine smile—subtle but sincere—appeared on her usually impassive face.
"I'm fine," she said earnestly. "Really."
Sheng Qingrang exhaled in relief. She reached out her hand to him. "Have you eaten? Let’s go get something."
He clenched and then unclenched his fist before gripping her hand and pulling her up. "Alright."
They got back into a taxi and headed to a restaurant still open at this hour.
Late at night, only the steaming food remained impartial, welcoming all who came.
Zong Ying had a hearty appetite. They ordered enough for three people and finished every last bite.
By the time they were done, the restaurant was closing.
Behind them, neon signs flickered off one by one. Zong Ying stood at the entrance waiting for another taxi, organizing her thoughts before turning to Sheng Qingrang. "I need to go somewhere later. You should rest at home—don’t worry about me."
Her whereabouts were private, and it wasn’t his place to pry. Yet he couldn’t let her go out alone so late. After a brief hesitation, he asked, "Where are you going?"
Zong Ying glanced at the traffic light across the street. "Xing Xueyi’s home."
"To search through his belongings?"
"Yes."
Her reply was crisp and decisive.
She remembered clearly what Zong Yu’s mother had said on the phone at the stairwell: "Everything’s already been moved to his apartment. You deal with it."
That meant Xing Xueyi’s belongings had been relocated to his residence, and someone wanted them disposed of quickly.
Even if it meant trespassing, Zong Ying had to go—and soon.
"I’ll go with you."
She turned to him. "You need rest, Mr. Sheng."
He flagged down a taxi, opened the rear door, and faced her. "No, Miss Zong. I can’t let you take this risk alone."
Zong Ying studied him for a few seconds before bending down to get in, making her decision. "First, back to No. 699. I need to pick something up."
Fifteen minutes later, the car stopped outside the apartment building. Zong Ying stepped out and leaned toward the passenger window where Sheng Qingrang sat. "Wait here. I’ll be right back."
With that, she hurried inside and upstairs. Sheng Qingrang saw the top-floor window light up briefly before going dark again. A minute later, she emerged from the building, now in different clothes, carrying a silver forensic case and an umbrella.
The night air grew damper. After days of clear skies, Shanghai might finally see rain.
The taxi sped through the humid darkness as the two of them crossed half the city toward Xing Xueyi’s home.
Though Xing Xueyi had been a key figure in a listed company’s core department, he rarely socialized outside of work, dividing his time between the pharmaceutical research institute and home. Even his house was in the suburbs, as if he preferred to keep the world at arm’s length.During the car ride, Zong Ying noticed Sheng Qingrang kept checking their route on his phone's map.
She knew this suburban area had been a warzone in Shanghai over seventy years ago. With only four or five hours left until 6 a.m., letting Sheng Qingrang end up in a warzone again was absolutely unacceptable.
So she reassured him, "We'll head back to the city as soon as possible. Don't worry."
Unexpectedly, Sheng Qingrang replied, "It's alright." He put down his phone and continued, "If we don't make it in time, I can make other arrangements instead. Miss Zong, please don't worry about me."
Other arrangements? Zong Ying was puzzled.
He then explained, "The Sheng family machinery factory has confirmed its relocation. Preparations are underway, and it's scheduled to move with the next batch of factories. Besides funding and personnel arrangements, travel permits are another urgent issue.
"The current permits we have from the concessions and the Shanghai-Nanjing Garrison Command aren't sufficient for smooth passage. They become useless when encountering stationed troops, so to ensure a successful relocation, we need additional permits from the military.
"Even if we didn't come here today, I'd have to return in a couple of days to collect these permits. In a way, today's trip saves me from making another risky journey. So please rest assured."
While understanding his reasoning, Zong Ying also deeply felt the complications and dangers of this inland relocation.
She said no more, and soon the car stopped in front of a small villa.
Since there was no longer a rush to return, Zong Ying didn’t ask the taxi to wait. After paying the fare, the taxi quickly turned around and drove off.
