Night Wanderer

Panic was fleeting, and so were the symptoms.

Zong Ying turned to look at the door, but Sheng Qingrang seemed hesitant to knock, as if afraid of disturbing her rest.

She exhaled in relief, leaning against the window for a while, feeling the autumn breeze and the setting sun—proof that Shanghai’s autumn had truly arrived.

He stood outside for nearly half an hour before Zong Ying finally opened the door. He held a briefcase in one hand and two sets of clothes in the other, the dried mud still clinging to the fabric. His face had been washed, but exhaustion was etched deeper into his features.

“Everything settled?” she asked.

Sheng Qingrang nodded and handed her the clothes, but she glanced at her watch and said, “There are only a few hours left—no need to change.”

It was six in the evening, four hours until ten.

Both of them had long been deprived of sleep. Now, with a rare moment of calm, neither had the energy for conversation, silently choosing to seize every second of rest instead.

The war-torn command post was in shambles—loose windows and doors let in the damp night air. There were no lights, no beds, only a few bundles of withered grass and tattered tarps on the floor. The walls shed dust at the slightest touch.

Sheng Qingrang slept against the wall, and Zong Ying slept beside him. As night fully descended, the temperature plummeted, the wind growing fiercer. In this ever-changing war zone, even a brief moment of sleep was a luxury—let alone having someone trustworthy by your side.

Sheng Qingrang’s breathing was steady, while Zong Ying drifted into a long dream. It began with her stepping onto the operating table and ended with her stepping off—a complex case, but ultimately a success.

Just as they were deep in slumber, Lao Si arrived with dinner. Pushing the door open slightly, he spotted the two curled up in the corner, bathed in a soft glow of moonlight that draped over them like a tranquil veil.

He watched for a few seconds before quietly shutting the door, leaving the meal outside.

The waning moon, more incomplete after the Mid-Autumn Festival, gradually climbed to its zenith. When Lao Si returned after finishing his patrol, the food remained untouched at the doorstep.

He flung the door open, intending to tell them they could leave under the cover of night—only to find the two figures gone.

Lao Si froze, stepping inside to see the borrowed nurse’s uniform still lying on the haystack—Zong Ying hadn’t changed after all.

Beside it was a note, two simple words scrawled on clean white paper: Thank you.

The clothes were left behind—but where had they gone?

He bent down, grabbed the clothes, and hurried outside, nearly colliding with his deputy. “Did you see those two leave? When? How?” he demanded.

Faced with the barrage of questions, the deputy looked bewildered, removing his cap. “I… I don’t know.”

The vanished pair had returned to 2015. The day nearing its end was the International Day of Peace, established by UN Resolution 55/282.

Warm winds and a bright moon accompanied them as they stood by the roadside, traffic lights dutifully cycling through their routine. Everything they had experienced during the day felt like a dream.

The suburban streets were nearly deserted at night, not a soul in sight for hundreds of meters. In the distance, the lit-up villa district was where they had departed that morning—Xing Xueyi’s residence.

They crossed the street and reached the villas. The car parked outside earlier was long gone, and every window of the house was dark—likely empty inside.Zong Ying shielded her face and put on gloves before walking back to the door, sliding open the cover of the keypad. She entered 0, 9, 1, 4, but the electronic lock emitted a cold, mechanical error tone—the code had been changed.

She turned on her flashlight and carefully scanned the panel—even the fingerprints had been thoroughly wiped clean.

Whoever did this was cautious.

Zong Ying slid the cover back down and looked up toward the study on the second floor. The curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows had been drawn open about forty or fifty centimeters, likely pulled aside that morning when they checked the corners for hidden intruders.

Was it Secretary Shen who came? And who accompanied him? Could it have been Lü Qianming?

Had Lü Qianming come to deal with Xing Xueyi’s belongings? What was he searching for?

Zong Ying frowned, lost in thought for a moment, unable to piece together the reasoning. With no way to enter the house, she had no choice but to retreat beyond the surveillance range and suggest to Sheng Qingrang, “Let’s head back first. We still need to treat the injury on your hand.”

The two walked to the main road to hail a taxi. After some difficulty, they finally flagged one down. Under the streetlights, the driver scrutinized them warily and asked, “Where are you coming from? Why are your clothes in such a state?”

Without batting an eye, Zong Ying fabricated an excuse: “We were in a car accident on our way back from the countryside.”

The driver remained skeptical until Zong Ying showed her identification, finally agreeing to take them.

The car sped through the night, encountering no delays, and arrived at Apartment 699 just before midnight.

As they entered the building, the security guard was startled by the bloodstains on their clothes. Sheng Qingrang brushed it off with the same explanation.

The elevator ascended in silence.

The first time they had ridden an elevator together was also at Apartment 699—though that was over seventy years ago. The old elevator had been heavy and slow, back when the war had yet to begin, when sunlight still bathed the streets, children played in the gardens, and the roads bustled with traffic. In an instant, all of that had vanished.

After taking turns showering and changing into clean clothes, they sat in the living room with the television broadcasting late-night news, the sound only amplifying the eerie quiet.

Zong Ying stood, fetched the first aid kit, and pulled up a rattan chair to sit across from Sheng Qingrang. She looked up and ordered, “Hand.”