To avoid surveillance cameras, Zong Ying opened an umbrella. Sheng Qingrang immediately understood, taking the handle to shield them both. She swiftly opened her forensic kit, put on a mask and gloves, then said, "There's only one camera at the front door. Just avoid that."
With that, she carried the kit to the door and gently slid open the lock cover, revealing the keypad.
Zong Ying took out a brush and a carbon powder container from the kit, crouching before the keypad to patiently dust it.
Sheng Qingrang held a flashlight to illuminate her work while keeping the umbrella angled to block the camera, his eyes fixed on the keypad.
Four frequently pressed numbers gradually appeared from top to bottom—
1, 4, 9, 0.
Zong Ying's hand, holding the magnetic brush, suddenly froze mid-air.
A thin layer of sweat formed on her temples as she stared at the keypad in stunned silence, her face filled with shock. Before she could process it, Sheng Qingrang reached out and pressed four numbers—
0, 9, 1, 4.
The distinct unlocking sound of the electronic keypad chimed. Sheng Qingrang met her gaze.
0914—the day her mother had died.
No permutations or trial-and-error were needed. It was simply 0, 9, 1, 4.
And judging by the distribution of sweat and oils on the keypad, this password had likely never been changed.
For Xing Xueyi to use this code… it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.
"Miss Zong?" Sheng Qingrang called softly.
Snapping out of her thoughts, Zong Ying quickly wiped the carbon powder from the keypad and pushed open the now-unlocked door.
Pale moonlight rushed in ahead of them, lighting the way.
Zong Ying closed the door behind them. The living room was cold and desolate, with high ceilings and sparse furniture making it feel almost hollow. The flashlight beam revealed floating dust in the air—a house left unattended for nearly two months, with layers of dust settled everywhere.Zong Ying scanned the surroundings. The first floor showed no signs of stacked boxes. As her flashlight beam swept upward, traces became evident along the staircase—dust either wiped away or unintentionally trampled.
"Upstairs," she said.
Sheng Qingrang followed closely behind, tracking the marks until they stopped at the entrance of the second-floor study.
The two paused at the doorway. Zong Ying pushed the door open and swept her flashlight across the room. Against the western wall stood several cardboard boxes, each stamped with the New Hope logo—clearly items relocated from the company.
This had to be the right place.
All boxes were sealed with transparent tape, making it nearly impossible to open them without leaving traces.
Zong Ying pondered for a moment before suddenly clamping the flashlight between her teeth. She bent down, lifted a box, and flipped it over. Kneeling, she retrieved a blade and carefully slit open the bottom.
Inside were neatly arranged folders. Zong Ying skimmed through a few—mostly recent work documents.
Her investigation wasn’t about the pharmaceutical research institute but Xing Xueyi himself. Personal items and records took priority.
Box by box, time slipped deeper and faster. With no lights or open windows, the enclosed space amplified tension and pressure.
Zong Ying persisted, her forehead glistening with sweat, strands of hair damp at her temples.
The flashlight suddenly died. She replaced it with a spare battery and checked her watch, worried about time. Turning to Sheng Qingrang, she said, "Mr. Sheng, I’ll handle these. Check the drawers and bookshelves."
Sensing her anxiety, he reassured her, "Don’t rush. Take your time," and headed straight for the shelves.
The powerful beam swept across each level like a spotlight, pausing abruptly on a wooden photo frame.
An old graduation photo, identical to the one in Zong Ying’s home, lay quietly illuminated—featuring Yan Man, Xing Xueyi, and Zong Qinglin. The difference was this one had been enlarged, its frame much larger.
In the photo, Xing Xueyi wore stiff-framed glasses, his frail frame standing slightly behind Yan Man, shoulder-to-shoulder with Zong Qinglin, who towered over him by half a head.
Sheng Qingrang opened the glass cabinet and carefully moved the frame aside to inspect the books behind it—a complete set of four volumes of the Chinese Pharmacopoeia , bound in hard red covers, neatly arranged.
As he prepared to return the frame, he hesitated. His fingers slid along the top edges of the books, brushing against a hidden booklet.