Sheng Qingrang raised his hand, and under the overhead light, Zong Ying carefully disinfected the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab held by tweezers.

The concentrated sting of alcohol on fresh skin made Sheng Qingrang’s brow furrow slightly.

Zong Ying glanced up at his expression, then turned to retrieve the medicinal powder. “It’s a deep wound—you’ll need to take care of it. Keep this ointment with you and change the dressing daily.”

But then Sheng Qingrang suddenly asked, “Miss Zong, earlier at the door—why didn’t you go in?”

Zong Ying answered truthfully, “The passcode was changed.”

“Was it the two people who came this morning?”

Her hand paused briefly as she tossed the used swab into the trash bin beside her. “Most likely.”

“Do you know them?”

Zong Ying recalled the faces of Secretary Shen and Lü Qianming. “One of them was a founding member of Xinyi, like my mother. But he left the company years ago and now runs his own business. Still, he holds a significant stake in Xinyi.”

She picked up a fresh swab to continue applying the medicine as Sheng Qingrang asked, “What was his relationship with Xing Xueyi?”

Zong Ying thought for a moment. “They weren’t particularly close. They probably lost touch after he left Xinyi.”"Rarely in contact, yet suddenly appearing—" Sheng Qingrang mused, "Could his goal be the same as ours, to obtain Xing Xueyi's belongings?"

The two men had gone straight upstairs to the study, their path clear and their objective obvious.

Given this, the phone call Zong Yu's Mother had taken in the hallway was likely from Secretary Shen.

It was her notification that had led them to enter Xing Xueyi's home at that exact moment.

So their purpose was to "dispose of" the belongings? But Xing Xueyi's possessions were merely work materials and diaries—what among them was worth "disposing of"?

Zong Ying replied, "Or perhaps not the same. We're searching for evidence, while he might be trying to conceal it. Different motives."

"What is he trying to hide? Is it related to your mother's case or Xing Xueyi's?" Sheng Qingrang asked, then added, "After Xing Xueyi's death, did he contact you?"

Zong Ying abruptly looked up. "How did you know?"

Sheng Qingrang said, "Sudden meetings always have a reason; they're rarely impulsive coincidences. Could his approach have been to test the waters?"

Zong Ying recalled the details of their conversation—only two key points stood out.

First, Lü Qianming had asked whether Xing Xueyi's case had been closed. Second, he believed Yan Man had not committed suicide.

The first point hadn't concerned her much, but the second had given Zong Ying an inexplicable sense of validation at the time, even stirring a fleeting moment of gratitude.

Now, looking back, it felt incredibly strange. He had acted so friendly, yet from start to finish, he had been probing her for information.

Zong Ying's brows suddenly furrowed as she sank into a haze of belated fear and confusion.

Sensing the pause in her thoughts, Sheng Qingrang stopped questioning and simply said, "Don't rush. Since he's also after the belongings, it at least confirms we're on the right track. The key still lies in Xing Xueyi's possessions."

Zong Ying snapped out of her thoughts, turned to grab gauze from the medicine box, took his hand, and began bandaging it while asking, "Do you find Xing Xueyi's actions strange?"

Sheng Qingrang countered, "Are you referring to the passwords, the diaries, or the newspaper clippings?"

"All of them."

"Using 0914 as a password suggests the day your mother died held great significance for him. The diary entries were monotonous yet persistent, with daily greetings whose purpose remains unclear. As for the clippings—" He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "People collect things for various reasons, but if I were to meticulously archive information about someone like that, she could only be someone I loved."

Zong Ying's hands stilled.

Sheng Qingrang continued, "Barring the possibility of Xing Xueyi having peculiar habits, the only conclusion is that he harbored deep feelings for your mother."

His meaning was clear—Xing Xueyi likely had romantic feelings for Yan Man. But this was the answer Zong Ying least wanted to hear.

Because once personal emotions were involved, it became even harder to discern Xing Xueyi's true role in the entire incident.

Were his actions driven by guilt over wrongdoing? Or simply by grief for the deceased?

The local evening news was nearing its end. The male anchor on TV announced in his usual steady tone, "We now interrupt with a breaking news update: Around 10:30 tonight, a fire broke out in a villa district in Baoshan. Firefighting efforts are underway, and there are no reported casualties at this time..."The scene shifted to footage of the accident. Following Sheng Qingrang's gaze, Zong Ying turned to look at the television screen and recognized the burning building amidst the smoke—it was Xing Xueyi's home.

Unable to stay seated, Zong Ying stood up, but the brief news segment had already reached its end. The camera cut back to the studio, where the male anchor began reading the next headline.

Sheng Qingrang secured the last piece of gauze in place and remarked, "If the fire was also an accident, that would be too much of a coincidence." He then reached for his briefcase, pulled out a weathered old notebook, and looked up at Zong Ying’s back. "I didn’t have time to tell you all day. When you decided to leave this morning, I found this—"

Zong Ying turned around and lowered her gaze. Printed on the notebook’s cover was the year of Yan Man’s death.

Sheng Qingrang continued, "Someone suddenly came upstairs, so I didn’t have time to put it back. On the way to the division headquarters, I finally had a chance to look through it—" He flipped to a specific page, turned the notebook toward her, and handed it over.

On that page was written:

"September 14th—On this day, I devoured my own conscience."