Tucked horizontally between the pharmacopoeia and the inner wall of the shelf, the booklet was shorter in height—easy to miss unless one looked closely or was tall enough.
His fingers pinched it firmly, pulling it out.
The cover was blank, but the middle bulged while the edges thinned—a telltale scrapbook.
Meanwhile, Zong Ying uncovered a stack of notebooks.
Picking one up, she flipped to a random page—
The left side read: "September 17, 2011. North wind, cloudy with scattered showers. Neither hot nor cold. How are you?"
The right side: "September 18, 2011. Temperature dropped. Still north wind. Overcast all day, but not a drop of rain. How are you?"
She flipped through rapidly—
Entries for every single day, recording only the weather, always ending with: "How are you?"
Who was this question for? And who were these weather logs meant for?
Zong Ying’s expression darkened, her sweat turning cold.Because her mother also had the habit of recording the weather.
"Miss Zong."
Sheng Qingrang suddenly called out to her, sharply pulling her back to reality.
She closed the notebook in her hands just as Sheng Qingrang approached and extended a booklet toward her.
He said, "These should be Xing Xueyi's newspaper clippings. Take a look."
Zong Ying quickly opened it, flipping through page after page, her movements gradually slowing. These were also clippings about Yan Man—more meticulous and comprehensive than even her own collection. Some were articles she had never seen before.
Why had he done this?
What right did he have to do this?
A spark of inexplicable anger flared in Zong Ying's chest, but beneath the pale blue flames of fury lurked fear.
"And this." Sheng Qingrang handed her a box of pills. The white-and-blue tablet box was labeled "Escitalopram Oxalate."
"The pills are nearly half gone," he said. "According to the instructions, this is prescribed for severe depression and—"
"I know." Zong Ying took the box, recalling an encounter with Xing Xueyi last year. He had already been alarmingly thin by then, his smile slow and mechanical.
A man like this was undoubtedly connected to Yan Man's case—but what kind of connection?
A murderer? Or...
A heavy, oppressive feeling suddenly descended. Zong Ying returned the box and the booklet to Sheng Qingrang, exhaling a short, weary sigh before speaking quietly, "It's getting late. Let's tidy up."
Though tonight's discoveries had exceeded her expectations, none of them constituted evidence. Therefore, nothing was worth taking back—everything needed to be returned to its original place.
They carefully replaced the items in the cardboard boxes as they had found them, resealing the bottoms meticulously with clear tape before stacking them back in position. At a glance, it would appear untouched.
By the time they finished, the sky outside was already lightening.
Zong Ying checked the time and picked up the investigation kit. "Let's head downstairs. Five minutes left."
But before they could reach the door, she suddenly froze, raising a hand to signal Sheng Qingrang to stay silent.
The sound of a door opening and footsteps came from below, growing louder as they ascended. Zong Ying's nerves tensed—from the sound, there were at least two people.
Sheng Qingrang grabbed her and swiftly pulled her behind the bookshelf near the window, drawing the heavy curtains shut.
Zong Ying held the investigation kit in one hand while his other hand tightly clasped hers.
The footsteps reached the second floor and paused outside the study door.
A hand rested on the doorknob, pushing it open slightly—just enough for half a figure to step inside.
In the darkness, their faces were indistinguishable. A faint blue dawn light seeped through the narrow gap in the curtains, casting a sliver of illumination onto a pair of polished, impeccably maintained leather shoes.
A notification buzzed, causing Sheng Qingrang's phone to vibrate softly.
That faint sound triggered an alert—a sharp, quiet "Shh!" from outside the door, followed by a sharper realization:
"Someone's here."
Zong Ying remained motionless. Sheng Qingrang tightened his grip on her, lowering his head to check his watch, his chin resting against her ear.
The watch's hands ticked steadily toward six o'clock. Pressed close, they could feel each other's increasingly tense heartbeats, until even their breathing synchronized.
Zong Ying turned her head toward the window.
Parked in the dim morning light was a familiar car.
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